Darksiders: The Abomination Vault by Ari Marmell

moments it lasted. Until he reached the innermost layers of the constructs’ stockpile.
    They were almost invisible among the demon corpses: a few strips of leathery flesh, molded into handles and grips; mechanical components of bone and steel, the one blending seamlessly into the other; and even smaller bits, unrecognizable save for the quivers of wrath and loathing Death felt beneath his touch.
    Pieces, but no traces of the whole.
    So … The enemy had found at least one of them. Still, they might not know what they had, might think it just another peculiar artifact of that long-ago war. And they almost certainly couldn’t know how to use it. How to wake it up.
    Almost
certainly.
    For some time, Death stood and stared, unseeing, at the pile of refuse that was swiftly being reclaimed by the falling snow. Stared, and deliberated.
    He could search for leaders among the constructs, living beings who directed their operations, but such a plan didn’t offer great odds of success. If there
were
any such commanders present, they’d almost certainly have been here, at the center of it all. No, more likely—now that the drones were clearly in thefinal stages of their endeavors here—they’d simply been left with instructions, while the true enemy moved on to the next stage in their schemes.
    Try to follow them? He and Despair could certainly step through the walls of the world, but even Death’s powers and senses couldn’t tell him where the gate had led.
    Wait for it to become active once more, and either ambush those who appeared or follow them back to their point of origin? Workable, except that the Horseman had no way of knowing how long that might be. He could find himself sitting around, accomplishing nothing, for quite some time—and again, all that while the enemy’s own strategies would be advancing apace.
    No, he’d have to act
now
. He was just contemplating a journey to the realm of the Charred Council itself, where he might beg their assistance in tracking the absent gate’s destination—much as he hated being reliant on them, or anyone else, really—when the decision was taken abruptly out of his hands.
    Still circling above, fighting the drafts with wings dusted in filthy snow, Dust went berserk. Piercing cries rent the air and the ears, high and angry, sharp as Harvester itself. The black-feathered shape plummeted, falling as much as diving, pulling up at only the last instant before he would have plowed painfully into the mountainside. He circled Death over and over, wings flapping with unnecessary fury, squawking so frantically he must surely bring the rest of the construct army down on their heads.
    That, and quite possibly an avalanche of prodigious proportions.
    “What?
What?
” This was no mere alarm, no warning of a few approaching enemies; of that, Death was certain. As the crow refused to calm, the Horseman watched, timing hisflight—and then snatched him from the air with an impossibly swift hand.
    And very nearly let the bird go again. Death staggered back with an involuntary cry as a barrage of images crashed through his mind.
    Blood. Pain. Flashing blades. Jagged paths and winding stairs. Stone columns taller than any mountain, precarious ledges overlooking a drop so high that clouds drifted
below
as they passed. Unnatural lights of violet hues and flocks so thick they choked the sky
.
    A great hall, impossibly vast. A broad floor, slick with ice, and a god-like dais. Everywhere, everywhere, the fluttering of black feathers and the endless screech of an avian chorus a thousand strong
.
    And at the center of it all, a face of impossible age, lined and leathered as a well-worn saddle, bushy of beard though bald of pate
.
    A face Death knew well
.
    The waking dream faded, the world of ice and snow coming once more into focus. Death peered down at the crow, now huddled—shaking but no longer frantically flapping—in his open palm.
    “I was not aware,” he said darkly, “that you and he