Last Stand of Dead Men

by Derek Landy

  The Wretchlings were everywhere now, their swords clashing with the scythes of the Cleavers. Sorcerers took them on hand to hand when they had to, but ranged magic was preferred. Stephanie wiped her mouth and returned her stick to its place between her shoulder blades, then took the Sceptre from her bag. Black lightning flashed and a Wretchling who was just scrambling over the wall turned to dust, and the wind snatched that dust away in a swirling mass. The Sceptre fired again and again, Wretchlings exploding like 2,000-year-old clay pots being dropped from a great height. Three more Wretchlings, bursting dryly apart, and then from the clouds of dust came a fourth, running straight at her.

  He took her off her feet and she lost the Sceptre before she even hit the ground. He kicked her and she rolled, then scrambled, grabbed him, got her legs under her even as he was trying to get free and she stood, heaving him on to her shoulders with a roar, and ran for the battlements. She hit them and he toppled off her and over the top, his scream quickly fading.

  Strong fingers grabbed her, turned her towards the hot breath of a Wretchling, who punched at her quickly but ineffectively. She looked down, realised he had a small triangular knife in his fist that was searching for weak points. She grabbed his wrist, held on, feeling the skin shift beneath her grip, but his other hand was on her face, fingers digging into her eyes. She turned away and the fingers came after her. One of them strayed too close to her mouth and she bit down, heard the crunch of bone and felt the spurt of hot blood, and then the Wretchling was wrenched away from her. A sorcerer had him round the throat, was hauling him to the railing. The Wretchling twisted into him, plunged the knife into his gut half a dozen times in less than a second, and the sorcerer stumbled back and the Wretchling pushed him, and he fell screaming to the city below.

  Stephanie grabbed her stick, ran at him. The Wretchling blocked her swing and snarled. She spat a mouthful of his own blood back into his face and kicked his knee, and then she slammed her stick into his head. The sigils weren’t glowing any more. It was out of charge. She hit him again and again, knocking him out the old-fashioned way. He collapsed and she fought the urge to throw up.

  She pushed aside a dead Cleaver and pulled the Sceptre from beneath his body, then returned to the battlements. There weren’t as many ropes as before. As she watched, one of them went from white to grey, and then it faded altogether. The handful of Wretchlings who were halfway up fell, howling, to the ground. The other ropes started to fade. There were no more Wretchlings climbing them.

  When the last rope had faded, the Warlocks retreated, and a cheer went up along the wall. Victory.

  Stephanie took a look at the dead and the dying. She looked at lifeless sorcerers and lifeless Wretchlings and still Cleavers, and the damage done by all that white energy. Her hip bled from where that knife had nicked her. Her right shoulder was on fire – torn muscles from when she’d lifted that Wretchling. She tasted blood. Some of it was her own. Some of it wasn’t.

  The Warlocks’ first attack and they’d repelled it. Victory indeed.

  She was assigned a room with a bed and a shower. She washed, groaning with aches and pains, and when she was done she went down for something to eat. Skulduggery came to see her as she sat alone. Stephanie looked up, but didn’t say anything, waited for him to start.

  “I heard you saved a few lives,” he said.

  “That’s what we do, isn’t it?”

  “It’s what myself and Valkyrie do. You kill defenceless girls.”

  She nodded. “I’m not arguing with you any more.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  She took another bite, chewed and swallowed. “I get that you hate me. Of course you hate me. I’ve done horrible things. Not as many horrible things as Valkyrie, but still … But that’s not why you hate me. You hate me because I’m not her. And it’s fine, if you want to continue like that. Then whenever you hear that I’ve done something good or nice, you can pretend to be surprised, because everyone knows you think I’m nothing but the evil version of Valkyrie.

  “But I’m not the evil version of Valkyrie. Valkyrie is the evil version of Valkyrie. And now that I’m real, now that I’m a real person, I’m not going to hurt any more innocent people. Can she say the same?”

  “I’m going to get her back.”

  “How? You have no idea, do you? You’re terrified that the next time you see her you’ll have to kill her, because you’ll have no other choice. So you can say all the mean things you want. It doesn’t bother me. You’re just scared.”

