Darksiders: Deathly Aura (Book 1)

Chapter One The Crowfather's Tower

Countless mountains reached up, eager to touch the silver sky that sat teasingly out of reach. Some of their icy summits lay hidden within the streaming clouds that passed them by on the wind's cool current.
Freezing blizzards were common, often screeching through the rocky corridors that made up the valleys and gaps between the snow-blasted hills.
But not on that day. The icy storms receded for they knew better. Word of a certain coming had long since carried itself on the breeze like a bad omen, silencing everything that heard it and forced them to listen for the dreaded sound of hooves.

A jet black crow rode along the wind's barely audible current, cawing every so often to the ones that followed his lead. The mountains watched silently with careful eyes, knowing they were of little interest to their visitors. It was the structure they shielded within that was in the travellers' sights.
A ghastly horse thundered through the cracked pass, glowing, green wisps billowing from his mane, tail and hooves. Although he looked decayed and decrepit, he was very much alive, which could be seen as ironic given the identity of his rider.
The man atop the horse's back pulled slightly on the reins, willing the thing to slow its pace.

"Easy, Despair." he told his mount, voice neutral but firm.

Obeying the command given, the undead horse Despair began to slacken his pace into a steady trot.
From behind a pale, well-worn mask of bone that hid his face from all Creation, the eldest of the four Horsemen gazed ahead with sharp, orange eyes.
A high tower loomed from its place of isolation near the cliff edge, as if it were tempting fate to make it fall. But this waiting game had been going on for centuries and would continue to do so for quite some time.
In hindsight, it was the perfect place for a recluse, which was exactly the sort of person the Horseman currently sought. This was far from his first visit, but certainly the first with such a level of urgency.

Despair soon came to a stop at the base of the wide, chipped and ice-coated stairwell. Death got off his back and gave a dismissing nod. The horse turned and began galloping away from his rider, green wisps surrounding him completely. No sooner had they emerged, they'd disappeared again, taking Despair with them.

"Dust, to me." Death called, outstretching a partly armoured arm.

The black crow that had been scouting ahead flew down and perched on the Nephilim's forearm as he proceeded up the uneven stone slabs, minding his balance on the sheen of ice that cloaked them.

"It's been a while since we were here last." Death began as he approached the large double doors. "So, there's no telling what state he'll be in at this point. But I doubt time has aged him kindly."

Dust retreated to Death's shoulder as he pushed the doors open. The two were met with a large, high ceilinged chamber. Clumps and flakes of snow dusted the cracked, cobblestone floor. From the towering pillars that lined the walls in even intervals, icicles hung down; each one threatening to drop and make itself a frosty spear.
At the far end of the room was the beginning of another staircase. Wasting no time at all, Death made his way over and started climbing. Dust left his shoulder to fly ahead.

He really has let things slide. Death thought as he ascended.

At times, the horseman had to jump or run across the ancient walls to avoid the gaping holes that had formed over time.
Soon enough though, both Dust and the stairwell led him to a chamber near the top of the tower. There was still no sign of who they were looking for. In fact there was no sign of any life whatsoever. This wasn't as surprising as se would think, but to Death it instantly told him something was off.

At the far end of this chamber, another staircase waited to lead the rider to the tower's top, snow piled up on the more exposed slabs of rock.
As Death paced across the floor, the sounds of cracking and splitting suddenly began bouncing and hammering off the walls. On either side of him, two figures of solid ice reanimated themselves, each with a sword of ice in hand.
In an instant, Death drew twin scythes, his signature weaponry, holding the hilts tightly.
Hissing, the figures attacked, launching themselves from where they stood. The rider hurled one of the deadly blades and quickly turned to strike the other attacker. The scythe he threw lodged itself into the icy body, spinning rapidly and cutting deep before returning to its sender. The figure fell to pieces and was quickly followed by the other.
Standing upright, Death returned his weapons to his belt while any wounds made in his pale, grey skin quickly healed themselves.