Skulduggery Pleasant: Last Stand of Dead Men (72 page)

Syc went sideways, his face a bloody mess, his equilibrium shot to hell. She glanced back at Skulduggery, but he was already following Portia round the corner. Portia was not looking like her usual composed self. She looked positively dishevelled.

That’s what China liked about these kinds of people, and she’d seen plenty of them in her time. Young, strong, vibrant and cocky. Syc came at her and she smashed his face into the wall. It was so satisfying, making them hurt. She tapped the sigil on her palm and planted her hand over his face. She felt the power snap through him and his whole body jerked wildly and he collapsed.

She looked down. So, so satisfying. She allowed herself a moment to imagine how satisfying it was going to be, doing the same to Eliza Scorn.

She closed her eyes, relaxing. When she opened them, she walked to the corner and stopped.

Portia was on the ground, motionless, her eyes closed. Unconscious or dead, China didn’t know. Didn’t care. But walking up the corridor was the Black Cleaver, scythe ready. Skulduggery walked towards him, the carved stick lighting up in his hand.

The Cleaver moved in, straight for the kill. Skulduggery deflected the blade and the Cleaver whirled with a kick that Skulduggery avoided. The scythe flashed, sweeping in again and again, and Skulduggery blocked and moved and parried. The stick flashed whenever it struck the Cleaver’s reinforced uniform, its effects muted but noticeable. The more Skulduggery hit him, the warier the Cleaver became, until he focused his efforts on taking the stick out of the equation. The scythe’s handle smacked against Skulduggery’s hand and the stick dropped, went skittering across the floor. Immediately Skulduggery grabbed him and slammed him against the wall, and the Cleaver had to drop the scythe to free up his hands.

They pushed away from the wall and the tempo of the fight increased, both fighters getting the measure of the other. The Cleaver, much like Tanith Low, was agile enough to jump and spin and throw extravagant, unexpected kicks, whereas Skulduggery was the down-to-earth fighter he’d always been. Elbows and headbutts and grabs. He left the fancy stuff to other people. Always had.

The Black Cleaver caught a punch and drove his forearm into the back of Skulduggery’s elbow. There was a sound, somewhere between a crack and a pop, and Skulduggery stumbled, his sleeve flapping. The Black Cleaver looked, almost in surprise, at the half-an-arm it now held in its grip. Skulduggery fell to his knees, groaning in pain. The Cleaver dropped the arm and picked up his scythe, and China stepped round the corner, her sigils glowing.

But, as the scythe swung down, a wave of darkness burst from Skulduggery, hurling the Black Cleaver into the far wall with enough force to shatter every bone in his body.

China stepped back out of sight, but kept watch. The shadows hovered over Skulduggery’s hunched form, surrounding him like a shell, pulsing softly. A tendril wrapped round the broken piece of his arm and pulled it slowly across the floor, dropping it at his knee the way an eager dog might drop the day’s newspaper. Without looking up, Skulduggery threaded the arm through his sleeve and it reattached. His gloved fingers flexed, and he got to his feet, moving like a weary man. Even though he had no lungs, and no need for breath, he inhaled deeply, and as he did so the shadows were pulled into him, disappearing into his chest.

China ducked back, trying to process what she had just seen.

The sudden silence tugged her from her thoughts. She dragged Syc to the corner, and flung him as far as she could. His head smacked off the ground and she followed him, making a show of smoothing down her hair.

Skulduggery looked over and she gave him an easy smile. He nodded back, and picked up his hat.

“You’re not finished here,” said a voice behind her.

She turned. The Terror and the Scourge stood there, thick black liquid running from their eyes, nostrils and mouths, seeping over their skin, their clothes, through their hair. Their limbs jerked, lengthening, hands becoming talons. They reared back – giant spider-legs bursting from their torsos – and then dropped forward to land on all fours. Or all
eights
, really.

They chattered as they grew, a third eye opening on each of their heads, becoming giant black spiders with rapidly hardening armoured shells.

Skulduggery walked up to them, handing China the Black Cleaver’s scythe as he passed. He held Valkyrie’s stick in his hand.

Smiling, China accompanied him.

atching Fletcher Renn fight was an incredible experience.

The boy had no skills as such, he couldn’t throw a punch to save his life, but he had talent, and talent went a long way. Vex did his best to keep track of him, and it wasn’t easy. Appearing and disappearing in and around crowds of Wretchlings, turning up with all manner of weapons – baseball bats, sledgehammers, iron bars and tasers. Vex even saw a few axes in there. He got knocked around a fair bit, a few times he even got jumped on, but he would always vanish and then arrive back without his assailant. Moments later, those same assailants would drop from the clouds, screaming all the way down.

Fletcher teleported to the top of the wall to get his breath back, and Vex frowned. Up close, the boy looked remarkably pale.

