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trunk—or so it appeared, anyway—and took aim.
    “On your heads be it, then.”
    Death dropped into an impossibly low crouch, right knee bent, left leg extended out beside him, bent so sharply forward at the waist that his dangling hair brushed the soil. And in that instant, when every one of the angels’ shots arced overhead, before they could even think to adjust their aim, Harvester ripped itself loose from the soil.
    The Horseman leapt. Impossibly high, as swiftly as if he himself boasted a pair of the angels’ feathered wings. The scythe met him at the apex of his flight.
    And then he was falling, twisting in the air beneath and around the soldiers’ constant fire. He spread his arms, and held not one single weapon any longer, but a
pair
of scythes—neither nearly as long of haft as Harvester’s unified form, but each with a blade nearly as massive.
    He hit the earth, feet embedding themselves in the soil, and both scythes spun. Behind his back, one of them deflected a burst of cannon-fire, slinging it high into the canopy above; he hadn’t even turned to look.
    Before him, the other scythe made three complete revolutions. The first sliced the angel’s halberd in half. The second removed both arms at the elbows. And the third cleaved him cleanly from right hip to left shoulder.
    Death had come around to face the remaining pair before the top half of the body slid completely free of the lower.
    An angel shrieked—Death couldn’t tell, and didn’t care, which one—and both took to the air. They soared straight up, parallel to the trunks, wings snapping branches and showering the Horseman with leaves and twigs. The barrels of both weapons turned inexorably downward, ready to add far deadlier precipitation to the deluge.
    Death hurled the scythe from his left hand. It spun, up and out, severing the branches in its path. The cannoneer easily swooped aside, dodging the swift but apparently clumsy attack. He snickered, tightened his grip on the trigger—
    And fell, grunting in pain, as a particularly thick branch—Death’s true target—plummeted from above and slammed him back to earth. The scythe followed, retracing its arc and returning to its master.
    The half instant in which the other angel was distracted by his brother’s fall was more than long enough for Death to dart aside and duck low, vanishing into the thicket of brambles.
    He watched, peering between the thorns, as the angel’s eyes and weapon tracked this way and that, seeking a target. Then, when he found no obvious sign of the foe, the soldier dropped to check on his injured companion.
    Just as the angel’s boots touched down, Death lunged from the thorns. When he began the thrust, it was with one of the twin scythes. By the time the blade struck home, he held only one weapon; Harvester had become a long-hafted, broad-bladed spear.
    The angel coughed once, and died by the time the sound had faded.
    Death yanked back on the spear—only it was no longer a spear, but a scythe once more. The crescent edge sliced through the upper curve of the last angel’s wing, just as he was heaving the branch off his back. He cried out, dropping to his knees. Not a lethal wound, by any means, but he wouldn’t be flying anytime soon.
    “
Now
can we discuss this?” Death asked politely.
    “You bastard!” The epithet squeezed through gritted teeth, carried on a spray of enraged spittle. “You just killed two of my brothers!”
    “You did attack me first, remember?” Then, “I wouldn’t recommend it. You’re not
nearly
fast enough.”
    The angel jerked back, tearing his eyes away from the cannon lying just out of reach. He huddled down on his knees, fists clenched, his wounded wing drooping. “You were defiling Sarasael’s body! I couldn’t allow that!”
    “Defiling? I was only asking him a few questions!”
    “Necromancy!” The angel spat. “Defilement enough! And how am I to know you aren’t responsible for the attack on us in the first