The Dying of the Light

by Derek Landy

  “You’ll die wondering,” said Saracen from above.

  “I like your optimism,” Darquesse responded. “But you all know I can kill you with a click of my fingers.”

  “So click,” said Skulduggery.

  Darquesse smiled.

  Figures blurred past Valkyrie, forcing a startled cry from her lips. She hadn’t even heard them run up, and here they were, leaping off the edge of the building, diving gracefully into the square, spinning to land silently on their feet.

  The vampires fell upon Darquesse. They may not have been as savagely powerful as their night-time selves, but they were strong and agile, and proved enough of a distraction to make Darquesse forget about clicking her fingers. There were twelve of them, twelve or fifteen, it was hard to count they were moving so fast. Darquesse lashed out, caught two of them by pure chance, but the others weren’t giving her time to get her bearings. She backed off, the vampires a constant whirling threat, avoiding her grabs and smacking her hands down when she raised them. Skulduggery went with them, jabbing at her with the sword whenever a space opened up.

  Valkyrie’s attention was diverted by the cracks in the ground behind Darquesse, cracks that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

  Darquesse took another step backwards and Billy-Ray Sanguine reached up, grabbed her ankles, pulled her into the ground, down to her knees. The vampires broke off on cue and Skulduggery brought the sword down in an overhead swing—

  —and Darquesse raised a hand and the sword hit an invisible barrier, centimetres from her skull.

  Valkyrie’s eyes widened. Suddenly she could see the magic. Everyone in that square had an aura around them.

  The vampires shone with a dull, pale blue. Saracen was surrounded by a deep purple, and Ravel by a strong shade of orange. Darquesse had a silver light that shone from deep within her, and it was this silver light that the sword was pressing against, trying to break through.

  Skulduggery Pleasant burned with a brilliant red.

  As Valkyrie watched, entranced by this new facet of her power, the silver light wrapped round the sword and she was about to cry out, to warn Skulduggery, when the blade shattered. Darquesse grabbed him, threw him into Saracen just as he was about to let loose another arrow. The vampires renewed their attack, but Darquesse was ready for them. The silver light pulsed and three vampires exploded into nothingness.

  No, that wasn’t quite right. Valkyrie could still see their swirling colours, now without physical forms to inhabit – their magic, their energy, feeding back into the world in a continuous stream of life and death. She looked at her own hand, turning it, mesmerised by the new brilliance that shone through her skin from within. She could almost see her veins, her capillaries, the bones of her fingers … and then Darquesse flew by and knocked her off her feet. She went rolling across the roof, and when she stopped her hand was normal and the brilliant colours were gone.

  She looked up as Darquesse flew in great loops and steep dives, trying to outrun the two arrows that chased her. Skulduggery lifted Saracen, dropped him to the roof and he nocked an arrow and let it fly. This arrow went at Darquesse from another angle and she barely avoided it. It swerved when it missed, joined the other two in pursuit. Darquesse flew straight up, into the clouds. The arrows followed.

  Ravel landed nearby in a gust of wind, helped Valkyrie to her feet before she even knew what was happening. She shook his hand off, but she doubted he noticed. He stood with Skulduggery and Saracen, peering up, as if he were still part of the team.

  Skulduggery looked back at her. “Your turn’s coming up.”

  Valkyrie nodded. The fear she felt was not just in anticipation of the conflict with Darquesse, it was also about the fact that her life now lay in the hands of the two most incompetent zombies who had ever died.

  75

  Scapegrace fought well.

  In his imagination, he fought well. He ducked and whirled and countered and parried and thrust. In his imagination, the sword was an extension of his arm, and he was magnificent.

  In reality, things weren’t quite so impressive.

  He swung his sword a hundred times and a hundred times the Guardian wasn’t there any more. A step to the side or a step backwards or a step forward, and Scapegrace would miss and go stumbling and the Guardian would then turn to Thrasher and fend off his ridiculous attacks. Compared to this porcelain-faced stranger, they were clumsy idiots who didn’t know what the hell they were doing.

  But then, compared to anyone, they were clumsy idiots who didn’t know what the hell they were doing.