“How are you feeling?” Vex asked.

Fletcher gave him the thumbs up as he panted, but Vex shook his head.

“You’re exhausted. You need to rest.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just gimme a … second …”

“Fletcher, look at me. You need to rest. Using magic is the same as any other physical activity. It drains you. If you go back down there in this condition, you’ll make a mistake and you’ll wind up dead.”

Fletcher looked like he was about to argue, but he was too weak to start.

“There,” Saracen said, pointing through the magnifying window. “Charivari.”

Vex hurried over to him, scanning the ground outside the city walls. He saw him then, Charivari, in among all the Wretchlings and the Warlocks, but looming over them, a bald-headed mass of muscle and ferocity.

“Right,” said Vex. “Wow. OK. In the flesh he’s a bit bigger than I’d … expected. Gracious. You’re the strongest of us. Care to have a go?”

Gracious took a moment to peer through the window, then shook his head. “God, no, no way, see the size of him? He’d step on me.”

“But you’re really strong.”

“To be honest, he looks like he’s more Donegan’s type of opponent anyway. I’d hate to keep him all for myself.”

“I don’t mind,” said Donegan.

“No, no, I insist.”

“I really don’t mind, though.”

“Or we could tell one of our super-sorcerers to do it,” said Saracen.

Vex looked at Fletcher. “Sorry to do this to you, but do you think you can take us down there?”

“No problem,” Fletcher said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Everyone hold on to each other.”

They linked up and Fletcher teleported them into the streets, and suddenly they were surrounded by chaos and shouts, screams and roars.

“Hey!” Saracen called, running up behind three Roarhaven mages who were practically glowing with newly-boosted power. “Charivari’s out there! He’s the big one! Take him out and these guys won’t have a leader!”

The three mages turned, and Vex muttered a curse. Only two of them were from Roarhaven. The third was English, and the last time Vex had seen him, he was strangling Caius Caviler to death.

Grim’s eyes found him, and he smiled.

He barrelled past Saracen, shoved Fletcher out of the way and grabbed Vex, lifting him off his feet. “I was hoping no one would kill you,” he said. “Wanted the pleasure of that all to myself.”

Gracious jumped on Grim from behind, wrapped an arm round his throat, and there was a surge from the gate and then the Wretchlings were everywhere. Vex fell, saw Gracious and Grim go down, had to scramble up to avoid being trampled himself. He fired an energy stream into a Warlock’s face and smashed an elbow into a Wretchling’s jaw, and all the while he was being carried back on a wave of snarling movement.

And then, from that wave, a monstrous shark. Vex tried to twist away, but Grim had him. Up this close, he could see the madness in those eyes. Vex poured magic into his hand, but Grim took hold of his wrist, crushed it. Vex’s scream evolved into a string of curses as he staggered free, two Wretchlings now hacking into Grim with their blades. Vex didn’t expect them to last long, but Grim tore through them faster than even he’d anticipated.

Vex tried to run, but one of Grim’s friends caught him, turned him as Grim strode forward. He sneered and pulled back his fist for the killing blow, and then for his next trick he turned to dust.

Vex blinked. He what?

Black lightning hit the sorcerer behind him and Vex fell to his knees, eyes widening as Stephanie Edgley emerged from the fighting, Sceptre in hand.

She fired again. Two Wretchlings exploded into dust and the third super-sorcerer took to the skies, but lightning found him and fried him and reduced him to a grey swirling cloud that the breeze took deeper into the streets of Roarhaven.

Stephanie grabbed Vex’s arm, helped him stand. He held his injured wrist close to his chest, and managed a smile.

“I thought you’d gone home.”

“No one would lend me their car. Where’s Skulduggery?”

“Gone after Ravel.”

“Alone?”

“Apparently not,” Vex said, and looked around them. Fighting everywhere. “No way out,” he muttered.

Stephanie hefted the Sceptre in her grip. “Good,” she said.

ar is hell.

That’s what was going through Kenny’s mind as he followed Slattery through the chaos. War is hell and it’s scary and how on earth is anyone supposed to know what side they’re on? He saw magic people fighting other magic people and some of them threw fire and others had light coming out of them, and there were these things that looked like badly-stuffed monster-men running about snarling at everyone. Everywhere there were explosions and gunshots and screaming, and energy beams and swords and those people in grey with the scythes. It was a blur of confusion and panic and fear and exhilaration, but mostly fear.

Kenny saw someone he recognised, a girl in black.

“Valkyrie!” he shouted, and grabbed Slattery’s arm, pointed. Slattery nodded, his camera moving with him. Kenny was sweating and his eyes were wide and he knew he had a terrified expression on his face, whereas Slattery had never looked so calm. He envied him.