Death - Feeds on deaths

Death snapped the duskwing’s neck and dropped down beside his brother. And he, too, began to draw on the power he’d drawn from the defeated foe.
Unlike War, the elder Horseman did not require any specific weapon to feed on the strength of the fallen. It came to him naturally, bits of energy sloughing from the departing souls and dispersing essence. But that meant that, for him, the chaos that fed War was insufficient. It was the deaths themselves that mattered.
Against the automatons on the fields of Kothysos or in the Crowfather’s domain, he hadn’t bothered. Though technically living, such lesser constructs, being soulless, granted him only a fraction of the power he could gain from other creatures.
Demons, though? Demons were vile engines of destruction, utterly irredeemable—but they were alive.
And Death grew strong as they fell.
He raised his arms, and a cloud of bone fragments sprang from the floor, precisely as they’d done outside. Again they whirled, a semi-solid cyclone with Death and War at the center.
This time, however, it was not several feet of solid stone at which the Horseman threw them.
Demons disintegrated into flapping fronds of shredded meat. So loud was the whirlwind, the Horsemen couldn’t even hear the enemies’ screams. When Death allowed the bone storm to disperse, more than two-thirds of the demons in the chamber were dead or dying.
Of course, the downside to this was that the survivors consisted almost entirely of those demons tough enough to withstand such an assault.


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Chapter 17