  Skulduggery’s head tilted, and he looked at her for the longest time before turning, and walking away.

  She woke to shouts and sat up in the dark, her hand finding the Sceptre and holding it out in front of her. The shouts continued and she threw back the covers, jammed her feet into her boots. She searched around for her jacket, pulled it on, made sure the stick was in place. As she walked to the door, she pulled the bag over one shoulder. She stepped out, saw four figures walking up the street towards her, and she went cold.

  Wraiths.

  orrible freaky things came through the darkness and the Dark and Stormy Knight pulled on his mask and prepared for battle. There were screams in the distance, and flashes of light and gunfire. Then more screams.

  The Dark and Stormy Knight would not scream. The Dark and Stormy Knight was this city’s protector. Was it the one it needed? No. But it was the one it deserved.

  He crept out from hiding, approaching one of these sinister figures from behind, and then he leaped, wrapping an arm round the figure’s throat.

  Even as he applied the stranglehold, he could feel the terrible heat from the figure’s skin seeping through the thin fabric of his skintight top. But he ignored the pain and tightened his hold. Pain meant nothing. Pain was transitory. Pain would fade. Only justice was forever. Justice and a little bit of this pain. Oh, this pain. Oh, this hot, hot pain, pushing everything else from his mind. But only a few more seconds. He just needed to hang on for a few more seconds.

  The Dark and Stormy Knight released the stranglehold and staggered away, yelping as he shook his arm to cool it down. The figure turned to him slowly, as if it had just noticed him.

  “Back-up!” he screeched. “Where is my back-up?”

  The Village Idiot thundered into view, head down and arms out, yelling a war cry. He crunched into the figure from behind and folded like a cheap accordion. Useless. Then Grandmaster Ping arrived.

  “Ping!” said the Dark and Stormy Knight. “You go low, I go high!”

  “I have a new strategy,” Ping called out. “Run away.”

  And that’s just what Grandmaster Ping did.

  The Dark and Stormy Knight stared at him as he vanished into the shadows, then the figure obstructed his view and he stepped back, cornered. His mouth was suddenly dry. All his dreams, all his stupid ideas about being a hero, about being one of the good guys, none of it meant anything. He’d failed. He was a joke. They were right to laugh. He pulled the mask away. If he was going to die, he was going to die as Vaurien Scapegrace, a proud man in a proud woman’s body, not as some pathetic joke.

  The figure reached for him and a golden stream of energy hit it, sent it staggering. Sheriff Dacanay and another man strode towards them. The other man fired again, hitting the figure in the chest, driving it back, and then Dacanay raised his hand and a stream of purple energy burrowed a hole through the figure’s head. It keeled over and didn’t get up.

  Scapegrace let out the breath he’d been holding, his legs almost collapsing beneath him.

  “Interesting,” Dacanay said, standing over the figure’s body. “You can hurt it, but I can kill it.”

  His companion nodded. “Must be something to do with the power level of your energy. I’ll spread the word.”

  He took off, and Dacanay looked at Scapegrace. “You again. It might be best if you stayed indoors tonight. We got a wraith infestation to deal with and we can’t afford to have civilians running around. It’s a sure-fire way
to get yourself killed.”

  Scapegrace nodded quickly. “OK.”

  “You might want to pick up your boyfriend while you’re at it.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Well, whatever he is, he can’t just lie around on the street like that. It’s a public safety issue.”

  Scapegrace hurried over to Thrasher, kicked him in the side. Thrasher groaned, opened his eyes.

  “Master?”

  “Get up,” Scapegrace commanded. “And take off that ridiculous mask.”

  Thrasher did as he was told as Dacanay’s radio crackled into life, and the voice of the man who had just run off came through loud and clear. “Multiple wraith attacks just north of your position,” he said. “I’m dealing with one of them, but there are three kids being chased along Amrita Street, and a woman with blue hair is cornered by the fountain. Over.”

  Dacanay held the radio to his mouth. “I’m taking Amrita Street,” he said. “Out.”

