Skulduggery Pleasant: Last Stand of Dead Men (45 page)

letcher arrived in the lab as Nye and Clarabelle were manoeuvring the Engineer up to a standing position. Alarms wailed.

“Where are the others?” Fletcher asked, making Nye jerk round, its small yellow eyes opening wide.

“Do not do that!” it said. “I have a delicate heart!”

“That it keeps in a jar on its desk,” Clarabelle whispered loudly.

Nye glared at her, then looked back at Fletcher. “The Monster Hunters and Mr Maybury have not reached us yet. Perhaps we should teleport without them. They may very well be dead.”

“Or we could wait a minute,” Clarabelle suggested.

“What about the Engineer?” Fletcher asked. “Is it working?”

“I am, Mr Fletcher,” the Engineer said. “Fully functioning and mobile. How are you?”

“I’m good,” Fletcher muttered, hurrying to the door and peeking out. “Everyone stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

He took off running, hearing now the sounds of explosions over the alarm. There were Hollow Men up ahead, shuffling quickly for the exit, eager in their own way to join the fight. Fletcher got to a cracked window. Through the clouds of green gas he saw stumbling figures and flashes of coloured energy, and then a dark shape ran straight at him.

He ducked back as Gracious came smashing through the glass, landing in a spectacularly bad roll/sprawl combo. Donegan jumped through next, followed by Maybury. All three of them were coughing, with tears streaming from their eyes.

“They’ve taken the bait,” Donegan wheezed. “We should probably go.”

They linked arms and Fletcher teleported them back to the lab, where he collected Clarabelle and Nye and the Engineer and then they were outside in the fresh air, down the other end of the valley, right where Fletcher had teleported the Dead Men and their army a mere two minutes earlier.

Skulduggery looked round. “You took your time.”

“Our fault,” Gracious coughed. “We wanted to see how many of the enemy we could take down before we had to retreat.”

Valkyrie walked over. “How many did you manage?”

“I didn’t get any,” Gracious said. “Donegan, you almost took down that tall guy, didn’t you?”

Donegan was too busy coughing to answer.

“But then the tall guy started hitting you, so you stopped and ran away. Maybury?”

Maybury pressed his fingertips against his closed eyelids. “I was going right for Mantis, but then that bloody gas got in my eyes and, I don’t know, some massive bloke reared up in front of me. I hit him but I swear, it was like hitting a wall.”

Gracious nodded. “You hit a wall.”

Maybury blinked at him. “I what?”

“I saw it. You ran into a cloud of gas and stumbled around for a second until you reached a wall, and then you shrieked and punched it. It was very heroic.”

Fletcher moved away from them, looked up the valley towards the Keep. Hundreds of sorcerers, just realising they’d been had.

Valkyrie stood beside him. “Scary sight, isn’t it?”

“They’ve got an army up there.”

She shrugged. “We’ve got an army down here. Skulduggery expects them to hunker down in the Keep for the time being until they come up with some kind of plan.”

“And what’s
our
plan?”

“You teleport Nye and Clarabelle and the Engineer back to Roarhaven, and we wait right where we are. They’ll have to come to us eventually.”

“So … it worked. The plan worked.”

Valkyrie grinned. “Don’t you love it when that happens?”

Fletcher took Dr Nye, Clarabelle and the Engineer back to the Sanctuary, where the Engineer immediately began the deactivation process for the Accelerator. He returned to the valley minutes later, and Gracious saw him, walked over, and clamped a hand on his shoulder. “The Fellowship is together once again.”

“Sorry?”

“We quest, young Fletcher. We travel far, to strange lands, seeking strange people, eating strange food, saying strange things. We are a Fellowship of Three. Comrades-in-arms. Friends. Brothers.”

“Uh …”

“We’ve been assigned to investigate some Warlock activity in Mozambique,” said Donegan. “We were told it could be incredibly dangerous, so we’re taking you along with us to get us out of there if things go wrong.”

“It will be a great adventure,” said Gracious. “They will sing songs of this!”

“Seriously,” Donegan said, “stop talking like that.”

“But we go questing!”

“We’re going hunting. Just like we always do. Don’t let him worry you, Fletcher. We’ve done this a thousand times and we’ll do it a thousand more. We’re professionals.”

“I’m going to wear my shorts,” Gracious announced.

Donegan glared. “You’ll get sunburnt.”

“I can handle it.”

“No you can’t.”

“We’re going to Mozambique! I have to wear my shorts and my
Lion King
T-shirt and sing ‘Hakuna Matata’. It’s the only words of Swahili I know.”

“And what happens when you get sunburnt? Who has to hear you complain about it, eh? I do. Fletcher, have you been to Africa before?”

“Yes,” Fletcher said. “I’ve been to all three Sanctuaries and, like, a few other places. I went over to see lions and stuff.”

“Did you see any?”

“Yes. Lots. It was cool.”

“Excellent,” said Donegan. “Well, we probably won’t be seeing any lions on this trip, I’m afraid. We’ll be going to Maputo, asking a few questions, and staying away from dangerous things.”

“Danger is my middle name,” said Gracious.

“No it isn’t,” said Donegan. “We’ll be leaving as soon as I find fresh ammunition for my gun.”

