by Derek Landy
But down there … down there Skulduggery and the others would fight. They’d fight and kill and die. She had to do something. She couldn’t just stand up here and watch as …
Her eyes widened, and her heart surged. Lit up by the uncertain staccato of the fighting, of explosions and flashing energy streams, there were people moving in from the other end of the valley. Ghastly. Ravel. Cleavers and sorcerers. They’d turned back.
Reinforcements.
She laughed. She couldn’t stop herself. Despite having fifty vampires a mere stone’s throw away from her, she jumped up and thrust her arms in the air. She even did a little dance, up there on that ridge, the vampires snarling themselves into a frenzy.
When she was done, she looked down at the valley again. There must have been hundreds of people on that road. She frowned. Hundreds. Too many to be Ghastly and Ravel and the Cleavers. Too many to be reinforcements.
She cried out as the newcomers crashed into Skulduggery’s army from the rear. They swarmed the camp, adding to the terrible symphony of machine-gun fire and shrieking energy streams. She watched as it played out, as her fellow sorcerers realised they’d been outmanoeuvred. Half of them turned to fight while the other half struggled to keep the line. And then the shield broke. Under pressure from too many points it just dissolved, and Mantis’s army swept in on a wave of destruction.
Valkyrie screamed and brought the wind in to boost herself high into the air and far from the ridge. She lost control at the peak of her jump and didn’t bother correcting herself. She fell towards the valley floor, only bringing the air in at the last second. She hit the ground at a run. She came up on one of Mantis’s sorcerers, lagging far behind the others. She slammed her stick into the back of his head and kept running.
There was a huge explosion from the camp. She could hear screams above the roars and the shouts. Another straggler ahead. A woman. Valkyrie hit her so hard the woman flipped over as she fell.
Then she plunged into the battle.
Gunfire and screams assaulted her ears. Men and women fought and cursed and stabbed and shot each other. Enemy Cleavers cleared spaces with whirling scythes. Someone crashed into her just as an energy stream passed where she’d been standing. She glimpsed his face. What was his name? Threatening? That was it, Threatening. Threatening got up, gun in hand, shooting a man who ran at him. The bullets hit armour, didn’t slow him down, and Threatening dropped the gun and went for his sword and the man stuck a blade in Threatening’s throat and left him to die.
Valkyrie sent a wave of shadows crashing into the man who’d killed him. Her stick flashed as she struck another enemy mage and he crumpled.
She saw Dai Maybury scrambling backwards, trying to get away from a big man with a black beard and a huge axe. She sprinted towards them, pushed at the air. The big man staggered and she lashed him with shadows that drew blood across his face. Snarling, the big man swung his axe for Valkyrie’s head and she stumbled, lost her momentum, managed to dodge a second swing, but he caught her with his free hand. She whirled and sat down with a bump, the left side of her face stinging. Dai rejoined the fight and the big man lost interest in her, so she sat there, dazed, while people died all around.
Let me out.
Figuring she’d probably do better on her feet, she stood and looked around. So many people fighting. How did they even know which opponent to pick? Was there a system for that kind of thing? Did people with swords go for people with swords? Did people go for opponents their own size? How did they even know who was an enemy, in the dark and the chaos? The whole thing seemed astonishingly unfair.
You’re panicking. You tend to fixate on irrelevant details when you panic. Have you noticed this?
A sword came for her, flashing in the moonlight. She brought her left arm up to meet it, felt the jolt through the gauntlet. She’d barely deflected that strike. This wasn’t like in training. Her blocks needed to be a lot stronger.
The man with the sword swung again. Valkyrie slipped on something and fell, rolled, came up, blocked. She lunged into him, headbutted his chest. He grunted and stepped back and she flicked her stick at his head. There was a bright blue spark and he howled, wheeled, the sword falling from his grip. She hit him on the arm and he collapsed to the ground, jerking like he’d been electrocuted.
