Skulduggery Pleasant: Last Stand of Dead Men

by Derek Landy

  “Mandat has made a mess of everything,” Ode said, keeping his eyes on the city. “How that’s possible, I don’t know. The man has a knack for plucking failure from the jaws of success.”

  “The Australians and the Africans—” Palaver started, but didn’t get one word further.

  “I know about the bloody Australians and the bloody Africans,” Ode said, turning now to cast a contemptuous eye on Illori’s rapidly wilting colleague, “and their involvement shouldn’t even have mattered. If you manage to lure the Dead Men into a trap, you kill them instantly. You blow the entire facility. You don’t try to take them alive. You don’t try to take them down. You just kill them. The press of a button. A big explosion. Instead, he gets all of his sorcerers and all of his Cleavers to lie in wait and, when the Dead Men appear in a place no one was expecting, they all scramble over each other to claim the glory. And then, as you say … the bloody Australians and the bloody Africans.”

  “We should contact their Councils,” Illori said.

  “We’re trying,” Ode responded. “So far, they’re not picking up the phone. It’s too late. You know it’s too late, Illori. They’ve shown which side they’re fighting on. Their colours have been nailed.”

  “Then they have become our enemies,” she said, “and they will be dealt with. We knew the Cradles of Magic forming an alliance was a distinct possibility.”

  “Doesn’t make the news any easier to take,” Ode said, collapsing into his chair. “Damn it, Graves, don’t just stand there and sulk. Contribute to the conversation.”

  Palaver flushed. “Yes, Grand Mage, of course. We should also take into account the fact that the Dead Men have retrieved the Engineer.”

  “And that’s another thing!” Ode cried. “The damn Engineer! You lure them into a trap with something they need, the very least you can do is not let them run off with the thing when they escape! Do we have any idea where they are?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Palaver, hanging his head in shame.

  “We had them,” Ode muttered. “Ravel and Bespoke. Two of the three Elders. All Mandat had to do was not mess up and this war would have been over before it really began.”

  There was a knock on the door, and the Administrator, Merriwyn, stepped in. “Apologies, Elders. The Japanese Grand Mage is requesting assistance. There’s a strike team disabling his Sanctuary’s infrastructure faster than it can be repaired.”

  “Please tell Grand Mage Kumo that he can deal with it himself – we’re busy fighting a war.”

  “He knows that, sir, and he points out that we’re fighting a war using his sorcerers. He barely has anyone left to defend his Sanctuary. And he’s not the only one with this problem. We’re getting requests for assistance from Syria, Romania, Iceland …”

  “Iceland?” Ode barked. “Is there even a Sanctuary in Iceland?”

  Merriwyn didn’t bat an eyelid. “Yes there is, sir, and it’s under attack.”

  Ode’s hands curled into fists. “I don’t have time for this. Ravel is sending hit-and-run teams to poorly defended Sanctuaries because he needs some easy wins. These are the actions of a desperate man. From this moment on, all reports of this nature go to Elder Graves. You can handle this, can’t you, Graves?”

  Palaver nodded quickly. “Yes, Grand Mage. Of course.”

  “Hear that, Merriwyn? Do not bother me with this again. Do you have any relevant information to share with me?”

  Merriwyn turned a page. “General Mantis is on schedule, sir. There have been no reports of any delays.”

  “Why couldn’t everyone be as efficient as Mantis? Say what you like about its unusual predilections, that creature knows how to stick to a timetable. Is that it, then? That is the one piece of good news today?”

  “I’m afraid so, Grand Mage,” said Merriwyn.

  “Leave us.”

  Merriwyn bowed, and left silently.

  Ode turned to Illori. “Thoughts?”

  “Fletcher Renn is a problem,” she said. “The Dead Men are a problem. Take Renn out of the equation and the Irish lose their ability to hit and run. Take the Dead Men out of the equation and they lose their leaders.”

  “Not all of them. Madame Mist is still in Roarhaven.”

