that’s the problem. Affliction was lost ages ago, on the fields of Kothysos.”
“Kothysos? I don’t believe I know of that one.”
Once it became clear that Death wasn’t planning to elaborate, Azrael spoke up. “There’s little written of it, even in the Library of the Argent Spire. We know it occurred during the height of the Nephilim rampage across the many realms. Several races of the Old Ones, concerned that they could not defend themselves if the horde turned their way, hired an enormous army of mercenary demons to crush the Nephilim. They met on the fields of Kothysos.
“Death’s people won that engagement, but at a high cost. If I’m not mistaken, Kothysos represents the largest single loss of Nephilim life before Eden.”
“The corpses were stacked in mountains,” Death said, his mind clearly elsewhere. “The world itself was poisoned by all that had happened. The Nephilim—this is
after
the other Horsemen and I turned from them, just in case either of you plan to waste time accusing me—scoured the battlefield, recoveringthe dead and what weapons they could. But much was lost, either destroyed or buried so deep in the carnage and churned earth that it was thought gone forever.”
“Obviously not,” Abaddon snapped.
“Yes. Obviously …”
“So someone found a Nephilim artifact on Kothysos,” Azrael said. “Troublesome, but is it truly so disastrous? It’s just a sword, albeit a potent one.”
“Affliction,” Death said, his voice grimmer even than usual, “was not the only thing lost in that battle.” He whistled, a high sound that the others in the room could only barely hear. From outside, a small commotion erupted among the angels as Despair materialized in a sickly cloud, having stepped through the void so that he might appear once more at his master’s side. “I have to go. I have to
see
.”
“Wait!” Abaddon rose shakily to his feet as the Horseman strode toward the phantom spot in the wall. “You agreed to share what you knew!”
Death looked back over his shoulder. “I
don’t
know. I
suspect
. If I’m wrong, my suspicions don’t matter. If I’m right, I’ll inform you then.” He passed through the wall and hauled himself into the ragged saddle.
“Pray to your Creator for the former.”
The green mist billowed once more, and the Horseman was gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
T O THE DOMINION OF THE C HARRED C OUNCIL, SULLENLY obeying an abrupt and unwelcome call, came the Horseman War.
He appeared through the clouded borders of the realm, as though birthed anew by the heavy, choking smoke. His long white hair and gleaming eyes could have falsely marked him, from a distance, as an angel—yet even the martial inhabitants of the White City had rarely produced a face so stern and unforgiving, or a frame of such immense and blatant strength.
Thick, angular plates of riveted iron, edged in copper, formed an armor that might well have crushed a weaker wearer. Baroque faces, glowering demons and shrieking skulls, protruded from the shoulders and knees, embossed into the unyielding metal. Atop it all, across shoulders so broad they might just have supported one of Creation’s many worlds on their own, were draped the folds of a cloak as red as the wrath in a soldier’s heart. The deep hood might, in other circumstances, have concealed the wearer’s face in shadow—but here, where the light, though dim, was ubiquitous, no such concealment was possible.
Across his back, held fast by no visible straps or means ofsupport, was a sword as infamous as the Horseman himself. The leather-wrapped hilt protruded from behind one shoulder, as though trying to see past War’s girth; yet it was the blade itself that boasted an array of screaming faces. Portraits, perhaps, of the damned. The barbed and jagged blade, at its widest, was nearly as broad as its wielder’s chest, and had it stood point-down upon the earth, it would have proved taller than he, as well. It should have been
“Kothysos? I don’t believe I know of that one.”
Once it became clear that Death wasn’t planning to elaborate, Azrael spoke up. “There’s little written of it, even in the Library of the Argent Spire. We know it occurred during the height of the Nephilim rampage across the many realms. Several races of the Old Ones, concerned that they could not defend themselves if the horde turned their way, hired an enormous army of mercenary demons to crush the Nephilim. They met on the fields of Kothysos.
“Death’s people won that engagement, but at a high cost. If I’m not mistaken, Kothysos represents the largest single loss of Nephilim life before Eden.”
“The corpses were stacked in mountains,” Death said, his mind clearly elsewhere. “The world itself was poisoned by all that had happened. The Nephilim—this is
after
the other Horsemen and I turned from them, just in case either of you plan to waste time accusing me—scoured the battlefield, recoveringthe dead and what weapons they could. But much was lost, either destroyed or buried so deep in the carnage and churned earth that it was thought gone forever.”
“Obviously not,” Abaddon snapped.
“Yes. Obviously …”
“So someone found a Nephilim artifact on Kothysos,” Azrael said. “Troublesome, but is it truly so disastrous? It’s just a sword, albeit a potent one.”
“Affliction,” Death said, his voice grimmer even than usual, “was not the only thing lost in that battle.” He whistled, a high sound that the others in the room could only barely hear. From outside, a small commotion erupted among the angels as Despair materialized in a sickly cloud, having stepped through the void so that he might appear once more at his master’s side. “I have to go. I have to
see
.”
“Wait!” Abaddon rose shakily to his feet as the Horseman strode toward the phantom spot in the wall. “You agreed to share what you knew!”
Death looked back over his shoulder. “I
don’t
know. I
suspect
. If I’m wrong, my suspicions don’t matter. If I’m right, I’ll inform you then.” He passed through the wall and hauled himself into the ragged saddle.
“Pray to your Creator for the former.”
The green mist billowed once more, and the Horseman was gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
T O THE DOMINION OF THE C HARRED C OUNCIL, SULLENLY obeying an abrupt and unwelcome call, came the Horseman War.
He appeared through the clouded borders of the realm, as though birthed anew by the heavy, choking smoke. His long white hair and gleaming eyes could have falsely marked him, from a distance, as an angel—yet even the martial inhabitants of the White City had rarely produced a face so stern and unforgiving, or a frame of such immense and blatant strength.
Thick, angular plates of riveted iron, edged in copper, formed an armor that might well have crushed a weaker wearer. Baroque faces, glowering demons and shrieking skulls, protruded from the shoulders and knees, embossed into the unyielding metal. Atop it all, across shoulders so broad they might just have supported one of Creation’s many worlds on their own, were draped the folds of a cloak as red as the wrath in a soldier’s heart. The deep hood might, in other circumstances, have concealed the wearer’s face in shadow—but here, where the light, though dim, was ubiquitous, no such concealment was possible.
Across his back, held fast by no visible straps or means ofsupport, was a sword as infamous as the Horseman himself. The leather-wrapped hilt protruded from behind one shoulder, as though trying to see past War’s girth; yet it was the blade itself that boasted an array of screaming faces. Portraits, perhaps, of the damned. The barbed and jagged blade, at its widest, was nearly as broad as its wielder’s chest, and had it stood point-down upon the earth, it would have proved taller than he, as well. It should have been
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