by Derek Landy
Right then. Out here all alone.
A Wretchling ran at her and she jumped up. Instead of retreating against the swinging axe, she charged into him, twisting her hip and flipping him, and they both went down and went rolling. Stephanie’s fingers curled around an open wound on his face and she tore downwards, splitting the skin and he screamed, and she tore the axe from his grip and buried it in his head. She saw the blood and jerked away. Killing with the Sceptre was easy – it was all black lightning and dust. It was clean. But this … this was messy and horrible and she didn’t like it. Too much could go wrong. She needed the Sceptre.
She looked up. She could see the gate from where she was, but between the gate and where she stood there was a war being fought.
She took the mask from her pocket, pulled it on, threaded her ponytail through the back. She pulled on the gloves and zipped the jacket up to her chin. Then she tugged the axe free, and ran for the gate.
She swung the axe into a Wretchling’s leg as she passed, took an arm off another. One of them burst through the fighting. She blocked his sword with her gauntlet and her axe bit into his neck, almost took his head off. He fell awkwardly, tearing the axe from her hands. She picked up his sword, used that to chop and stab her way through. There was a ring of Cleavers, their scythes a blur, their grey uniforms spattered with blood. Wretchlings ran at them and died. Then suddenly a stream of yellow energy cut through two of them like they weren’t even there. A Warlock strode forward, building up to another blast.
Stephanie altered course, squeezing past two fighting women, and as the Warlock raised his glowing hand, she brought the sword down on his wrist. The hand fell and light spilled from the wound, and Stephanie slashed at his midsection and more light spilled. The Warlock fell to his knees and Stephanie turned as a screech rose up behind her, almost avoided the blade that crunched into her head.
The world spun and she went sprawling. The screeching Wretchling kicked her, kicked her again, then brought his sword down into her chest. It hurt. Not as much as the blow to the head, and definitely not as much as it would have done were she not wearing these clothes, but it hurt nonetheless.
She’d lost her own sword when she fell, so she scrambled up empty-handed as the Wretchling swung at her. She caught the blade under her arm and stepped in, grabbed him and kicked at his knee. He screeched again, in pain this time, and she kicked that knee twice more before she felt it splinter. He fell back and she ripped his sword from his hands.
Through a gap in the fighting, she saw the Warlock. The cut to his midsection had healed, and the injury to his wrist had closed over, leaving him with a stump. His mouth was widening, his teeth long and dark, and his eyes were on her.
Stephanie turned, started hurrying for the gate.
A Wretchling stumbled into her, realised she was the enemy, and swung. She blocked, the impact juddering up her arms, but when she blocked the return swing, she lost her sword. She immediately lunged into him, biting at his neck as they staggered into someone else. She found a dagger in his belt and pulled it out, jammed it up into his armpit. His strength began to fade and she tripped him, fell on top, withdrew the dagger and used his face to push herself to her feet. He grabbed her ankle and she kicked him and he let her go.
Before her, a sorcerer and a Wretchling held each other in headlocks and lurched about like an exhausted, four-legged spider. The point of a spear whistled by Stephanie’s face – she felt the shifting air flow through the eyehole of her mask – and a Wretchling pulled it back, tried stabbing her again. She ducked behind the four-legged spider and the Wretchling followed, cursing her, jabbing with the spear. The fighters around them closed in and the Wretchling was swallowed by the surge, and Stephanie left him to it. She slashed at an arm to move it out of her way, almost tripped over a screaming man, and looked back to see the Warlock barrelling towards her.
His left hand closed round her jacket and he picked her up and slammed her to the ground. He knelt on top of her, mouth widening as it opened, those teeth longer and darker than they had been a moment before. She’d cut off his hand, weakened him. He needed her soul to grow strong again.
The Warlock lowered his head to bite, and stopped. He pulled back, looked at her weirdly, and she took the opportunity to plunge the dagger between his ribs. Warm light spilled from the wound and he jerked away, and she stabbed again and again and pushed him off. She rolled on top of him, went to stab his chest. His good hand grabbed her wrist. She snatched the dagger into her other hand and sank the blade into his throat. He gagged. She got up. He rolled on to his side, light shining from every wound. Then the light faded, and turned to blood, and the blood leaked out of him as he died.