  Illori arched an eyebrow. “You think anyone outside of Roarhaven will follow her? The Dead Men are more than just leaders and more than just soldiers. They’re a symbol. They’re the living embodiment of what a small group of determined individuals can accomplish against a much bigger enemy. They proved that against Mevolent. They’re proving it against us.”

  “I didn’t realise you’d joined their fan club.”

  “Snarkiness doesn’t suit you, Grand Mage. Have you heard what our own people are saying about them? During the day, they are spoken of with trepidation and awe. But at night? At night they’re spoken of with fear. The Dead Men have become the stuff of superstition and nightmares. That is why they are winning.”

  “Whoever said they were winning?”

  “We have yet to capture or kill more than a dozen of their sorcerers, while forty-one of ours have been taken out of the fight that we know of. They are successfully targeting and attacking our support structures and we still can’t get through their shield. They are chipping away at our allies and we haven’t even moved against theirs. We’re losing, Cothernus. With every cut, they draw more blood.”

  “I don’t have time for this. There’s a conference call with my fellow Grand Mages on the Supreme Council that I have to get to. No doubt Mandat will give us a hundred and one excuses as to how this isn’t his fault. There’s going to be a lot of name-calling and angry words, and nothing is going to get decided. By the end of the day, I want a new strategy from you both. Illori, I want proposals on how we handle the Australians and Africans. Graves, give me options on how to track down and eliminate the Dead Men. Get to it.”

  t had all been going so well.

  Skylar and Serephia had arrived in Mozambique without detection. They’d blended into the throngs of mortals at the airport, where Skylar’s English accent and Serephia’s American twang wouldn’t stand out. None of the African sorcerers stationed there even noticed them passing. Once they were outside, they stole a car, headed out of the city. Cothernus Ode himself had assigned them their mission – assassinate the Sensitive who was psychically co-ordinating the African forces around the world.

  The Sensitive had been tracked to a large warehouse, well away from civilian eyes. Skylar had been told to expect a heavy contingent of enemy sorcerers protecting him. She didn’t mind that. She had no intention of taking them on. The plan was to slip in, kill the Sensitive, and slip out before anyone knew what had happened.

  So they parked and crept up to the warehouse. They found the first guard, torn apart, and that’s when things started to go wrong.

  “We should get out of here,” Serephia said, her voice soft.

  “Not until we know the target is down,” Skylar replied. “And not until we know who did this.”

  She led the way to the wide-open warehouse door. Even for her, a seasoned assassin, the sight that greeted her was shocking. Dead bodies were strewn about like someone had carelessly tossed them aside. The carnage was fresh. Blood still dripped.

  Serephia tapped her, turned her head slightly. Skylar listened. Now she could hear it. A voice. No. Two voices.

  They moved into the warehouse, stepping between the bodies, darting from shadow to shadow. Serephia had her gun in her hand. Skylar realised that she’d drawn her own as well, and hadn’t even noticed herself doing it.

  Through the next door, there was a man on his knees. He was small, a dark-skinned man with tight silver hair. Skylar recognised him as the Sensitive. Standing over him was a ten-foot slab of muscle with pale skin and a bald head, splattered with other people’s blood. Skylar’s mouth went dry at the sight of him.

  “I swear,” the Sensitive said, “I cannot see any sign of them. Please, let me go.”

  The huge m
an laid a massive hand on the Sensitive’s shoulder, and the Sensitive whimpered in pain.

  “You are not looking hard enough,” the huge man said. “Find me Department X or I will crush your skull.”

  “I need something more,” the Sensitive said. “Please, I need more information. A name, or an object that one of them has touched …”

  “I was told you are the most powerful psychic on this continent.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Find me Department X.”

  “I can’t. Please, I’m sorry. I need more to—”

  The huge man grasped the Sensitive’s head between his hands and snapped his neck. Skylar’s heart lurched at the sudden crack.

  “Disappointing,” the huge man murmured. Then he turned. “But perhaps I’ll have better luck with you two.”

