Skulduggery Pleasant: Last Stand of Dead Men (70 page)

Losing Mantis and its army like that … that was a blow. That was a serious blow, and not just to their numbers. There were no smiles up on the wall. No jokes, no matter how bleak. Losing Mantis had robbed them of their humour. This was probably what hopelessness felt like.

She looked north, out over the dark countryside. Dublin was north. And north of Dublin, Haggard. Her family. Lying in bed, asleep, no idea that their fate was being decided out here under the sickle-bladed moon. She wanted nothing more than to be in her own bed in her own room, and not for the first time she wondered how Valkyrie could have done this for all those years. There was nothing brave about it. Nothing noble. Valkyrie had chosen magic and danger over her family, and that was something Stephanie could not understand. She wouldn’t be here if she had any other option.

“You’re really not her,” said Fletcher.

She turned. He stood there, pale in the moonlight.

“I’d never have been able to sneak up on Valkyrie,” he said. “I’d have had to teleport right behind her. But she’d have known. Whether she’d hear something, or feel it in the air, or just sensed that someone was behind her, you know that way sometimes you just know you’re being watched? Or maybe you don’t. Maybe it’s a human thing.”

“I’m human,” Stephanie said. “If you cut me, do I not bleed? If you poison me, do I not die? And if you wrong me, shall I not have revenge?”

Fletcher looked at her. “Did you just make that up?”

She smiled softly. “It’s Shakespeare. Kind of. I changed it a little. Paraphrased.”

“Oh, that’s right,” said Fletcher, “you’ve got full access to all your memories, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Everything I ever read. Or Valkyrie ever read. Or heard or saw or did. It’s why I’m so good at exams. Are you feeling better?”

He shrugged. “Still shaky, but I’m OK. Woke up a few hours ago and no one would tell me what was going on. Have to admit, I didn’t think Ravel would still be in charge.”

“Well, apparently it’s complicated,” said Stephanie. “It’s all about seizing the right time. If it were me, I’d just go right up to him and turn him to dust.”

“Yeah, you’re good at that, aren’t you?”

His voice was tired and lacked venom, but his eyes were still full of hurt and anger.

“I did what I did so that I could live,” she said. “It was self-defence.”

“It was murder and it was attempted murder. You tried to kill Valkyrie.”

“She never loved you, Fletcher.”

“That’s got nothing to do with—”

“Stop treating her like she’s perfect.”

He laughed. “Oh, I know she’s not perfect. I know she’s—”

“You know she’s selfish,” Stephanie cut in, “and vain, and egotistical, and you know she’s uncaring. But look at you. You’d go back to her in an instant if she asked. Even if you knew that she was just with you for something to do, you’d fall in love with her all over again. You’ve forgiven her for cheating on you. You’ve forgiven her for treating you like an annoying, lovesick puppy.”

“I really don’t need to be insulted by you,” Fletcher said, and started walking away.

“I would never cheat on you,” she said before she could stop herself.

Fletcher stood still. She looked at his back. Her face was burning. She was blushing. She tried to fight it, tried to regain control and push down this horrible feeling of embarrassment, but every push made the feeling spill over even more. Fletcher turned.

“I don’t understand you,” he said. “You’re not …”

“Don’t say I’m not real. Don’t say I’m not human.”

“But you’re not,” he said, almost angrily. “You came out of a mirror. You’re a stand-in. You’re a, a weak imitation of the real thing.”

“Good,” said Stephanie. “I’m glad I’m a weak imitation. I wouldn’t want to be a good one, because then I wouldn’t care what you thought. I’ve grown, Fletcher. I’m more than I was.”

“You’re a killer,” he said, and Stephanie darted forward, grabbed his arm before he could leave.

“And I regret it,” she said. “I’m sorry I did it. I’m sorry I had to do it.”

“Feeling bad doesn’t make it OK.”

“But feeling bad is new to me. Feeling anything is new to me. I still don’t know how to deal with it. It’s scary and ugly and makes me feel sick most of the time but, Fletcher, please, don’t treat me like a thing.”

“Then how should I treat you? After everything you’ve done, how should I treat you?”

She looked at him, into his eyes. “Like a girl,” she said, and kissed him.

He shook his head. “You’re not … you’re not her.”

“No.” She kissed him again. “I’m me.”

The breeze picked up, and the smell of rotting meat wafted to them.

“Wretchlings!” someone bellowed. “They’re coming!”

Her heart lurching in her chest, Stephanie ran to the parapet. The darts were being fired, trailing white ropes. And now the Wretchlings came, emerging from the gloom, running up those ropes like demented acrobats, knives and swords and war hammers in their hands, swarming like ants over dropped food.

She whipped her head round to Fletcher. “The Energy-Throwers are in the streets. We need them up here. Get as many as you can.”

Fletcher nodded and vanished.

Stephanie pulled the Sceptre from her bag, took aim, and black lightning cleared four Wretchlings from the nearest rope. But there were more behind. There were always more. She leaned out to get a better shot, only noticing the floating ball of energy at the last moment. She turned away, squeezed her eyes shut, heard the explosion as the blast picked her up and tossed her away like just another piece of rubble. She crunched to the ground, rolled three times and came to a groaning stop.

Skulduggery stood on the battlements, sending great gusts of wind to knock the Wretchlings from their ropes. Every few seconds he’d have to dodge to one side to avoid an energy stream from down below, but then he’d get right back to it. The handful of other Elementals on the wall followed his example. Some of them weren’t so effective. Others weren’t so good at dodging. Despite their efforts, the first Wretchling came over the wall and others followed.