Fletcher frowned. “I thought you said we’d be staying away from dangerous things.”

“I did. But there’s no guarantee they’ll stay away from
us
.”

hree days they’d been trapped in the Keep, and Regis almost wanted someone to fire the first shot just to relieve the boredom.

He raised the binoculars to his eyes and watched the Irish. Good people, good soldiers, experienced in battle and unforgiving to enemies. He never thought he’d have to go up against them, but life is what life is, as his mother used to say, and life’s damn unfair when you think about it.

“How many now?” asked Ashione, appearing so quietly beside him he almost jumped out of his skin.

Scowling, Regis said, “Four hundred, maybe five. Those woods down there are probably teeming with Cleavers, though. I can see movement.”

“Five hundred at the very least,” Ashione said. “Well, that’s not so bad. That’s practically two to one. And here I thought Mantis had led us into trouble.”

Regis glanced round to make sure no one had overheard. There wasn’t a soul on the planet that he trusted more than Ashione, but the woman had a smart mouth that was going to get her killed one of these days. Not today, though.

She squinted up at the sun. “What do you reckon the chances are of the bosses having a big friendly conversation and the war being called off before we have to hit anybody? It’s a nice day. Too nice to be killing people we used to call friends.”

Regis grunted. “If they didn’t call it off during those weeks we were skulking about and hiding in bushes, I doubt they’re going to call it off now. You’re just worried you’ll find yourself face to face with Saracen Rue. And then you’ll fall into his arms like last time.”

Ashione punched his shoulder. It hurt. “I didn’t fall into his arms. If anything, he fell into mine. No man can resist my smile.”

“I’ve managed to these long years.”

“Well, you’re an especially grumpy man.”

“That I am. To be honest, though, I’m rather hoping I don’t see Saracen Rue on the battlefield. For a start, I have no interest in falling into his arms. And for another, if he’s here, the rest of the Dead Men probably are, too.”

Ashione laughed. “You don’t believe the stories, do you? They’re good, don’t get me wrong, but they’re not some unstoppable force. They
can
be beaten.”

“Have you ever seen Anton Shudder on a battlefield? What about Skulduggery Pleasant? What kind of man can bring himself back from the dead with the pure power of his hatred alone? I don’t want to go up against
any
of the Dead Men – but those two in particular.”

Ashione wrapped an arm round his shoulders. “Don’t you worry, Regis. You just situate yourself behind me and I’ll bat my eyelashes at them. No man can resist my eyes. Or you could go after Cain – she’d be an easier target.”

“Mm. Don’t know about that. She’s still a girl. Feels wrong to fight someone who hasn’t even had their Surge yet.”

“Well, what do you know? Regis has a streak of nobility left in him, after all.”

“That’s me, all right. Regis the Noble.”

“Regis the Dim-witted, more like,” said Rad Crockett, coming up behind them. A punk of a mage who’d taken his name in the 1980s and had failed utterly to live it down ever since, Rad had a thing for Ashione, and for everyone else he had nothing but a sneer and a smirk. Except for Mantis, of course. When Mantis was around, that sneer was nowhere to be seen.

“The General wants to see you,” Rad said, delivering his message and immediately turning his attention to Ashione. “Hey, baby. You’re looking well today.”

Ashione looked at him coldly. “As opposed to yesterday, when I was ugly?”

“What?” said Rad. “No, I meant—”

“You calling me ugly, is that what you’re doing?”

“No, I’m – what? I’m saying the opposite. You misunderstood.”

Ashione rounded on him. “Oh, so now I’m stupid as well as ugly?”

She came forward and Rad stepped back, and Regis shook his head. “Ashione, will you give the poor lad a break? He doesn’t get your sense of humour.”

Rad spun round. “I don’t need your help, Grandpa. Why don’t you shuffle off and let me and Ashione talk?”

Regis sighed. “Ashione, have at it,” he said, and walked away to the sound of Ashione berating the little punk to within an inch of his miserable little life.

The camp at the Keep was small and neatly ordered. The jeeps and trucks were parked bumper to bumper round the perimeter, like in the old days when they used to circle the wagons. Bolstering the defences were a whole heap of sigils and contraptions and things Regis didn’t understand. He only knew that they kept him safe, and that was good enough for him. He passed sorcerers cleaning guns and sharpening swords, talking and laughing among themselves. There was a nervous energy in the air, like maybe this was the day they’d meet the enemy. There were plenty who said they wanted to fight, but most who said that they were either stupid or lying or both. There were, of course, those who wanted to fight and were neither stupid nor lying, and they were the dangerous ones.

For most of his adult years, Regis had done his best to avoid fighting if it were at all possible. Sometimes it was, sometimes it wasn’t. Life is life, after all.

The General’s tent was uncoloured canvas held together with patches and clumsy stitching. It was charmless to say the least, and despite the warmth of the day the inside was cool to the point of coldness. Regis nodded to the Cleavers at the entrance and passed between them. The activity within was centred round a large table with a large map spread over it. Standing with his hands flat on the table was Captain Glass, whom Regis could find few nice words to say about. To Glass’s left was Captain Tortura, a woman who never looked at Regis with anything more than mild distaste. And beside her was Captain Saber, who seemed to have developed a deep-seated loathing of Regis since the last time they’d met.