A sun exploded in front of her and she flew backwards, hit someone and they both went down. She blinked but couldn’t see, felt hands on her, didn’t know whose they were so she found the face and hit it. She got an elbow in the mouth for her trouble and her lip burst. She snarled, found an eye and jabbed at it with her thumb. She heard a scream and pushed him off, stumbled away, her vision returning. Something hit her shoulder and spun her, then hit her back and she landed face down in the dirt. Someone ran by, tripped over her, kicking her in the head on the way down. She blinked again. The world was blurry but getting clearer. Among all the shouts and yells and running footsteps, she picked out the footsteps that were coming for her and she rolled on to her back.
A sorcerer let loose with a dazzling energy stream that would have burrowed through her belly were it not for her jacket. She swept her arm towards him, her shadows slicing through the backs of his legs. He screamed and fell and she dived on him. They went rolling, cursing and biting and snarling. They came to a stop with Valkyrie on the bottom, his weight on her, spittle spraying from his mouth and his hand crackling with energy.
He’s going to kill you. Let me out.
Valkyrie clutched at the air and her stick slid into her hand. She jammed it into his ribs and he convulsed so violently he practically leaped sideways. She rolled the other way, clicking her fingers and hurling a fireball into the helmet of a Cleaver fighting a mage she knew. She went low, her stick cracking into his knee. He jerked back but didn’t fall. His uniform protected him.
His scythe scraped against her gauntlet and he whirled, kicked her, sent her stumbling over the body of a woman. He jumped at her and she pushed at the air, but he passed through it and she pushed at the air again and sent herself sliding along the grass. He sprinted after her as she got to her feet, wobbling slightly. She swept her hands in and up and a gust of wind lifted her. She hurtled diagonally away, not caring where she landed until she hit the ground and lost her stick and rolled to a stop, gasping for breath. Her hair was in her face and the blood was sticking it to her lips. She raised her head, gazed at what she could see of the battle, saw a big man with a black beard and a huge axe striding towards her.
Strong legs in brown leather stepped between them. A sword caught the flashing lights prettily.
The big man swung that axe and Tanith moved under it, cut his hands off. The hands fell, still clutching the axe, and the big man’s eyes widened and he started hollering. Someone picked Valkyrie off the ground, put the stick back in her hand. It took her a moment to realise that Sanguine was beside her.
A bullet hit her shoulder and she winced, turned to watch three mages run at her. The woman in front reloaded as she ran, Sanguine moving to intercept. He dived on her and the ground swallowed them. The second mage faltered, then a hand burst from the ground, grabbed his ankle and yanked him down beneath the surface. The third mage had fireballs in his hands and he was hopping from one place to the other, screaming at Sanguine to bring his friends back. Sanguine rose up behind him, grabbed him and snapped his neck.
Tanith was suddenly beside Valkyrie, looking into her eyes. “You OK? Val? You hurt?”
“No,” Valkyrie managed to say.
“Can you fight?”
No, she wanted to say. No I can’t fight. Take me away from this. Please God, take me away. Instead, she said, “Yes.”
Tanith gave her a wicked grin, and leaped at the nearest Cleaver.
Valkyrie brushed the hair from her eyes and turned in a circle. Everywhere around her people were fighting. She watched a woman fighting a sorcerer she knew. The woman gripped the collar of his coat and yanked it down, and steel flashed in her hand as she plunged a
small blade into his throat. The sorcerer toppled, the woman staying close all the way down. When he went limp, she picked up her sword, looked around, saw Valkyrie. She ran at her.
Valkyrie pushed at the air, but the woman dodged to one side, came up and ducked the shadows that came after. Cursing, Valkyrie fell back, using her stick and gauntlet to defend against that swinging sword. The woman’s face was covered in blood, but her eyes were clear and bright and terrible. The woman brought the sword down heavily, but Valkyrie held the stick in both hands, planted her feet wide and blocked upwards, just as strong. And then the woman kicked her between the legs.