She got to the gate, squeezed through, but tripped, went stumbling, and hands reached for her, pulled her up, right into the snarling face of a female Warlock.
Stephanie cried out as the Warlock lifted her, then slammed her to the ground. Punches came next, rocking Stephanie’s head from one side to the other. When the Warlock realised her punches were having little effect, her finger scrabbled at Stephanie’s neck and she pulled the mask from her head. She threw it into the crowd of fighters and Stephanie tried to heave her to one side. That was her mask. Ghastly made that for her. She started to rise, but the woman punched her and this time there was nothing to disperse the impact. The fist crunched against her cheek and her teeth rattled. She fell back, her thoughts disconnected from the world around her.
The Warlock opened her mouth wide, wider, wider, those teeth small and sharp, that mouth getting big, bigger and bigger, and Stephanie sat up, thrust her fist into the Warlock’s mouth, punching the back of her throat.
The Warlock gagged, recoiled, her eyes bulging, but Stephanie went with her, kept her fist in there, driving her back, snarling as they rolled. Now she was on top, and she put her weight behind it and curled her hand and jammed it down the Warlock’s gullet. She grabbed something, she didn’t know what, her fingers tightening round it, and she yanked, twisted it sideways, and the woman’s eyes rolled in her head and she stopped struggling.
Stephanie yanked her arm out, taking a few teeth with it, and she hauled herself up and ran back to where her friends were battling Charivari. She broke through a wall of bodies.
Charivari had them beaten. Saracen lay on his side, unconscious or dead, Stephanie didn’t know which. Donegan was against one wall, trying to stand. By the way he held his ribs, she could tell they were broken. Dexter was staggering away from Charivari and Gracious stood, covering his retreat. He was battered and bloody, but his fists were raised.
“That all you got?” he called out.
Charivari struck him and he flew backwards, hit the wall and dropped. He took a moment in the dirt to feel sorry for himself, then pushed himself up into a sprinter’s start. Stephanie watched him take a couple of deep breaths and then he bolted, ran straight at Charivari, who hit him again, and again he flew backwards.
Suddenly Fletcher was at Stephanie’s elbow. “You’re all right,” he said, panting for breath. “I thought you were – I thought you’d been—”
“Fletcher, the Sceptre. Where is it? Help me look for it.”
He shook his head. He looked weak. “I’ll handle this,” he said. “I’ll tap him, drop him from the sky.”
“Fletcher, no.”
She grabbed him, but he took her hand, removed it from his arm. “Stephanie, I’ll be back in a second.”
He teleported to the spot right behind Charivari, but he swayed, like he was dizzy, and the back of Charivari’s hand smashed into him.
“Where are your heroes?” Charivari asked, walking up behind Vex. “Where is Ghastly Bespoke, or Anton Shudder, or Skulduggery Pleasant? Where are the men you send to take down men like me?” His fist came down on Vex’s shoulder and Vex cried out, dropped to his knees.
Stephanie looked away, her eyes searching for the Sceptre.
“And where is Erskine Ravel,” Charivari asked loudly, “your great an
d glorious leader?”
“Ravel’s no leader of ours,” Vex answered.
“No? Then why do you protect him? Send him out to me. I know his secrets. I know what he was trying to do. Let me look upon the face of the man who started all this. I want to see him. I want to look into his eyes as I crush everything he has built.”
“Stay right here,” Vex said, trying to stand. “I’ll go get him …”
Vex’s legs gave out and he collapsed.
“Ravel!” Charivari shouted. “Show yourself!” He picked up a fallen sword and crouched, letting the blade rest on the back of Vex’s neck. “Show yourself or I start taking the heads of your friends!”
He looked around, waiting for a reply, then shrugged and looked down at Vex. “You need better friends.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“Obviously.”
Charivari raised the sword.
“Stop!” Stephanie shouted, running forward.
