Skulduggery Pleasant: Last Stand of Dead Men

by Derek Landy

  The exact centre of the tent was the highest point, and the only spot General Mantis could stand without having to stoop. Mantis was a Crenga, a species that had hovered on the edge of extinction since long before Regis was born. But somehow those long-limbed, genderless creatures had never quite slipped into the crumbling pages of history. When Regis was a boy, there had been stories of whole colonies of Crenga living in the hills of some far-off mystical island. But, when Regis had been a boy, there were stories of practically everything.

  “Mr Regis,” said Mantis, its tortured voice filtered through the bizarrely oversized gas mask it wore, “we are in need of a fresh pair of eyes. Perhaps you would look upon this map and tell us what you see?”

  Regis came forward. It was a map of the surrounding area, its hills gathered in clustered lines and a river snaking through it. No towns, no settlements, no mortals. On the largest hill on the map there was a tin figure of a man waving a little blue flag. Saber’s toys, he knew. Further on down the shallow valley there were three other tin men close together, and a fourth in the middle of the woods. All of these carried red flags.

  “Well,” said Regis, taking his time to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, “it seems to me that we’re about to be overrun by four tiny little men who, to be honest, shouldn’t cause us too much trouble.”

  “Will you please take this seriously?” Saber growled.

  “I’ll do my best,” said Regis, resisting the urge to pick up the tin men and start doing silly voices.

  Mantis traced its long, cellophane-wrapped finger round the edge of the hill. “Our defences are solid to the north, south and west. To the east, our enemy lies.”

  Regis frowned. “Wouldn’t it be prudent to reinforce our defences on that side, sir? It would seem to be the logical move.”

  Mantis nodded its head. “That it would, Mr Regis, were we planning on staying here even longer than we already have. However, due to our dwindling supplies we cannot put this off any longer. Our plan is to pour forth, to charge our enemy and take the fight to them. It will be glorious.”

  It will be suicide. “Um,” said Regis, “but wouldn’t we be running straight into, you know … superior numbers? And we’d also be giving up the high ground, which is something we maybe shouldn’t give up.”

  “What’s the matter, Regis?” said Captain Tortura, a mocking smile on her lips. “Afraid of a little fighting?”

  “Yes,” Regis answered. “I’m terrified of the stuff. It’s bad for your health and should be avoided at all costs. Begging your pardon, General, but why? We’ve been sneaking around for weeks. We’ve been playing the long game. Why suddenly change our tactics?”

  Mantis looked at him, its small yellow eyes magnified by the helmet until the General resembled some kind of great blinking owl. “You don’t approve?”

  Regis hesitated. “It’s not that I don’t approve, sir. It’s just that up till now we have demonstrated great patience and cunning. I’m simply wondering why we have chosen this point in time to start charging and screaming and fighting and dying. Sir.”

  “You’re a coward,” said Saber.

  “You show me a brave man and I’ll show you a dead one,” said Regis.

  “We may well be giving up the high ground,” Mantis said, “but we are not doing it without good reason.”

  “I see, sir,” Regis said, but he didn’t really see in the slightest. “Beg pardon, General, but why am I here?”

  “Because, when we decide to go, we will need a company to lead the charge.”

  “Are you looking for volunteers, sir? Under whose command would this company be?”

  It wouldn’t be Glass, Regis knew that much. Might get his boots dirty. It might be Saber, but the danger would be he’d want all the glory for himself, and get everyone else killed. Tortura, then? She’d be more than capable, but whether or not Mantis was willing to risk losing his best captain in the field was another matter entirely. Regis looked up, realised that everyone was looking at him, and the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

  “Congratulations, Captain Regis,” Mantis said. “You’ve just been promoted.”

  aputo was a city reeling.

  Not on the outside, of course. Its streets were full of the noise and bustle that Fletcher had come to associate with the place on his half a dozen trips to Mozambique. As far as the mortals were concerned, nothing had changed. Life continued plodding onwards. But for the sorcerers, their whole world was in upheaval.

