Last Stand of Dead Men

by Derek Landy

  One of the men had sneaked round behind the cottage. She saw him waddling behind an old tractor, trying to keep out of sight, and she pushed herself up and ran for him. He peeked out, saw her coming and his eyes widened. He jerked his gun-hand up, but she pushed at the air and he went backwards. She crashed into him as he tumbled, both of them fighting for control of the gun. She held it away from her and he fired – a gunshot so loud it almost deafened her. She hit with her elbow, again and again, and when she hit him hard enough to knock him out she hauled herself off, and realised she was holding his gun.

  Skulduggery was walking and shooting, his revolver in a two-handed grip. Bullets whipped by him and energy streams sizzled. He responded to each one in turn, firing methodically. Valkyrie saw a big guy go down, caught dead centre in the chest. A smaller guy opened up with eyeblasts. Skulduggery spun behind an old trailer, reloaded and leaned out, one-handed, squeezed off a shot that flipped the guy over backwards like some kind of acrobat. For Skulduggery, killing was easy.

  Valkyrie threw her gun down, clicking her fingers and summoning fireballs into her hands. She hurled them as she sprinted, keeping a man pinned behind a van. She was very calm as she moved to his position. She could feel the blood coursing and the energy flowing – she was practically high on adrenaline – but her mind was a calm place of practical things. One step after another. No panicking. Haste makes waste. Use the fireballs to get in close.

  The man stepped out and she whipped the shadows at him, sent them slicing into his arm. He dropped his gun and she clicked her fingers, threw a fireball at his legs, then seized hold of the air as he screeched and yanked him off his feet. He hit the cottage wall face first.

  She turned to see Skulduggery dismantle a fat guy with bad hair. He was unconscious even before he started to topple, and Skulduggery was already darting to his next target.

  Something thumped Valkyrie in the chest and she stepped back. Another bullet whizzed by her ear. A third struck her shoulder. She didn’t even know who the hell was shooting her. She should have ducked, dodged, done something, but instead she glared, searching for the shooter. She saw him, crouched and firing with a startled look on his face, wondering why she wasn’t going down. He shifted his aim and fired at her head, obviously figuring it out.

  Move, you stupid girl, said the voice in the back of her mind.

  She moved. He kept firing. Hitting someone in the head was not an easy thing to do. Hitting a moving target in the head was even harder. He emptied his gun and threw it down, fired an energy stream that missed, then ran at her. She ran at him. Dumb thing to do. He was a grown man. They collided and he flung her right over his shoulder. She crunched to the ground, tried to roll to her knees, but he grabbed her head from behind, dragged her backwards. Valkyrie wriggled and kicked, scratched at his hands, tried bending one of his fingers back. He let go and dumped her, dropped to his knee and his fist came down on her cheek. There was that moment of disorientation that comes with being hit hard, and then he was pulling her hair, lifting her painfully so he could slip an arm round her throat, the opening move to a neck-break.

  Let me out. I can help. Let me out.

  She turned her head away, tucked her chin down, dug her fingers into his arm and brought her feet in. She got purchase then pushed, heard him grunt as they went backwards. He lost his hold and she was free. They got to their knees at the same time and she hit him, caught him in the hinge of his jaw. Lucky shot. He stopped himself from collapsing, but his face went slack. She threw herself back, giving herself room to swing her leg. She had good legs. She had good, long, strong legs. Her boot smashed into him and he went down and didn’t get up.

  She looked round. Skulduggery strolled towards her. Everything was suddenly quiet and still and peaceful. Valkyrie’s chest and shoulder ached. The left side of her face had that dull, not unpleasant buzz of oncoming numbness. Her left eye was beginning to close as it started to swell. She could smell cordite. The smell of gunfire and carnage.

  Skulduggery’s revolver drifted through the air into his gloved hand, and he put it away.

  “We’re at war?” she asked.

  “So it would seem,” he said.

  “They were trying to kill us. Yesterday they would have been on our side. What do we do now?”

  “First, we shackle the ones who are still alive. Then I get my hat back. And then we drive to Roarhaven and hope nobody we know has been killed in the meantime.”

  he meeting was already under way by the time Illori Reticent stepped into the room. Palaver Graves heard the door close and glanced back, a shallow smile on his narrow face. She ignored him, focusing instead on adjusting her robes. The Elders from the other Sanctuaries couldn’t see her yet, but she could see them. They were all here, Elders from the fourteen Sanctuaries who had made up the initial Supreme Council, before it had grown even bigger. The sigils that were glowing on the walls generated what were officially known as Incorporeal Visitations. These days, even though it had nothing to do with light manipulation, everyone used the mortal term holograms. It was just easier.

  Illori stepped up beside Grand Mage Cothernus Ode, and her image appeared in twenty-three rooms just like this one around the world.

  “They’ve already raised their shield,” the German Grand Mage, Wahrheit, was saying. “From initial scans, it appears to run the entire length of the Irish coastline and forms a dome two kilometres high.”

  Renato Bisahalani, the American Grand Mage, nodded. They had expected this. “No matter. We have one hundred and thirty-two operatives in Ireland already, all briefed and ready for the go-ahead. Everything is going according to plan.”

  “It’s one thing to make plans,” said Kribu, the head of the Estonian Sanctuary. “Quite another to go to war. The world has changed. We are a global community, and yet we have just ordered friend to attack friend? We have fought by the side of the Irish mages since before the war with Mevolent.”

  “And so we know their weaknesses,” said Bisahalani.

  “As they know ours.”

  “They have one single Sanctuary,” Ode said, and all eyes shifted to the source of his deep, rumbling voice. “We already have another nine Sanctuaries willing to add their might to ours. They’re not going to hold out for long.”