Charivari looked at her. “I was wondering what had happened to you.”
“If you kill him,” Stephanie said, “you’ll never find Ravel. We’ll hide him away. You’ll never get to him.”
“Where is he?”
“Don’t hurt anyone else and I’ll take you to him.”
“You have three minutes to bring him to me.”
“No, you’ll have to come with—”
“Three minutes.”
Her argument died on her lips when she glimpsed the Sceptre, half hidden by a dead Wretchling, a mere arm’s reach away from where Charivari was crouched.
“OK,” she said, walking forward, trying to keep her eyes locked on to Charivari’s, trying to get him to focus on her. “I can call him from up here. Or Dexter can.”
“And who is Dexter?”
“The man whose head you want to take.”
“Oh,” said Charivari, “Dexter. Is that true, Dexter? Can you call Ravel from up here?”
Vex didn’t respond. In annoyance, Charivari raised the sword a little higher.
“No!” Stephanie cried, darting closer. “Stop! I can do it! Just let me do it!”
“No tricks, girl. Or I take your head, too.”
“No tricks, I promise,” Stephanie said. “In his jacket there’s a black box. If you give that to me, I can use it to signal Ravel.”
Charivari’s free hand patted Vex’s jacket, and Stephanie waited for him to glance down, just glance away from her, that’s all she needed him to—
Charivari looked down at Vex and Stephanie dived. She rolled and Charivari’s sword cut the dead Wretchling in half and Stephanie fumbled with the Sceptre as she kept rolling, and she fired and missed as she got to her feet and fell back as Charivari flung the blade. It missed her by a hair’s breadth, and she tripped and reeled and he came for her, smacked into her, lifting her off her feet as easily as she’d swat a fly. She hit the ground and rolled and came up and backpedalled, and Charivari grabbed another sword and threw it and it hit her shoulder and spiralled away and she toppled. But as she toppled she fired, and Charivari dived out of the way of the black lightning. She fired again, but he grabbed a corpse, used it as a shield. It turned to dust and he grabbed another, threw it and Stephanie had to scramble to avoid it. A shadow fell over her and she turned, and his huge hand closed round her throat and pinned her against the wall and she jammed the Sceptre under his chin.
They froze.
Charivari’s eyes flickered down to the black crystal, then back up to meet hers.
“All I have to do is squeeze,” he said.
“All I have to do is think,” she replied.
“I am not the monster here, girl. Ravel had my people killed. He is responsible for all of this.”
“I know.”
“Then let me kill him.”
“I would, but how do I know you’ll stop there? You’ve moved against the Sanctuaries. You’d probably expect them to retaliate. Best thing for you to do, from your perspective, would be to wipe them out while you have the chance. Then what happens to the mortals?”
“I have no interest in mortals.”
“But I do. I want them to live normal lives. You jeopardise that.”
“Then it appears we are at an impasse. If I kill you, you kill me. If you kill me—”
Black lightning flashed and Charivari turned to dust and Stephanie rubbed her throat. “I kill you.”
Stephanie looked around, chose Fletcher to run to first. He groaned as she made him sit up. The left side of his face was badly swollen, his eye was closed and blood ran from his burst lips. If he was lucky, the only thing that was broken was his jaw.
“Look,” said Vex.
Stephanie looked around, then followed his gaze upwards, and her insides went cold.
Vex pulled Fletcher to his feet. “Fletcher, listen to me. I know it hurts. It’s going to hurt a lot more in a few minutes. I know you’re tired. But you have to teleport one more time, OK? You have to teleport us back up to the wall. Can you do that?”
Fletcher nodded, his eyes glassy. Stephanie and Vex held on, and Fletcher took a moment. He swayed again, then furrowed his brow. Just when Stephanie thought he wasn’t going to be able to do it, they were on the wall.
Vex put Fletcher sitting down, then joined Stephanie at the parapet, looking up.
Valkyrie stood in the sky, below the clouds, looking down at them all.
No, not Valkyrie. Darquesse. Valkyrie was gone now. Only Darquesse remained.
thousand questions rattled inside Stephanie’s head. She chose the simplest one. “What is she wearing?”