  Grand Mage Ubuntu and his Elders had been powerful and wise. Many criticised them for taking too long to come to important decisions, but they acted when it counted and that, as far as Fletcher was concerned, was all that mattered. And now they were dead, all three of them murdered as they slept. Their replacements were doing their best to keep it together, both to make sure the African Sanctuaries didn’t fragment during all this chaos and suspicion and also to ensure that the Supreme Council didn’t take advantage of the turmoil to launch an attack. So far, they were doing a good job. Since the Warlock attack that killed eighteen sorcerers, they’d recalled most of their operatives to bolster their strength and, as far as Fletcher could tell, the Supreme Council’s forces were staying well away. No one wanted to provoke the beast Africa while its fangs were bared.

  But it did mean that there was no way to get any kind of official help from the Mozambique Sanctuary in their hunt for this Warlock. Donegan Bane didn’t seem to mind, though. He had friends all over the world, many of whom were of significant ill repute. Just the kind of people to help them, then.

  An air-conditioned limousine pulled up outside the bar Donegan had brought them to, and they got in, sitting beside each other on the long seat. Seated opposite was a beautiful woman swathed in white linen.

  “I am Ajuoga,” she said as the limo started down the street. “I believe you have been enquiring as to the Warlock.”

  “Yes we have,” said Donegan. “This is Fletcher Renn, Gracious O’Callahan, and I am Donegan Bane. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us.”

  Ajuoga smiled brilliantly. “The pleasure is mine, Mr Bane. I am such a fan of the books you write with Mr O’Callahan. And Fletcher Renn, the last Teleporter. I am honoured to be in your presence.”

  “Thank you for smiling at me,” Fletcher said, and Ajuoga laughed.

  “Such a delight, you are! I had heard tales of your hair, but not your charm. Rest assured, the tales I tell of you shall not skimp on the details. But look at me, taking up so much of your time with my fawning. You have come here on business. You have questions.”

  “We do,” said Donegan. “A Warlock killed eighteen sorcerers a few days ago on the outskirts of the city – including your Sanctuary’s top Sensitive. The assassination of your Elder Council has obviously overshadowed this, but we would appreciate any information you might have. My associate said you are well connected.”

  “People talk to me,” Ajuoga said, smiling gently. “From what I know, however, killing those sorcerers, or that Sensitive, was not the Warlock’s primary business in Mozambique.”

  “Do you know what his primary business was?” Gracious asked.

  “Recruitment,” said Ajuoga. “A Warlock had already been to Ireland to talk to the Crones of the Cold Embrace, but they are frail, and would not join Charivari’s army. Next, a Warlock went to Sweden to talk to the Maidens of the New Dawn, but the Maidens are meek, and would not join Charivari’s army. Then Charivari himself came here to talk to the Brides of Blood Tears, and the Brides are strong, and he found them receptive.”

  Donegan raised an eyebrow. “It was Charivari who killed those sorcerers? He came here himself? And the Brides, they … they said yes?”

  “Indeed they did,” said Ajuoga. “From what I have been told, Charivari is looking for war. He wants the Warlocks and witches to stand together against those who would dare hurt them. Once his business with the Brides was concluded, he found the Sensitive, in order to extract information about this Department X.
Tell me, what do you know of it?”

  “We know it doesn’t exist,” said Gracious.

  “Oh, I know that,” Ajuoga responded, “but there have been stories about it since the Second World War. Rumours have to start somewhere.”

  “It’s an urban legend, nothing more,” Donegan said.

  “I see. Yes, of course. But where are its headquarters? Dublin or London? I have heard Dublin.”

  “It doesn’t have any headquarters,” said Fletcher, frowning. “It doesn’t exist.”

  Ajuoga laughed. “Of course it doesn’t, of course it doesn’t.” She leaned forward, and patted his leg. “It is so good to meet you.”

