Darksiders: The Abomination Vault by Ari Marmell

say next,
do
next. Azrael looked almost to be holding his breath; Abaddon, with his remaining eye, measuring the distance to the impossibly gargantuan sword standing upright in the corner.
    And Death … finally shook his head. Azrael had too much control to sigh in relief, but everyone sensed it all the same.
    “Know this, though,” the Horseman said. “If I find you were wrong, if I find that Eden was breached and the remains of my brethren have been disturbed in any way, not all the blades in Heaven will keep me from you.”
    “Understood.”
    Death turned away, staring at the amber wall as he struggled to swim against the rushing tide of anger. Only when he was certain that he’d regained all control did he look back at the angels.
    “So what now?”
    “We need to decide that,” Abaddon said. The Horseman chose to ignore the fact that the general’s gaze continued to flicker between Death himself and that sword. “Can you …” Clearly he had no desire to say what he was about to say. “Can you ask one of
them
who sent them?”
    “No. Some constructs have souls, like any other creature; lesser automatons have life, but no true soul. These are the latter. There’s nothing for me to call back and question.”
    “Then,” Abaddon said, “until we can determine who attacked us, I don’t see much we
can
do.” His lips twisted in arictus grin: bitter, self-mocking, and utterly without humor. “But then, I’m not seeing as well as I used to, am I?”
    “All the miracles of angelic medicine I’ve heard about aren’t enough?” Death asked. “Surely regrowing a lost eye isn’t beyond your healers’ skills.”
    “Normally, no,” Azrael said. He glanced briefly at Abaddon, who nodded once, reluctantly. “But in this instance, it’s not to be. Something about the weapon that struck Lord Abaddon was … horribly unnatural. The wounds it dealt turned instantly necrotic. Our healers, and the general’s own strength, kept the rot and poison from spreading, but I fear the wounds themselves are beyond even our … Death? What is it?”
    The Horseman’s body had gone rigid as any tombstone. The skin on his knuckles threatened to tear.
    “This weapon,” he whispered, barely more than a breath. The others had to lean in to make out the words. “Was this the sword that one of the brass-armored constructs carried?” Then, at Abaddon’s grunt and Azrael’s nod, “Do you have it?”
    “No,” the general told him sourly. “The construct that carried it was one of those that retreated when it became clear they could not win past us.”
    “A narrow-bladed sword? Nearly as long as I am tall, but scarcely three fingers wide at the base? Serpentine filigree running up the center of the blade?”
    Both angels stared openly now. “What do you know?” Abaddon demanded.
    Again Death turned away, apparently scrutinizing some unseen image—or some half-faded memory—hovering between him and the wall. Finally, just as Abaddon was drawing breath to speak again, he said, “We are allies in this? I can trust you to keep me apprised of anything you discover?”
    “Assuming you are equally forthcoming with us, of course,”Azrael said. The general glowered at him, shifting uncomfortably in his creaking chair, but made no overt protest.
    “Affliction.”
Still Death kept his back turned, as though concerned, despite the mask, that they might read something untoward in his visage. “The name of the sword is Affliction.”
    “Descriptive enough,” Abaddon said flatly. “But how do you know of it?”
    “Because it’s a Nephilim weapon.” Finally, the Horseman turned toward them, raising his scythe for emphasis. “Taken from the Makers and imbued with our power at roughly the same time as Harvester.”
    “I see.” Abaddon’s sneer had deepened, his single eye narrowed sharply enough to cut, and Azrael didn’t seem much happier. “And who wields it now, Horseman? One of you?”
    “No. No, Abaddon,