Skulduggery Pleasant: Last Stand of Dead Men (73 page)

They moved along the outskirts of the fighting, keeping Valkyrie Cain in sight. The closer they got, the more faces Kenny recognised. Ravel had given him their names. Dexter Vex, Saracen Rue, Donegan Bane, Gracious O’Callahan. They looked bloody and battered, but they fought off those misshapen monster-men like it was just another day at the office.

Kenny found a place to crouch, out of the way of the chaos, and he pulled Slattery in beside him. They watched Valkyrie Cain fire black lightning from a golden stick, and a monster-man turned to dust as it ran for her. He heard Slattery say “Whoah” under his breath, and despite himself he started grinning. This was amazing stuff. This was
beyond
amazing. This was going to change the world.

Someone was fighting his way towards them, surging through the battle, tossing monster-men and sorcerers alike out of his way. He burst through and Kenny stared. He must have been ten-foot tall, bare-chested and bare-armed, veins standing out like cords against his skin, and all the more terrifying for it. He was a mountain of a man with a bald head and hands made for crushing.

“Charivari,” said Dexter Vex, and whatever he said next was lost amid the racket and the screams.

The big man, Charivari, walked into the middle of the group, seemingly unconcerned that he was surrounding himself with the enemy. More words were spoken, more words lost. Kenny only hoped the camera was picking them up. They’d do their best to isolate them in post-production later. He had a feeling whatever was being said was important.

Gracious O’Callahan suddenly jumped forward, the small man going up against the mountain, but when his fist connected, it shook Charivari, drove him back a few steps. Dexter Vex raised his left hand and a beam of energy crackled into Charivari’s shoulder, sending him spinning. Valkyrie missed with the black lightning, but Donegan Bane caught him in the back with another energy blast. And then O’Callahan again, jumping high, slamming a fist into the bigger man’s jaw, and Charivari fell.

Kenny realised he’d been holding his breath. He let it out. Was that it? That was it. The big man was beaten. Good guys win again.

Charivari reached out and grabbed O’Callahan’s ankle and flung him into Valkyrie. They went down and she lost the golden stick. Bane fired off another blast, but Charivari rolled out of the way, came up on one knee. The veins that covered his body suddenly pulsed, and a ball of energy shot from his hand into Bane’s chest, taking him off his feet. Rue jumped in, swinging a sword that Charivari dodged, and Vex joined him, his right hand cradled across his chest, his left hand crackling. Kenny saw Slattery moving up behind them and his eyes widened. How the hell had he got all the way over there?

Vex fired and the energy stream hit Charivari, rocked him but didn’t drop him. Rue’s sword opened a gash on Charivari’s leg.

Kenny waved frantically at Slattery. He was too close. He was going to get spotted. Slattery saw him but ignored him, moving around for a better angle.

Cameramen. They believed the lens was a shield, protecting them from harm. He was going to get himself killed.

Muttering curses, Kenny moved forward. He stayed low, keeping his eyes on the clearest route to Slattery, ignoring the fight going on right beside him. O’Callahan was back in the action and Bane was running in, but Kenny kept his eyes fixed straight ahead. He could marvel at it all in the editing room when it was all over. First he had to get there.

He went to grab Slattery’s arm and a stray beam of energy sizzled through the cameraman’s chest, killing him instantly. He fell backwards, dead with his eyes open, a look of surprise on his face.

Kenny stared down at him.

This was confusing. This was … He looked up, feeling the need to call a halt to everything, to point to Patrick Slattery, to tell them that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. But all around, people fought and died, and none of them felt the need to call a time out.

He didn’t quite know what to do. What was the protocol at a time like this? He was vaguely aware of the possibility that he was in shock.

Kenny picked up the camera, turned it and filled the lens with Slattery’s body. Then he stood up straight, turned the camera towards Charivari. As he watched the fight, something was building in his chest. It wasn’t fear any more. Not really. It was just … an urge. An urge to get away. To just run.

He looked into the viewfinder. He saw O’Callahan hit Charivari and Charivari blast Rue. Charivari’s veins pulsed again and another ball of energy barely missed Vex, exploding against the wall behind him. And there was Valkyrie, searching for the golden stick, and Charivari saw her and fired another ball of energy and it exploded and Valkyrie Cain was … gone.

Kenny took his eye away from the viewfinder. She was gone. Vaporised. Dead. Valkyrie Cain. His subject. The girl who risked her life to save the world. The girl who gave her life.

Kenny turned, and he ran, and he kept on running.

tephanie fell to the ground and Fletcher released her, went tumbling, vanishing and reappearing as the residual energy crackled through him. She looked up to see a forest of legs. Someone crashed into her, a sorcerer fighting a Wretchling. They were all around. She was outside the wall and they were all around. Fletcher called her name and she reached for him, but he teleported, and didn’t come back.

Right then. Out here all alone.

A Wretchling ran at her and she jumped up. Instead of retreating against the swinging axe, she charged into him, twisting her hip and flipping him, and they both went down and went rolling. Stephanie’s fingers curled around an open wound on his face and she tore downwards, splitting the skin and he screamed, and she tore the axe from his grip and buried it in his head. She saw the blood and jerked away. Killing with the Sceptre was easy – it was all black lightning and dust. It was clean. But this … this was messy and horrible and she didn’t like it. Too much could go wrong. She needed the Sceptre.