  “Wait,” Scapegrace said. “The woman with blue hair. That’s Clarabelle. She’s our friend. You have to help her.”

  But Dacanay was already running. “Sorry,” he said. “Kids come first.”

  Scapegrace watched him go, and turned to see Thrasher looking at him.

  “Master?”

  Scapegrace didn’t know what to do. Thrasher was looking at him with that big, stupid face, and Scapegrace didn’t know what to do. He swallowed. “We help Clarabelle.”

  They sprinted to the top of the street and turned right, towards the fountain in the square. The moment it came into view Scapegrace wanted to run the other way, but then he saw Clarabelle. She had climbed into the fountain itself. Around her, three wraiths were closing in.

  “Scapey!” she yelled. “Gerald! Help!”

  “We’re coming!” Thrasher yelled back.

  Scapegrace looked around, scanning their environment for a weapon, or an idea, or some kind of plan. He couldn’t find anything.

  “Master?”

  A shout bubbled up from somewhere within him. “Hey!” he screamed. “Hey, wraiths! Hey! Come get us!”

  Thrasher joined in, jumping up and down and waving his ridiculously muscled arms. One of the wraiths noticed them, started walking over.

  “Now what do we do?” Thrasher whispered.

  “We lead it away,” Scapegrace said. “Look how slow it moves. It’s walking. We can run. It’ll never be able to—”

  A breeze rustled through the square and the wraith came apart like smoke, solidifying again right in front of Scapegrace.

  Scapegrace screamed as the wraith reached for him, and Thrasher lunged, his big fist clunking off the wraith’s pale, angular cheekbone. The wraith barely noticed yet Thrasher staggered away, clutching his hand, his knuckles burning. Scapegrace kicked at the wraith’s knee, but missed, and his supporting foot slid out from under him and he fell. The wraith looked down at him … then raised its head. Scapegrace craned his neck, the world upside down, and saw someone walking towards them. He rolled over.

  The Black Cleaver approached.

  Thrasher grabbed Scapegrace’s arm and dragged him out from under the wraith, hauled him to his feet as the Black Cleaver pulled out his scythe. The wraith observed the Cleaver like he was a species it had never encountered before. Behind it, the other two wraiths abandoned their pursuit of Clarabelle and started walking over.

  The Cleaver moved, his scythe flashing, and the first wraith’s hand fell to the ground. There was no blood, no pain, and the wraith looked at its stump without emotion. The Cleaver whirled, taking the wraith’s right leg off at the knee. The wraith fell, tried to get up and the Black Cleaver took its head.

  But even that didn’t stop it.

  While the Black Cleaver turned to face the other two, Scapegrace stepped forward, kicking the disembodied head away from the wraith’s grasping hand. It wasn’t that long ago that he himself had been a head, but he didn’t feel bad about what he’d just done. Let the wraith put itself back together on its own time.

  The remaining wraiths became smoke that blew apart, coming together again on either side of the Black Cleaver as he spun, ducking under their attempts to grab him. The scythe caught the crescent moon and sliced through the throat of one of them. It lurched, its head lolling back, held in place by a flap of pale skin. The last wraith caught the Cleaver’s arm. Scapegrace heard the snap of bone, but the Cleaver didn’t even flinch. He rammed the top of his helmet into the wraith’s face, broke its leg with a single stomp that drove it to its knees, and wrenched his arm loose. Then he gave a little jump back as he brought his scythe up and over, and the blade embedded itself in the wraith’s head with a solid thunk.

  Scapegrace and Thrasher watched in awe as the Black Cleaver pulled his scythe free and the wraith crumpled sideways.

  There was a scream, somewhere off to their left, and without a word the Black Cleaver was gone.

  Clarabelle hurried over. The water from the fountain had drenched her, but she didn’t seem to notice. “You rescued me,” she said, her big eyes bright.

  “Well,” said Scapegrace, “it wasn’t really us …”

  “You rescued me,” she insisted. “You really are my friends.”

  “Of course we are,” said Thrasher.

  The wraiths were slowly turning to smoke, and that smoke was linking up with its missing body parts. Scapegrace didn’t want to be around when they solidified. “We should go,” he said.