  But Scapegrace didn’t give up. He couldn’t. His sword clanged against the Guardian’s. This wasn’t about him any more. He knew how pathetic he was. He could see through all of his past delusions. He was a joke. A punchline. But so what? None of it mattered. What mattered was winning. What mattered was helping Valkyrie Cain save the world.

  He turned again as Thrasher distracted the Guardian. Maybe this was his chance. Now, while the Guardian’s back was turned, while he was busy fighting Thrasher. Was it heroic, to stab an opponent in the back? Not in the slightest, but then Scapegrace wasn’t a hero. He was just a man, doing what he could to help others. He started forward, and then the Guardian plunged his sword through Thrasher’s head.

  “No!” Scapegrace shrieked as Thrasher crumpled, the sword still lodged in his skull. Blind rage seized Scapegrace’s mind and suddenly he was throwing his own sword down and diving at the Guardian.

  They rolled across the ground, but Scapegrace was the first up, his teeth gritted, hatred burning in his eyes. Again and again, his fist came down on the Guardian’s unbreakable face. He tried to keep the anger going, tried to draw strength from it, but he was weak and getting weaker. It was as if Thrasher, that idiot Thrasher, had been his strength all along, and now that he was lost …

  Scapegrace fell back into a sitting position. The Guardian lay there, looking at him. Then he sat up.

  “You have passed the final test,” he said.

  Scapegrace didn’t care.

  “The skeleton began the trials,” the Guardian continued. “He was told the first test was a test of purity. But all the tests have been tests of purity. You have passed the most important test of all. You are pure of heart, Vaurien Scapegrace.”

  “Thrasher was pure of heart. Not me. I’m selfish, and mean, and stupid. What about me is pure, eh? If you think you can see something pure in me, you tell me what it is.”

  “I can see into your soul,” said the Guardian. “The things you say about yourself are true. But the pure of heart rise from humble beginnings. Sometimes all you need is one single moment to redeem yourself.”

  “And I had that, did I?”

  “You had. You had a moment of pure compassion. It was fleeting. In fact, I almost missed it. But it was there. In that moment, thinking about your friend, you were pure of heart. And now the sigil is yours to activate.”

  The Guardian opened his robes. A light burned where his heart should have been. Without even being told, Scapegrace knew what to do. He reached for that light, felt the warmth on his dead skin, and seized it. The light flared, spreading through hidden veins in the Guardian’s face, and got so bright Scapegrace had to look away. When it faded, and he looked back, his hand was empty and the Guardian was gone. The hourglass turned slowly, and sand began to flow.

  “I did it,” Scapegrace said. “I … I did it.”

  From behind him, the weakest of voices. “I always … knew you would, Master …”

  Scapegrace spun round to his hands and knees, crawled quickly over to where Thrasher lay. He took Thrasher’s hand, held it tightly.

  “It has been an … honour … serving you, sir,” Thrasher said.

  “Oh, you idiot, what have you done?”

  “I seem to have a … a sword stuck through my brain, sir. That’s … that’s not good, is it?”

  “It isn’t.”

  “I thought as much. Master … there are some things I wish
to say …”

  “Call me Vaurien.”

  Thrasher’s eyes blinked back tears that would never fall. “Vaurien,” he breathed. “What a beautiful name.”

  “Thank you, Gerald.”

  A peaceful smile blossomed. “Vaurien, until I met you, my life was … unexceptional. I was a lonely man. I had no friends. I had no … one.”

  “Hush, Gerald,” said Scapegrace. “Save your strength.”

  “I must speak, Vaurien. I have so much to say, so little … time. I met you and my life … ended. And yet … it began.”

  “Oh, God …”

  “I’ve never been a brave person,” said Thrasher. “I’ve never seen myself as being worthy of the things other people take for … for granted. Of being liked. Of being loved. But Vaurien, you … you make me brave.”

  “I treated you terribly.”

  A soft chuckle. “You did.”

  “I insulted you, I treated you like a fool. I should have valued every moment with you.”

