Death - Cavern

Harvester rippled in his hands, becoming a thin spear more than twice Death's own height. He took a few sharp jabs at the advancing enemy, as though determined to keep them at length.
And then he flipped the spear to an underhand grip, hefted it, and hurled the massive projectile as if it were the lightest of javelins. Up and out of flew, arcing over the assembled constructs until it plunged straight down. It struck none of the enemy—its parabolic flight allowed more than sufficient opportunity for the speedy automatons to dodge aside, even on the crowded platform—and sank its tip deep into the floor, not merely through ice, but through rock. It quivered briefly before it settled, jetting upward like some wayward sapling.
Even before that quivering had fully ceased, Death was sprinting straight at the nearest construct. His first bound carried him over the thrusting blades to the things shoulders, where the head ought to have been. From there, he kicked off again, with more than enough force to send it staggering.
Like his weapon before him, Death soared over the enemy beyond their reach. The Horseman knew, before he began the leap, that even his prodigious strength and dexterity weren't sufficient to carry him across the entire cavern; that if he tried, he'd come smack down in the middle of the enemy and find himself more hemmed in than he'd been before.
But then, he wasn't trying to cross the entire platform, not in a single bound anyway.
Had it been any weapon less mystical, less potent, than Harvester, it could never have pierced the stone deeply enough to remain stable. Had it been any creature less agile than Death, he could never have targeted so miniscule a surface.
The Horseman's bound carried him perfectly into the center of the chamber, directly atop the waiting weapon. With his left foot only, he kicked off the end of the shaft, setting it once more to wobbling violently, tucking into a forward roll as he jumped. It wasn't nearly as high or as graceful an arc as the first—couldn't have been, what with the precarious launching point—but it was more than enough to carry him the rest of the way.
He landed awkwardly, slightly off balance, his feet at two different levels of what looked to be yet another staircase, but he recovered well before the startled constructs could even begin to react. An outstretched hand, a mental call, and Harvester jumped free of the stone and hurdled back to its master. It was once more a scythe by the time Death's fingers closed.

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Chapter 8