“She’s dressed like a Bride of Blood Tears,” Vex said.
The wind whipped at her clothes. It must have been freezing. Darquesse didn’t seem to notice.
“How long has she been up there?” Stephanie asked.
“I don’t know,” Vex said. “She just drifted down out of the clouds, like she wanted a better look. God knows how long she’s been watching.”
Below Darquesse, the fighting continued. The Roarhaven mages killed dozens of Warlocks and Wretchlings, and the Warlocks and Wretchlings eventually took each one of them down. The mages who flew only looked downwards – never up. The Warlocks who fought only looked at their enemies – never beyond them.
“What’s the range on the Sceptre?” Vex asked.
“I … I don’t know.”
“You might not get a better shot. She’s not moving.”
Stephanie looked at him. “You don’t want to try and talk to her?”
“She’s too dangerous. We take the shot when we have the shot.”
“Maybe we should let Skulduggery know.”
“You know as well as I do that he’s not going to make the right decision. I don’t want to kill Valkyrie. I want to save her. But we don’t have a choice. Kill the girl, save the world. It’s a simple equation. I take full responsibility for this, do you hear me? Do it. That’s an order.”
Stephanie raised the Sceptre, and hesitated. “She’s very far away, and this thing doesn’t come with a targeting system. If I miss, she’ll come down here and kill us.”
“That’s probably what she’s going to do anyway,” said Vex. “May as well give her a reason.”
Lightning travels at 3,700 miles per second. By the time Stephanie registered the black crystal flash, the lightning would have already struck its target. She took a deep breath, and aimed.
And just as she was about to fire, Darquesse turned her head and looked right at her.
“Oh, hell,” Stephanie breathed.
But instead of attacking, Darquesse waved. And then, like she was diving from an invisible board, she arced up and swooped down, and sped towards the earth.
She hit the ground with such force that Stephanie could see the shockwave that threw back Warlocks and Wretchlings and mages alike. Darquesse stood slowly in the clearing, the battlefield suddenly quiet as both sides appraised this new player in the game.
A Wretchling stepped forward. Darques
se allowed him to approach. His sword glinted in the sunlight. He sprang at her and she killed him. Stephanie didn’t see exactly what she’d done, but it involved a lot of blood and it was over in a flash.
A Warlock tried next. He raised his arm and she raised hers. His hand lit up and a beam of white energy hit Darquesse’s open palm. He stepped forward, curling his body, putting everything he had into it. Darquesse just stood there. When the beam failed and the Warlock sagged, Darquesse flicked her hand and his body came apart.
One of the flying Roarhaven mages thought this was hilarious. Stephanie could hear his laughter, the laughter of a fool who saw victory because he was too dumb to recognise defeat. The Warlock’s head came to a rolling stop near Darquesse. She picked it up, threw it. It went straight through the laughing mage’s chest like a cannonball.
A floating sphere of white energy drifted to Darquesse as she stood there. She observed it, reached out to touch it. Stephanie was pretty sure she saw her smile, and then it exploded so brightly that she had to look away. When she looked back, Darquesse was still standing there.
Stunned silence. Every moment that passed, Stephanie expected to hear a battle cry, as either the Warlocks or the mages took the fight to Darquesse. But no. No battle cry. In the end it was Darquesse herself who instigated the slaughter.
Stephanie stepped to the magnifying window just in time to see Darquesse gently sweep her arm to one side, her fingers curling. She suddenly snapped her arm back and a line of Warlocks split apart, limbs twisting in the air. Warlocks and Wretchlings ran at her, then, and she danced through them, ignoring their swords and their magic, her wounds healing even as the blows landed. Her hands were her swords, her fingers her daggers. She moved impossibly fast, spinning and whirling. Bodies and body parts went flying over the heads of the Warlocks and mages who swarmed her. And swarm her they did. Stephanie watched as they piled on top of her, a mountain of men and women. For a moment she thought they might even succeed, but then she heard the screaming, and a moment later the mountain blew apart.