  “I valued our moments enough … for both of us. I … oh, Vaurien, I feel myself slipping …”

  “Hold on, Gerald. I’ll get help, I’ll—”

  “It’s too late for me, my master. But I want you to know that I will always be with you … I will always be right …” – he raised his hand, and his finger tapped against Scapegrace’s chest – “… here …”

  Despite himself, Scapegrace smiled. “You’re quoting from ET at a time like this?”

  “I love that movie,” Thrasher said, his voice no more than a whisper. “But I love you … more.”

  And then his eyes closed, and he went limp.

  Scapegrace’s body was incapable of producing tears, but he cried nonetheless. He cried for his friend, his companion, for the one person who always stuck by him, no matter what. He cried for the man Gerald had been, the man he had become, and the man he would now never be. And he cried for himself, for the loneliness that was now gripping what was left of his heart, a heart that didn’t beat, suddenly realising that if by some miracle it started to pump blood once again, it would have probably beaten for Gerald.

  Scapegrace got up slowly, seized the hilt of the Guardian’s sword, and with great effort he pulled the blade from the head of his friend.

  Immediately, Thrasher opened his eyes. “Oh. I think that did it.”

  Scapegrace yelped, dropping the blade as he jumped back.

  Thrasher sat up. “These new brains are remarkable,” he said. “I suppose there’s something to be said for having the brain of a vegetable after all, eh?”

  Scapegrace stared as Thrasher got to his feet. The idiot grinned at him.

  “Those were some pretty nice things you were saying to me. Maybe we needed this. From this moment on, Vaurien, maybe we can be equals? If we’re careful, we have a hundred lifetimes to look forward—”

  “Shut up.”

  Thrasher blinked. “Vaurien?”

  “You call me Master. I was just being nice to you because I thought you were dying.”

  “I was dying.”

  “You’re not any more. Now you’re just an idiot with a hole through his head.”

  “But … all those things you said to me … You called me Gerald.”

  “Gerald is a stupid name for a zombie. Your name is Thrasher. Your name will always be Thrasher.”

  Thrasher slumped. “Yes, sir.”

  “Now give me the map. I’m getting out of here.”

  “Uh … sir?”

  Scapegrace looked up, and froze. They were surrounded by blurred figures, their faces indistinct and their shapes hazy. Ghosts.

  Two people, two solid people, stepped to the front. They were dressed like the Guardian, with robes and porcelain masks.

  “We have been waiting for you,” said the first of them. He spoke with a Scottish accent. “I am the Inquisitor. You have proved yourself worthy and you are, of course, entitled to leave Meryyn ta Uul at your discretion. Before you do, however, I beg a moment of your time.”

  Scapegrace glanced at Thrasher. “OK. Sure. What can I do for you?”

  The Inquisitor’s porcelain face appeared hopeful. “You are a Zombie King, are you not?”

  “I used to be,” said Scapegrace.

  “He still is,” said Thrasher.

  “I gave that up,” Scapegrace insisted. “Now I’m just me again. Just normal old me. I’m no Zombie King. Not really. I don’t think I ever was.”

  “But we need you to be,” said the Inquisitor. “We have been waiting for one such as you. We have been waiting centuries.”

  Scapegrace frowned. “For me? Why?”

  The Inquisitor spread his arms wide. “This is Meryyn ta Uul. The City Below. The Necropolis. The City of the Dead. Down here, the dead number in their hundreds of thousands. The others are watching us even now, waiting for me to ask.”

  “To ask what?”

  “To ask you to be our King.”

  Scapegrace blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “A Zombie King is but one name for a King of the Dead. We need you here, my lord. I beseech you. Rule over us. We are yours to command.”

  “Seriously?”

  Thrasher stepped closer. “What about Clarabelle?” he whispered in Scapegrace’s ear. “We told her we’d go back for her. She’s waiting for us.”

  Scapegrace nodded. “That’s right. Listen, Mr Inquisitor, we have a friend, and she needs us right now.”

  “We need you more.”

  “We made a promise, though.”

  “A promise to the living is a meaningless thing,” the Inquisitor said. “Our oath of servitude to you, however, would be eternal.”