  Clarabelle clamped a hand over her mouth as they hurried away. “I’ve never had friends before,” she said. “Not really. I had one. We grew up together. Everyone thought we hated each other, but I just assumed that she was imaginary, and she assumed I was imaginary, so we never spoke to each other when there were other people around.”

  Thrasher hesitated. “Sounds reasonable.”

  “But she died, thirty years ago,” said Clarabelle. “So I’ve had thirty years without a friend. And now … now I have two of the best friends in the whole world. I’m the luckiest girl ever.”

  Roarhaven was full of empty buildings just waiting to be filled by an influx of sorcerers who wanted to be part of the first capital city of sorcerers. Scapegrace led them into one of these buildings, closed the door behind them and barricaded it.

  “We’ll wait here,” he whispered. “Maybe by morning they’ll be gone. Clarabelle, what were you even doing out here alone? There’s a war on – we were told to stay indoors.”

  “I was looking at houses,” Clarabelle said. “I was told I could choose one to live in, because I work for the Sanctuary and everything. I don’t like any of them, though. None of them feel like home. I don’t think this place will ever feel like home.”

  “Why don’t you just live with us?” Thrasher asked.

  Clarabelle’s eyes widened. “Could I? Scapey, could I live with you?”

  Scapegrace peered out through the window, making sure the wraiths hadn’t followed them. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

  Clarabelle hopped up and down, but Thrasher managed to get his hand over her mouth before she started squealing. When she was done, she whirled, grabbed Thrasher in a hug. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! My two best friends ever! Gerald, my dear, sweet Gerald. You risked everything to save me. You have the heart of a lion.”

  Thrasher beamed. “You think so?”

  “I do.” She whirled again. “And Scapey, my dear Scapey. When I looked up and saw you running towards me, I just knew everything was going to be all right. I knew you’d save me. You’re my hero.”

  Scapegrace blinked at her. He was her hero?

  He stood a little straighter. His chest didn’t need any puffing out, but he puffed it out anyway. He was her hero.

  “Oh, Master!” Thrasher said, his eyes wide.

  “Shut up,” said Scapegrace.

  “Do you know what this means?”

  “Be quiet.”

  “It means you didn’t have to learn kung fu. You didn’t have to put on
a mask. You didn’t have to be the Dark and Stormy Knight. Master … you were a hero all along.”

  “Yes,” Scapegrace snapped. “I got that. I realised that myself. But now you’ve taken a moment of personal triumph and validation and you’ve ruined it by making it obvious.”

  Thrasher’s face fell. “Oh.”

  “Stand over there and don’t speak for the rest of the night.”

  Thrasher turned, and slouched towards the corner.

  Idiot.

  he wraiths were gone by morning, but the dawn brought with it a fresh bombardment. Those floating balls of energy drifted to the wall and did their damage there or beyond. Watchtowers fell, mages and Cleavers were killed by the blasts or, more likely, falling masonry. A few explosions rocked the city itself, damaging houses and other dwellings, though casualties here were not as high as they could have been. After the night of horror they’d just witnessed, most citizens of Roarhaven were moving towards the Sanctuary and away from the wall. An exact death toll had yet to be calculated. The wraiths had retreated before the sun came up, but there had been reports all morning of people missing as well as dead.

  Stephanie remembered a time when she didn’t need sleep. As a reflection, all she’d had to do to regain her strength was to step into the mirror and she’d emerge like a freshly charged battery. But now that she was a person, eating and drinking and sleeping took up so much of her time she felt sure she was doing it wrong.

  She ate breakfast and checked the Sceptre. The black crystal was still glowing as fiercely as ever, and she wondered if it ever needed to be recharged. Her stick did. It hung between her shoulder blades, solid and heavy and reassuring, but utterly devoid of magic. It had saved her life, though, and she wasn’t about to throw it away simply because it didn’t keep its stun effect for long.

  Bane and O’Callahan were comparing bruises when she found them, and together they went to the top of the wall. Skulduggery was already up there with Vex and Saracen and General Mantis. Everyone moved hunched over. The Warlocks’ aim was improving.