Stephanie blasted one of them to dust and got to her feet. Three came at her. She got the first two, but the third grabbed the Sceptre, pushed it back while his other hand closed round Stephanie’s throat. He had boils all over his face and a dagger in his belt. She pulled the dagger out and stuck it into his side. He made a sound like an angry cat and pushed her back further. She clawed at his face, bursting the boils, then slipped her finger into his mouth, her nail scraping by his clenched teeth. Curling her finger, she raked it out, felt his cheek split open in a spray of blood and pus. He howled, recoiled, and she jammed the Sceptre against his jaw and it flashed and he exploded into dust.

A flurry of movement and she ducked, spun, ran, Wretchlings right behind her, their hands snatching at her hair, at her jacket, pulling the stick from her back, too many to fight, their blades too close.

“Skulduggery!” she roared, running for the ledge, unable to stop, and they grabbed her and she jumped and they all went over.

Stephanie plummeted.

Below was darkness sprinkled with streetlights. The wind whipped away the screams of the Wretchlings before they reached her. She turned over as she fell, watching them fall with her, their eyes wide and mouths open, terror etched on their faces, their eyes fixed on the ground below.

And then someone else was falling between them, the skull betraying no emotion as gloved hands found her, and she slid into his arms and Skulduggery looped up, leaving the Wretchlings to continue their descent while Stephanie held on for dear, sweet life. He set her down on a rooftop across the street from the wall.

Her legs were shaky and every nerve was jangling and all she wanted to do was collapse, but she narrowed her eyes as he hovered over her. “Am I missing something?”

“You’ve done enough,” he said. “Go back to Haggard.”

“I can
help
.”

“We’re going to lose.”

“No. We can use the Accelerator, start boosting magic.”

“And when that happens there’s going to be a lot of unstable people looking to do violent things. Whether we win or lose, Roarhaven isn’t safe.”

“But I have the Sceptre.”

“And someone’s going to kill you for it. Stephanie, go home. You can’t help us any more. If we fail, you’ll need to protect your family.”

“No, I can—”

“I don’t have time to argue. Valkyrie, please, for once in your life, do what I say.”

She looked up at him. “I’m not Valkyrie.”

His head dipped, the brim of his hat cutting across his brow like a frown, and then he rose higher. “Good luck,” he said, and flew back to the wall.

hey kept coming, a never-ending stream of Wretchlings. By morning the dead were three-deep up on that wall, and then their focus shifted, and they stopped trying to get over the wall and just came through it. The gates opened with a great splintering crack, and Wretchlings and Warlocks swarmed in and the Sanctuary mages met them. Magic was tossed to and fro and men and women went down screaming, but up close it was battle the old-fashioned way. Blood and blade and grunts and spittle. Vex hated the old-fashioned way.

A Wretchling with a face like a battered shovel came at him with a sword in his fist. Vex knocked the sword to one side, tried to swing his own, but there were too many people around, too much jostling for space. He almost apologised for the delay.
Hold on there like a good fellow and I’ll kill you the moment I’m able. Nice weather for it, eh?

Suddenly his arm had space and he jabbed out, puncturing the Wretchling’s chest and shoulder and throat with the tip of his blade. Someone shoved him and he knocked the Wretchling to the ground. Vex stood on him, kicked him, stabbed him a little more until a Warlock barrelled through, roaring curses in some language Vex neither knew nor was interested to learn. Still too tight to really swing, Vex could only bash the opposing sword with his, making sure it didn’t get too close. The crowd around them surged in all directions at once, and Vex found himself pressed up against the Warlock with his hands trapped below him. The Warlock had one arm pinned to his side, the other crushed against his own chest. They headbutted each other while they waited for a space to open up. The Warlock had a great big beard. Vex bit the beard and pulled back and the Warlock roared in displeasure. The beard tasted horrible.

Vex slipped on something and went under, cursing, suddenly lost in a forest of legs and boots that threatened to trample him into the ground. He tried to rise, got a knee in the face that knocked him sideways, finally reached up and grabbed hold of someone and dragged himself towards the light. He broke the surface, pressed the point of his sword under the bearded man’s chin and thrust skywards. The sword jarred a little when it hit the underside of the man’s skull, and he pulled it out again.

The fighting was spreading out a bit, now that the sudden, illogical eagerness for death and dying had abated. Energy crackled in Vex’s hand and he blasted a Warlock who was about to do the same to him. A Wretchling leaped over Dai Maybury, who was rolling around in the dirt with a Warlock, and came at him with a swing that would have taken his head off if he hadn’t blocked. Their swords clashed again and scraped off each other, screeching like fingernails on a chalkboard. Vex pushed him back, hacked at his arm, cleaving through muscle and bone. The Wretchling’s sword fell, still gripped by his hand, and Vex slashed downwards into his throat. The Wretchling died standing, then toppled backwards, ripping Vex’s weapon from his hands.

A sword caught him across the back, would have cut through to his spine were it not for Ghastly’s clothes. He turned, grabbing on to the Warlock who powered into him. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs. God, this one was heavy. Vex tried pushing him off and it was like pushing a wall of muscle. He poured his magic into his hand and unleashed it into the man’s ribs, and the Warlock grunted and rolled sideways. His clothes were armoured, too, though, and he got to his feet a fraction of a second behind Vex. And he still had that sword.

He stepped in and swung, knocking Vex back. Vex pushed a Wretchling into the Warlock’s next swing and grabbed his dagger as he died. He slashed at the Warlock’s throat, missed, and the Warlock went low and took his leg out from under him. Vex rolled to avoid the sword that clanged off the ground next to his ear, wondered if the Warlock’s boots were armoured. He plunged the dagger into his foot, got a screech in return. Obviously not.