Blinding pain shot through Valkyrie’s body and she curled up, dropped to the ground and fell sideways.
The woman crouched over her, the tip of her sword pressing into Valkyrie’s neck. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” she said, panting for breath. “People think it’s just guys that works on. If only, right?”
Valkyrie’s eyes were filled with tears, and every muscle was seized in pain. She couldn’t even whimper.
“Ashione,” a man barked. He stood over them, keeping an eye out. He was old but solid, and carried a short sword that dripped with blood. “Do the job and stop talking about it.”
The woman, Ashione, nodded to him, then looked down at Valkyrie. “War’s no place for a girl,” she said, and hit her with the hilt of the sword and the world went black.
hastly hunkered down in the darkness, eyes on the two shapes moving towards him. He could hear their footsteps from here – every scuff and stumble and kicked pebble. Their whispers drifted by on the breeze – harsh words and abject apologies. When they were close enough, Ghastly stood.
“Over here,” he said quietly.
Scapegrace jumped in shock and Thrasher gave a muffled cry of horror. For some reason they were both wearing masks. There was someone else with them, too, someone Ghastly hadn’t noticed before. An old Chinese man in a bathrobe. He, too, wore a mask.
Scapegrace hurried over. He wasn’t wearing anything too revealing. For this, Ghastly was thankful, yet also strangely disappointed.
“Elder Bespoke,” Scapegrace whispered. “We came as fast as we could, but we doubled back a few times to make sure we weren’t being followed, so that may have delayed us. I hope you weren’t waiting long, but you can never put too high a price on security, that’s what I always say.”
“Why are you wearing masks?”
“In case we’re recognised. We’re wanted men in this town. Our never-ending war against darkness recently ended, but we have made some serious enemies.”
Thrasher stepped up. “Excuse me? Elder Bespoke? Where’s the force field?”
“Right in front of you,” said Ghastly.
Thrasher started to raise his hand.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Ghastly warned.
Thrasher’s arm lowered, but Scapegrace gave him a push and Thrasher hit the force field with a sharp crack of energy that launched him backwards.
“Wow,” said Scapegrace, as Thrasher sprawled to a groaning stop.
“The force field covers the whole town and a lot more besides,” said Ghastly. “It’s a particularly nasty one, as you can see, which is why we need you to deactivate it on your side.”
“Of course,” said Scapegrace.
“First thing to do is find the sigil. It’ll be carved on to something solid, and it’ll be glowing.”
Scapegrace went hunting through the undergrowth, and Ravel and Shudder walked up behind Ghastly.
“Any luck?” Ravel asked.
“We’ve just started,” said Ghastly.
The old Chinese man stood on the other side of the force field, smiling at them.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” said Ravel.
“My name is Ping,” the old man said. “I am romantically involved with Miss Scapegrace.”
Ghastly raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“It is not,” Thrasher said, struggling to sit up.
Ping nodded. “We are very, very happy together. Waiting for the big, stupid man to move out.”
“That’s never going to happen,” Thrasher said, trying to stand on trembling legs.
“Found it!” Scapegrace said, jumping up excitedly. “It’s carved into the back of this rock!”
Ghastly and Ravel watched him jiggle for a moment. “Good,” said Ghastly. “This next part is trickier. You’re going to have to follow my instructions exactly, understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Scapegrace.
“OK. Press your fingertip to the centre of the sigil, just where it starts to loop. Got that? Now slowly move your finger down at a forty-five-degree angle …”
It took twenty minutes and dozens of attempts, but finally that small section of the force field retracted. Ravel gave a sharp gesture and suddenly Cleavers detached themselves from the shadows around them and marched through the gap, three abreast, 114 in all. The two Australian mages followed, and when Shudder and Ravel were through, Ghastly reactivated the force field and turned to see Scapegrace standing right there.
“I’ve been keeping an eye out,” he said. “I saw Madame Mist. She vanished.”
“What do you mean?”
“Vanished. Disappeared. Shunted.”