  Scapegrace hesitated. Eternity was a mighty long time. And to rule down here, to take on something as important as the mantle of King of the Dead … that was something he’d never even considered possible.

  But to do so would be to abandon Clarabelle, and he could no more do that than he could cut off his own arm. Although he could probably have cut off his own arm relatively easily.

  “Some day,” he said. “When my work in the world of the living is done, when they need me no longer, I will return here. This I vow to you.”

  The Inquisitor bowed. All the ghosts bowed.

  “As you command, my lord.”

  Scapegrace nodded to them all and, with Thrasher at his heels, he walked away with as much imperial majesty as he could muster.

  76

  Darquesse had gone through them like they weren’t even there.

  She’d taken out Saracen first. Those arrows had been getting too close, so she’d dumped a wall on him. He lay there now, his bones broken. Valkyrie didn’t know if he were alive or dead.

  Darquesse had killed or injured whatever sorcerers, vampires and Cleavers leaped at her next, and then she’d gone after Skulduggery. Valkyrie had watched it from her hiding place. He’d jabbed, swung and thrust with what remained of the sword, and Darquesse played with him long enough for her own amusement, then she’d torn the sword from his grip and hit him so hard Valkyrie hadn’t even seen where he’d landed. Darquesse used the sword to kill a few Cleavers, then Solomon Wreath sprang at her from the shadows.

  Darquesse had slashed him diagonally from the hip to the shoulder, and his body came apart in a violent display of blood and innards. Valkyrie’s hand had gone to her mouth to stop herself from crying out. When Solomon’s remains had settled on the ground, Darquesse discarded the sword and had gone after Ravel. And what had Ravel done?

  He had thrown down the spear, and he had run.

  Darquesse’s laughter reached Valkyrie, and it beckoned her.

  She couldn’t stand by any longer. She didn’t think the Meryyn Sigil had activated yet – she certainly didn’t feel any different anyway – but she couldn’t keep hiding, not when there were so many people risking and giving their lives to buy her time. She watched a lone Cleaver attack Darquesse. She watched his scythe burst apart and his legs snap. He fell into the dirt and the rubble o
f the street and Darquesse walked over to him to finish the job with her bare hands.

  Screw this.

  Valkyrie slipped out of her hiding place, ran across the rooftop. It was a long way down and she jumped.

  While she fell, she focused on her magic, focused on the energy inside her, tried to summon the barrier that would protect her when she landed, the cushion of light that had made her bounce off the tree by the roadside.

  But nothing happened.

  She could feel the magic, it crackled between her fingertips, but she didn’t know how to summon it or control it and now she was dropping towards certain, stupid death and she was going to die and her tattoo began to burn—

  And she landed on her feet and her bones didn’t break.

  She straightened up, peeked inside her jacket. The sigil glowed on her arm. She was invulnerable. Cool.

  She reached out with her hand and then reached out with her magic, and white lightning sprang from her fingers and hit Darquesse, made her stumble.

  The injured Cleaver forgotten about, Darquesse whirled, and her look of anger became a look of curiosity.

  “Well now,” she said. “Look who’s got herself a whole new bag of tricks.”

  “Damn right,” said Valkyrie, striding towards her.

  “What are you, an energy thrower? Your magic is bubbling and boiling inside you. I can see it from here. It’s impressive. It’s … different. You’re not just an energy thrower, are you? There’s something else. Your magic is purer than …” Darquesse frowned. “What are you?”

  “I’m stronger than you.”

  “Well,” Darquesse said, smiling, “we’ll see about that.”

  She hit Valkyrie full force and a thousand suns exploded behind her eyes, and when Valkyrie’s brain came back online a moment later she was tumbling backwards down the street. She came to a sprawling, ungraceful stop beside a parked car, and waited for her head to clear. Apparently being invulnerable didn’t mean that she couldn’t feel pain. Good to know.

  Valkyrie stood, rubbing her jaw.

  “You’re not this powerful,” Darquesse said, walking after her. “You may have got your fancy new magic, but you can’t be this strong. They’ve done something to you, haven’t they? Have they boosted you? Did you finally step into the Accelerator? Did it drive you insane?”