  She kept patting his leg. Fletcher was pretty sure she was coming on to him. Awesome. It was pretty blatant, though. Right in front of Bane and O’Callahan, who were not looking happy. In fact, they were looking at Ajuoga with something approaching suspicion. And now that he thought about it, Fletcher could see their point. She was still patting his leg. She was even leaning forward in her seat. He couldn’t blame her, of course. He was gorgeous, and his hair was spectacular. But even so, this behaviour could possibly be labelled as odd if his sheer animal magnetism were ignored and you just focused on—

  She suddenly had a knife in her other hand and she was slashing towards his neck, and Bane and O’Callahan were lunging for her and Fletcher teleported—

  —but took all three of them with him and they tumbled to the ground back in the valley in Ireland, surrounded by sorcerers.

  Ajuoga snatched him away from Gracious and Donegan and Fletcher tried to get free. He glimpsed Valkyrie running forward, shadows curling round her fist, but then Ajuoga’s blade came for him again and he teleported without thinking, then teleported again, and again, trying to shake Ajuoga off, trying to dislodge her, and then he felt the knife pressing into his throat and she said, very softly and right into his ear, “Stop.”

  He stopped. They were in a field in Texas. It was morning here.

  Ajuoga kept the knife where it was. “When I tell you to,” she said, “you will teleport us back to that bar I picked you up from. Don’t worry, it has been emptied of patrons.”

  Fletcher didn’t feel brave. He had a knife to his throat and of all the feelings rushing through him, bravery wasn’t one of them. Even so, he found himself saying, “If you’re going to kill me, get it over with.”

  Ajuoga gave him another one of her brilliant smiles. “I do not wish to kill you, Fletcher. You are the last Teleporter – why would I wish to kill you? No, no. I assure you, I only wish to kidnap you.”

  hings were not working out the way Ghastly had hoped.

  Losing Fletcher was a major setback. They had done their best to keep him out of the fighting and as far away from danger as they possibly could. He was the one advantage they’d had over the Supreme Council and, for all they knew, he was already dead. The Monster Hunters were pleading to go back to Mozambique and Valkyrie was trying to convince Skulduggery to help her track down this Ajuoga person, but Ravel wouldn’t let any of them go and Ghastly agreed with him. Once Mantis was defeated, once its army was in shackles, they could find Fletcher and bring him back. If he were still alive.

  At least this part was going according to plan – so far. Mantis and his army were still hunkered down in the Keep for the fourth day in a row, and Ghastly was down here with everyone else at the bottom of the valley. Another night had fallen and – Fletcher notwithstanding – no one was hurt and no one was dead. Ghastly was experiencing a rare moment of relief. And then his phone rang.

  “Doctor,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

  “Elder Bespoke, I’m so sorry for bothering you.” Doctor Synecdoche sounded worried. She talked fast, and he could practically hear her frown over the phone. “If there were anyone else I could call, I wouldn’t be wasting your time with—”

  “Doctor, please, it’s no trouble. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Well … this sounds ridiculous, but I can’t get into Roarhaven.”

  He answered her frown with one of his own. “I’m sorry?”

  “When Doctor Nye arrived back in the Sanctuary, I decided to take a few days off. Nye was busy with the Engineer and I had some leave owed me, so I drove into Dublin to see some friends. But I’ve just driven back and … they won’t let me in.”

  “Who won’t let you in?”

  “The Roarhaven mages. They have the road blocked off. I can see more of them on the hill. They know who I am. They know I work for the Sanctuary. But they said they’re not letting anyone through.”

  “Doctor, I don’t know what’s going on, but if I give you Administrator Tipstaff’s number, you can call him and he’ll—”

  “He’s not answering,” said Synecdoche. “I called Elder Mist, too, and I got talking to a man I’ve never spoken to before and he told me Elder Mist is unavailable. He wouldn’t give me his name. Sir, I really don’t mean to pester you, I know how preoccupied you must be right now, but … something’s not right.”

  “Doctor, thank you for bringing this to my attention. Go back to Dublin. Keep your phone on. When this is resolved, I’ll have someone call you, or I’ll call you myself, and hopefully I’ll have a satisfactory explanation for you. Thank you, Doctor.”

  He hung up, his frown deepening. He found Ravel strolling through the camp, talking with Saracen.

  “We may have a problem,” he said. “There are roadblocks up around Roarhaven. Our people aren’t being allowed in. No one inside is answering their phone.”

