Death - Blood summon

Across the floor of the cave—dirt, soil, and that peculiar skin-like crust—Death had sketched an array of glyphs and sigils. They were spidery, squiggly little things, almost dizzying to look at, from a time before writing itself had fully decided how it should work, or what it ought to be.
Between Death and the fire sat a small cylinder of gold and crystal, one of several containers he’d borrowed from the angels’ supplies. Dust perched atop it, head cocked as he studied the dancing flame. When the Horseman had returned from the battle and his mad ride, the crow had peered up at him with a look that seemed almost to scream, Oh, were you gone? I hadn’t noticed. He’d then fluttered to Death’s shoulder, where he’d remained until a few moments ago.
Other than the crackling fire and the occasional scrape of Azrael’s wings against a low-hanging stalactite, the only sounds in the cave were occasional hints of War and the angels in the passageways beyond, making preparations for the assault to come.
“I’m aware,” Death said finally, his answer to Azrael so long in coming that the angel had been opening his mouth to repeat himself. “You won’t need any necromantic acumen for this. I have another purpose in mind for you.”
The Horseman plunged Harvester, tip-first, into one of the stone walls and left it hanging until he might need it. Over it he draped Mortis; the thing was probably too lifeless to react to what was coming, but why chance it? Then, with infinite care, so as not to disturb even one of the symbols in the dirt, he lowered himself to sit cross-legged before the fire.
“What I plan to do,” he continued, “is simple enough in concept—only a minor manipulation of the essence of dead things. No more complicated than anything else I’ve done a thousand times before.
“The problem is the magnitude. I’ve never attempted necromancies on a realm-wide scale before.”
“You require power,” Azrael guessed.
“Precisely. I need you to gather your energies, as though to cast your greatest spells, and then channel them to me—or at least into my own incantations, if that’s easier. Can you do it?”
The angel paused, his expression thoughtful. “I’ve never attempted anything exactly like it,” he admitted, “but I have cooperated with other angels in the casting of a particularly difficult invocation. I imagine the mental effort should be similar enough. Death?”
“Hmm?”
“With all respect to you and what you do, I am not entirely comfortable with this—with necromancy in general. You’re certain this is necessary?”
“Hadrimon and Belisatra—and Earth Reaver—will be here in a matter of hours. Have you any other ideas for keeping the blood of the Ravaiim away from them?”
“Let’s begin, then,” Azrael said with a sigh.
“I’ll need to remain focused on the incantation once it’s started,” Death told him. “Dust will alert you when I need you to start channeling your reserves to me.”
“I’m taking instruction from a crow now, am I?”
“Have no worries, Azrael. Dust is absolutely one of the smartest birds I know.”
Death would have been hard-pressed to say which of his winged companions gave him the dirtier look. He straightened, placed both palms against the earth, and began.
The Horseman felt as though he were sinking through the dirt, submerged in the vile effluvium beneath the diseased crust. A wet, wretched heat beset him from all sides; he actually tasted the pestilence on his tongue.
Ignore it. Press on.
Deeper, following the beating of hearts long dead. Back, farther back, before the illness, before the rot, before the Abyss …
Before the genocide.
And he found it. A single weak voice in a deafening chorus; a single drop in the pounding surf. The essence of the Ravaiim.
From a great distance, he thought he heard the rough cry of a crow.
Power surged around him, through him. It didn’t feel like an upwelling of strength, precisely, so much as a swelling of motivation. Willpower. The chance to perform miracles, not because he suddenly could, but because he suddenly knew he would.
He was back in his body, sitting stiffly on the cavern floor. Before him, the flames burned low, snapping like some enraged hound. Dust shifted foot to foot atop the canister, struggling to look in all directions at once. Azrael appeared frozen, save for the beading perspiration on his forehead. An odd breeze, one that seemed to blow upward from the floor, through the scattered runes, ebbed and flowed without disturbing the dirt or the cinders thrown from the fire.
In the dirt, beneath his open palms, blood began to pool.
Thin at first, watery and black, almost more ink than blood, it seeped in fits and starts from the earth. Slowly, as the pools expanded, it coalesced further, growing thicker, the black fading to a rich crimson. From the soil into which it had soaked and evaporated thousands of years before, the dark magics and iron will of the Horseman summoned it back. Literally distilled from the essence of the world, the blood of the Ravaiim flowed once more.
Again Death reached out, mystically, spiritually, beyond his body, beyond the cave. Riding the flow of Azrael’s magic as he would have ridden Despair, he spread his influence throughout the realm, stretching his necromancies, the call of the dead, farther than he ever had before. Farther than he ever could, without the angel’s assistance.
An hour passed, then two. The twin puddles swelled, joined together, become a pool of blood that fully occupied the center of the chamber. Death sat in its center, soaked in crimson from the waist down. At the very edge of the fire, the creeping blood began to sizzle and spit.
The chant emerging endlessly from Death’s throat shifted tone. The blood continued to pool, but now it also began to swirl, to fold in on itself in a way that liquid should never have moved. It thickened, darkened, as the Horseman condensed the true essence of the Ravaiim, keeping what he needed, allowing the extraneous compounds to seep back into the soil.
Finally, he ceased his incantation and rose unsteadily to his feet. The blood that had caked his legs, soaked into his clothing, was gone, absorbed back into the gelatinous mass. Azrael, almost shaking with exertion, staggered to Death’s side.
“Are we through?” the angel asked.
“We are.”
“That … doesn’t appear to be enough.”
“That’s why I concentrated it, drawing forth only the purest components, the substances in the blood containing the Ravaiim’s echoes. Otherwise, there wouldn’t have been sufficient room in the cave, let alone any container we could carry. But I assure you, this is the entirety. All the blood of the Ravaiim, from this entire realm.
“And I thank you. This would not have been possible without your help.”
Azrael offered a shallow bow in acknowledgment. “It still will not fit in that cylinder,” he pointed out.
“No. After a brief rest, I’m going to condense it again. When I’m done, it’ll scarcely qualify as a liquid, and it will be so concentrated that a single smear could awaken one of the Grand Abominations for years on end, but we’ll be able to transport it.”

***

Chapter 24