She looked up. She could see the gate from where she was, but between the gate and where she stood there was a war being fought.

She took the mask from her pocket, pulled it on, threaded her ponytail through the back. She pulled on the gloves and zipped the jacket up to her chin. Then she tugged the axe free, and ran for the gate.

She swung the axe into a Wretchling’s leg as she passed, took an arm off another. One of them burst through the fighting. She blocked his sword with her gauntlet and her axe bit into his neck, almost took his head off. He fell awkwardly, tearing the axe from her hands. She picked up his sword, used that to chop and stab her way through. There was a ring of Cleavers, their scythes a blur, their grey uniforms spattered with blood. Wretchlings ran at them and died. Then suddenly a stream of yellow energy cut through two of them like they weren’t even there. A Warlock strode forward, building up to another blast.

Stephanie altered course, squeezing past two fighting women, and as the Warlock raised his glowing hand, she brought the sword down on his wrist. The hand fell and light spilled from the wound, and Stephanie slashed at his midsection and more light spilled. The Warlock fell to his knees and Stephanie turned as a screech rose up behind her, almost avoided the blade that crunched into her head.

The world spun and she went sprawling. The screeching Wretchling kicked her, kicked her again, then brought his sword down into her chest. It hurt. Not as much as the blow to the head, and definitely not as much as it would have done were she not wearing these clothes, but it hurt nonetheless.

She’d lost her own sword when she fell, so she scrambled up empty-handed as the Wretchling swung at her. She caught the blade under her arm and stepped in, grabbed him and kicked at his knee. He screeched again, in pain this time, and she kicked that knee twice more before she felt it splinter. He fell back and she ripped his sword from his hands.

Through a gap in the fighting, she saw the Warlock. The cut to his midsection had healed, and the injury to his wrist had closed over, leaving him with a stump. His mouth was widening, his teeth long and dark, and his eyes were on her.

Stephanie turned, started hurrying for the gate.

A Wretchling stumbled into her, realised she was the enemy, and swung. She blocked, the impact juddering up her arms, but when she blocked the return swing, she lost her sword. She immediately lunged into him, biting at his neck as they staggered into someone else. She found a dagger in his belt and pulled it out, jammed it up into his armpit. His strength began to fade and she tripped him, fell on top, withdrew the dagger and used his face to push herself to her feet. He grabbed her ankle and she kicked him and he let her go.

Before her, a sorcerer and a Wretchling held each other in headlocks and lurched about like an exhausted, four-legged spider. The point of a spear whistled by Stephanie’s face – she felt the shifting air flow through the eyehole of her mask – and a Wretchling pulled it back, tried stabbing her again. She ducked behind the four-legged spider and the Wretchling followed, cursing her, jabbing with the spear. The fighters around them closed in and the Wretchling was swallowed by the surge, and Stephanie left him to it. She slashed at an arm to move it out of her way, almost tripped over a screaming man, and looked back to see the Warlock barrelling towards her.

His left hand closed round her jacket and he picked her up and slammed her to the ground. He knelt on top of her, mouth widening as it opened, those teeth longer and darker than they had been a moment before. She’d cut off his hand, weakened him. He needed her soul to grow strong again.

The Warlock lowered his head to bite, and stopped. He pulled back, looked at her weirdly, and she took the opportunity to plunge the dagger between his ribs. Warm light spilled from the wound and he jerked away, and she stabbed again and again and pushed him off. She rolled on top of him, went to stab his chest. His good hand grabbed her wrist. She snatched the dagger into her other hand and sank the blade into his throat. He gagged. She got up. He rolled on to his side, light shining from every wound. Then the light faded, and turned to blood, and the blood leaked out of him as he died.

She got to the gate, squeezed through, but tripped, went stumbling, and hands reached for her, pulled her up, right into the snarling face of a female Warlock.

Stephanie cried out as the Warlock lifted her, then slammed her to the ground. Punches came next, rocking Stephanie’s head from one side to the other. When the Warlock realised her punches were having little effect, her finger scrabbled at Stephanie’s neck and she pulled the mask from her head. She threw it into the crowd of fighters and Stephanie tried to heave her to one side. That was her mask. Ghastly made that for her. She started to rise, but the woman punched her and this time there was nothing to disperse the impact. The fist crunched against her cheek and her teeth rattled. She fell back, her thoughts disconnected from the world around her.

The Warlock opened her mouth wide, wider, wider, those teeth small and sharp, that mouth getting big, bigger and bigger, and Stephanie sat up, thrust her fist into the Warlock’s mouth, punching the back of her throat.

The Warlock gagged, recoiled, her eyes bulging, but Stephanie went with her, kept her fist in there, driving her back, snarling as they rolled. Now she was on top, and she put her weight behind it and curled her hand and jammed it down the Warlock’s gullet. She grabbed something, she didn’t know what, her fingers tightening round it, and she yanked, twisted it sideways, and the woman’s eyes rolled in her head and she stopped struggling.

Stephanie yanked her arm out, taking a few teeth with it, and she hauled herself up and ran back to where her friends were battling Charivari. She broke through a wall of bodies.

Charivari had them beaten. Saracen lay on his side, unconscious or dead, Stephanie didn’t know which. Donegan was against one wall, trying to stand. By the way he held his ribs, she could tell they were broken. Dexter was staggering away from Charivari and Gracious stood, covering his retreat. He was battered and bloody, but his fists were raised.

“That all you got?” he called out.