  “The Supreme Council could have sneaked some people into Roarhaven,” said Saracen, “using Mantis as a distraction.”

  Ghastly shook his head. “Synecdoche said it was Roarhaven mages who stopped her. Whatever’s going on, the Supreme Council isn’t behind it.”

  Ravel sighed. “It’s probably just some new piece of bureaucracy that Mist has introduced to ‘improve security’ since we’ve been gone. What do you want to do? You want to check it out? You could even take the nice doctor with you, and demonstrate how full of authority you are.”

  Saracen nodded. “That’s sure to impress her. It’d impress me.”

  “See that? If it’d impress Saracen Rue, it’s sure to impress a lady.”

  “Would the both of you just shut up about that?” Ghastly said. “With all this badgering about meeting a nice girl, you’re worse than my mother ever was.”

  “Chicks dig scars,” said Saracen. “That’s all I’m going to say about it.”

  “You’re a veritable font of wisdom, you know that?”

  Laughing, Saracen wrapped his arms round Ghastly and Ravel and slowed their walk as he pulled them in. “Two men with knives ahead of us,” he muttered. “A third coming up on our left, a fourth on our right.”

  Ravel grinned, but spoke softly. “This is technically an army camp. Everyone has knives.”

  “They’re waiting for us.”

  “Maybe they’re fans,” Ravel whispered, but veered to the left as Saracen went right, leaving Ghastly to keep walking straight ahead. Typical.

  A man and woman walked out from behind cover with their heads down. They each had a hand hidden from view. They parted to allow Ghastly to walk between them. Instead, he stopped, and raised an eyebrow.

  “You don’t really think you’re going to catch me unawares, do you?”

  They moved and he snapped his palm against the air and the woman went flying back. The man brought the blade swinging low and Ghastly grabbed his wrist with both hands and yanked him into a headbutt. The knife-man collapsed and Ghastly clicked his fingers, threw a fireball into the chest of the woman as she ran at him. She shrieked and beat at the flames and Ghastly waved his hand. The flames went away and she looked up and Ghastly hit her so hard he heard her jaw break.

  Behind him, Ravel was practically posing for photos with one foot on the head of his unconscious opponent. Saracen dragged his own would-be assassin across the ground and dumped him in the clearing between them. Sa
racen’s hand was bleeding from a deep cut across the back of it. He looked annoyed.

  “What’s your name?” asked Ghastly.

  The failed assassin snarled.

  “I know him,” said Ravel. “His name’s … something nervous. Like Worrying or Fretting or—”

  “Anguish,” the assassin said. “But that’s all you’re getting out of me.”

  Ravel looked at Ghastly. “Roarhaven mage.”

  Ghastly rubbed his head where he had butted the knife-man. It was starting to swell. “This isn’t the first time Roarhaven mages have tried to kill us. You’d think they’d have got the message by now. Mr Anguish, we’re not going to be killed by the likes of you, so do yourself a favour and tell us who’s behind this.”

  Anguish’s sneer was becoming unsightly. “You’re dead. All of you are dead. Everyone who stands between us and our destiny is dead.”

  “And what destiny would that be?” Saracen asked.

  “Ruling over the mortals like we were born to do,” Anguish told him. “And don’t try to read my mind. We all have Level 4 barriers.”

  “I’m not psychic,” said Saracen. “Why does everyone think I’m psychic? I just know things.”

  “Do you know who sent them?” Ravel asked.

  Saracen gave a sigh. “I said I know things. Most of these are random things. Not especially useful things.”

  By the time Saracen rejoined them with his hand wrapped in a bandage, the assassins had been hauled away and the rest of the Dead Men were gathered in Ravel’s tent. Ghastly kept his eyes on Valkyrie. Since Fletcher had been taken, she’d barely spoken to anyone except to argue her case in going after him.

  “Madame Mist appears to be making her grab for power,” said Skulduggery. “Although it would seem to be an especially clumsy one for someone as meticulous as she is.”

  “Maybe she just saw her chance,” said Vex. “Erskine and Ghastly are in the field, along with most of the sorcerers loyal to them. She’s not going to get an opportunity like this again.”