  Serephia was already running and Skylar was right behind her. They fired back into the room. Skylar tripped over a corpse and sprawled, lost her gun. Serephia turned, reached out to grab her, and a stream of energy melted through her like she wasn’t even there.

  Skylar cursed, fell back, scrambled up, and then the huge man had his hand round her throat.

  “Tell me,” he said, “what do you know of Department X?”

  She kicked, struggled, but it was no use. She raised her hand, her magic flowing through her, but the big man took her hand and broke it. Skylar screamed and he dropped her.

  “Who are you?” she shouted, clutching her arm, tears of pain in her eyes. “What do you want?”

  “My name is Charivari,” the huge man said. “And I am looking for the people who have been killing Warlocks. The psychic told me many things. He told me of your little war. He told me of a machine that can increase magic. But he didn’t tell me what I wanted to know. He didn’t tell me where I can find Department X.”

  “Department X isn’t real,” Skylar said, inching away from him on her knees. “It’s a story. It’s a rumour.”

  “Or maybe they’re so well hidden that even sorcerers like you don’t know they exist.”

  The pain was really hitting her now. “Maybe,” she said. “Yes, maybe. I can … I can help you. I can—”

  His lip curled. “You can do nothing. You would tell me anything I wanted to hear if you thought you could escape. So, if it is not this Department X killing my people, who is it? Who should I be hunting?”

  “I … I don’t know. Please, I don’t have anything to do with the Warlocks. I’ve never even met one before.”

  Charivari smiled. “Well,” he said, “you have now.”

  letcher pulled his jacket tighter around himself. He didn’t like being cold. That was why he’d moved to Australia. But he hadn’t been back there since the war had broken out, which was, what, two months ago now. Myra had kind of ruined it for him.

  The car was freezing, but he didn’t ask the driver to turn up the heat. Dai Maybury was from the unfortunate Maybury clan, and he didn’t take kindly to wussy complaints about the cold. From what Fletcher had heard over the past week or so, Dai was one of sextuplets, and the only decent one at that. His brother Deacon, a pretty powerful Sensitive, was a bit of a scumbag, all things considered – but at least he was still living. His other brother Davit had sealed himself in a secret room and promptly run out of air, Dafydd had fallen into a wood-chipper, Daveth had been eaten by rabid goats and Davon had died from intestinal distress.

  Fletcher didn’t ask him if he had any sisters.

  The road became a trail, then vanished altogether in the grass. Dai stopped the jeep and they got out. The narrow meadow carried on for a kilometre or so, up a gentle incline. At the very top stood a building. They started walking.

  “During the war with Mevolent, the Keep was one of our strongest positions,” Dai said. “Dense woodland on either side where we would lay traps and ambushes, and behind us a sheer wall of rock, on top of which we’d lay more traps, more ambushes.”

  “So if you were attacked,” Fletcher said, “the enemy would be forced to come up through here.”

  Dai nodded. “Their force would swarm in from the road and then immediately be funnelled straight towards us. Back then, our defences were second to none. There were walls, shields, gates, each one heavily manned, and that was before you even reached the Keep itself. They didn’t stand a chance. Take us halfway up.”

  Dai laid a hand on Fletcher’s shoulder and they teleported further on up the meadow and kept walking.

  “We’d have our best bowmen up there,” Dai said, pointing to a grassy ridge to their left. “They’d take out as many as they could, and right before their position was overrun they’d disappear into tunnels we’d built underground, emerge back at the Keep. Mevolent’s army came at us again and again during the war. Sometimes it would be battalions of sorcerers, men and women filling this meadow. Other times they’d try and sneak through the trees, or come at us from the rock face. They never got close.”

  “So the Keep is impenetrable, then,” said Fletcher.

  Dai smiled. “It used to be. The war ended, the defences were dismantled, the tunnels were filled in, the walls were taken down. Now all that remains are a few small buildings.”

  “How long before the defences can be put back up?”

  “They’re not going to be.”

  “But the Engineer is here. If Mantis finds out—”

  “We’re hoping that it does.”

  “So we’re leading them into a trap?”