Ghastly frowned. “You saw this?”
“Yes, sir. I thought it was odd so here I am, reporting it.”
“Well, that’s … That’s good to know. Thank you.”
“Sir, yes, sir. Also there was a dog-creature, but I took care of that. Orders, sir?”
“Uh, well, to be honest, I think your work is done for tonight. You should go home and recuperate.”
Scapegrace looked dismayed. “But we’re here to help.”
“You have helped. But things could get messy in a few minutes, and I need to know we have back-up waiting should we need it.”
“I’m your back-up?”
“Yes. Yes you are.”
“Because I’ve been training in the fighting arts. Master Ping has been training me.”
“That’s good to know.”
“I think he loves me a little bit, though.”
“I may have noticed that, yes. Go home, Scapegrace. If we need you, we’ll call.”
Scapegrace bowed, then twirled round and darted into the night. Thrasher ran after him, and Ping shuffled after them both. What an odd group.
They moved slowly through Roarhaven, careful not to be seen. The closer they got to the Sanctuary, the more uneasy Ghastly became. The town was quiet, like it was holding its breath.
Two mages guarded the entrance. Ravel sent a pair of Cleavers to incapacitate them. Ghastly drew his gun, and led the way inside. It was unnaturally still. Zathract and Nixion took off down one corridor, taking half the Cleavers with them. The rest of the Cleavers stayed with Ghastly and Ravel and Shudder, as they made their way through to the heart of the Sanctuary. Any mages they encountered along the way were taken down by non-lethal means. Until they got to the bottom of whatever was going on, the Roarhaven mages were being treated as potential hostiles. There’d be no killing them. Not yet.
A figure lurched from the shadows and Ghastly spun, but it was China Sorrows who fell into his arms.
“Just the man I wanted to see,” she mumbled. “You don’t have your sewing kit on you, by any chance …?”
Her clothes were dirty and torn and stained with blood. She was hurt, and exhausted and even paler than usual.
“What happened?” asked Ghastly.
She rested her head against his chest and closed her eyes, but she smiled with cracked lips. “What didn’t? I’ve been … hunted from one side of this country to the other. Thought I could make it alone, but no … no woman is an island.”
“How did you get through the force field?”
She smiled a pale smile. “No sigil can stop me.”
Ghastly lifted her, passed her into a Cleaver’s arms. “Take her to the Medical Bay. Find someone to treat her. Force them.” The Cleaver
nodded and moved away, carrying China as if she were as light as a feather.
They continued on. Ravel posted guards at every doorway they passed. By the time they reached the Round Room, there were twenty Cleavers left.
Ghastly rested his hand on the door, and looked at Ravel. “Ready?” he whispered.
Ravel glanced at Shudder, then looked at Ghastly. He took a deep breath, and nodded. Ghastly pushed the doors open and strode in, Ravel and Shudder on either side of him and the Cleavers spilling in behind.
Ahead of them, Madame Mist stood with Portia and Syc and two other Children of the Spider, people Ghastly recognised as the Scourge and the Terror. None of them looked remotely surprised to see them.
“The warriors return,” said Syc, giving a little laugh.
“Cleavers,” Ghastly said, “arrest Elder Mist and her friends.”
“On what grounds?” Mist asked, her voice unhurried. The Cleavers didn’t move. Any action taken against an Elder would have to be ordered by the Grand Mage himself. “We have done nothing but keep the home fires burning.”
“And the force field?” Shudder asked.
“I thought it prudent, with General Mantis still out there. Was I wrong? Should I not have worried?”
“You sent your people to kill us,” said Ghastly. “For a second time, I might add.”
“My people? My people are here with me. Were you attacked by any one of them? Were you attacked by a Child of the Spider?”
Her tone was low, mocking, and completely confident. Ghastly didn’t like it. She was completely outnumbered, but acting like she was the one with the upper hand. He pressed a finger to his headset.
“Nixion,” he said. “Status?”