  “More or less.”

  The closer they got to the Keep, the more figures Fletcher could see moving about behind the low, broken walls. He smiled. “Let me guess. Hidden up there is our army, right? Mantis comes up, expects an easy victory and then bam. We strike.”

  Dai put his hand on Fletcher’s shoulder again. “See for yourself.”

  They teleported beyond the wall, into the Keep itself, and immediately Fletcher jerked away from a Hollow Man as it shuffled by.

  “Relax,” said Dai, laughing, “they’re ours.”

  They were everywhere. Paper-skinned, shoulders slumped as their heavy fists swung, their faces had indentations where the eyes and mouth should be. At a distance, they could pass for human, but up close they were a hulking mockery. Fletcher watched one of them snag itself on a rusty nail, tearing its skin. It kept walking as green gas billowed from the tear, deflating itself with every step. It collapsed, emptied, and then the breeze took hold of its skin and tossed it across the ground, where it tangled in the feet of another Hollow Man and was dragged from sight.

  Bane and O’Callahan walked up. Gracious was not looking happy.

  “This is ridiculous,” he said. “You see what we have to work with? You see the quality of these things?”

  “They do seem to be on the cheap side,” Dai conceded.

  “Worst quality skin I’ve ever seen on a Hollow Man,” said Gracious. “Where did Ravel get them? No, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to taint myself with knowing the name of the person who made these skins.”

  “We just inflated the last of them,” said Donegan. His eyes were rimmed with red and his nose was running. “Foul stuff, that green gas. I got a blast of it, right in the face.”

  “He threw up,” Gracious said.

  “I did,” Donegan admitted. “And I’m still seeing blurry outlines of everything.”

  “Um,” Fletcher said, “can I ask a stupid question?”

  “There are no stupid questions,” Gracious said, “just stupid people. Ask away.”

  “Well, from what I can see, there are only Hollow Men here, is that right? No sorcerers or Cleavers apart from you guys?”

  “That is correct,” said Donegan.

  “And if Mantis does find out that the Engineer is here, and if it does come with its army, you don’t really have any defences to … defend yourself with.”

  Gracious nodded. “An accurate summation. What part was the stupid question?”

  “That’s coming up,” Fletcher said. “If Mantis attacks, you�
��ve got that rock cliff behind you so there’s nowhere to run, either.”

  “Waiting for the stupid question …”

  “Well … I mean … If they come, you can’t fight and you can’t run. You’ll be trapped.”

  Gracious looked at him. “That wasn’t even a question.”

  “You’re quite right,” Dai said. “When Mantis attacks, we’ll be overwhelmed. The Keep will be surrounded, and they’ll breach our pathetic wall with laughable ease. At which point they’ll realise that all these people they’ve seen moving around are, in actual fact, really cheap Hollow Men.”

  “By which time,” said Donegan, “Gracious, Dai and I will have run back to Nye and Clarabelle and the Engineer, and we’ll call for you. Then you come, and you teleport us to safety.”

  “But what’s the point?” Fletcher asked. “Why lure them here in the first place if … oh.”

  Gracious smiled. “Look. He’s getting it.”

  “So they’ll be here,” Fletcher said, “in this terrible position with no defences and no escape, and they’ll turn round …”

  “And realise that the Dead Men have moved into the valley behind them,” said Donegan, “and they have an army with them.”

  Fletcher grinned. “That’s pretty smart.”

  “That’s why they’re called tactics,” said Gracious, “and not …”

  The others looked at him. Gracious just shrugged. “Fletcher, you want to go talk to a robot?”

  Fletcher grinned. “Sure.”

  Gracious led him into the Keep, the inside of which was not quite as disappointing as the outside. The walls held up the ceiling. The floors held up the walls. It was a good system.

  The only room that had anything in it looked like a mad scientist’s garden shed. It was small, cramped, and full of beeping machines and wires running everywhere. Doctor Nye had to almost bend double to move. Clarabelle waved as Fletcher walked in. She stood beside a six-foot robot.