  “You seem to be forgetting that Ireland is a Cradle of Magic,” said Kribu.

  “Not at all – but I don’t view Cradles with the same superstitious awe as the rest of you. They’re stronger, yes, but not by much. And twenty-two Sanctuaries against one Cradle will crush them no matter how strong they are.”

  “And how about twenty-two Sanctuaries against three Cradles?” Kribu asked, her voice calm. “If Australia and Africa get involved—”

  “Why would they? This has got nothing to do with them. They’re stable and they always have been.” Ode shook his head. “Ireland is a mess. One catastrophe after another. They will understand that this needs to be done.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard,” said Kribu. “I’ve heard that the Australians have told their sorcerers that an attack against one Cradle is an attack against them all.”

  “Grand Mage Karrik is not so naive,” Bisahalani said. “He’s not going to plunge headlong into a conflict if he can help it. He’s going to observe the situation, make some noise and delay as much as possible. He’ll be praying that we finish the job before he has to make any kind of decision.”

  “And Ubuntu? You realise that he and Eachan Meritorious were close friends, yes?”

  “And if Meritorious were still alive, that might be a problem for us. Ubuntu is like Karrik – he’ll say things to save face, but eventually, if he has to side with someone, he’ll side with us. You think they don’t agree with our view on this? You think they don’t share our concerns? Of course they do.”

  “And what about the legal implications?” asked the Russian Grand Mage, a big man called Dragunov.

  “Ireland cannot be allowed to hide behind a rule that was agreed upon
to fulfil another purpose,” said Ode. “The rule-makers didn’t foresee a situation like this arising. No one did.”

  People started speaking over each other until Illori cut through them. “My friends,” she said, “we can debate these matters for the rest of the night, but nothing will change the fact that we are at war, and we have already acted. We must press forward. If we can make the Irish Sanctuary falter before it’s even taken its first steps, victory will be swift.”

  Wahrheit looked at her. “You’re talking about the plan to take out the leaders.”

  “Not only the Council,” said Illori, “but other sorcerers of note also. If Ravel and his Elders are dead, the Irish will look to Skulduggery Pleasant for leadership, or Dexter Vex, or any one of the Dead Men. They will look to their heroes – so it is the heroes who must fall first.”

  “We’ve already given Gepard the green light to kill Pleasant and Cain,” said Zafira Kerias. “We haven’t heard from him since.”

  “Then we had better assume he failed,” said Illori. “Annoying, but not unexpected. I also propose the elimination of China Sorrows. By all accounts, her influence has been weakened of late, but she is still too unpredictable to have running loose.”

  “Kill China Sorrows?” Mandat said, quite visibly alarmed. “I … I’m not sure that this is the wisest course of action. Mademoiselle Sorrows could be a valuable resource to … tap. She … I could hold her, if you want, here in France. Question her. I could—”

  “Grand Mage Mandat, please stop embarrassing yourself,” Bisahalani said. “As it stands, our plan is to get as many of our people through that shield as possible. We have General Mantis ready to travel to Ireland to take command of our troops on the ground. When our forces have massed, we march on Roarhaven, subdue the populace, and take control.”

  “You make it sound so easy,” said Kribu.

  “I am under no illusion. But we will seek every advantage where we can. Grand Mage Ode, I believe you have something to add to this?”

  Ode looked at Illori, and she spoke up. “Grand Mages, Elders, one of the first groups we must target is the Sensitives. This will both cut the less traditional means of communication and foil any future-reading. Sensitives are not combative by nature, however, and so we may find it difficult to find sorcerers willing to deal with … soft targets, I believe the phrase is.”

  “With good reason,” Kribu said. “You’re talking about murder.”

  “I realise that,” Illori said. “In which case, I suggest we send mercenaries.”

  Mandat frowned. “What mercenaries?”

  “Unpleasant ones. They’re Irish, though, so they stand a better chance of remaining unnoticed while they track their targets.”

  “And you don’t think they’ll switch sides and join their fellow countrymen?” Wahrheit asked.

  “Vincent Foe leads a small group of nihilists who would really like to destroy the world,” Illori explained. “While they’re waiting for their chance, however, they accept jobs like this for money. They have no loyalty to anyone except each other, and even then their loyalty only stretches so far. At the moment Mr Foe’s colleagues are languishing in prison thanks to Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain, but if I give the word, they will be mysteriously freed. Providing no one here has any objection to this course of action?”

  Illori looked at Kribu, and watched her jaw tighten. Targeting the Sensitives was a sickening but necessary move. There’d be time enough to feel bad when all this was over.

  “Very well,” she said, when no one objected.

  “Grand Mage Bisahalani,” said Ode, “the last time we spoke in private we discussed a certain …”

  “Yes,” said Bisahalani, “of course.”

  Wahrheit did not look happy. “Private discussions are not part of the Supreme Council’s agenda, gentlemen. Please – elaborate.”

  Bisahalani clasped his hands behind his back, the way he always did when he was about to discuss unpleasantness. “There is a single individual capable of turning the tide of this war in whichever direction he chooses. Unfortunately, despite his nationality, we have reason to doubt that he will side with us.”

  “Who are we talking about?” Kribu asked.

  “His name is Fletcher Renn. He’s the last Teleporter. Twenty years old, born and raised in London, but when his natural aptitude for magic made itself known he was, for all intents and purposes, taken in by the Irish Sanctuary. That is where he received the first part of his training. He is currently in Australia, where he continues his studies.”

  Mandat frowned. “And you think he’ll side with the Irish if they ask?”

  “That’s where his friends are. Also, from what we’ve heard, he and Valkyrie Cain were involved.”

  “So he’s definitely on their side,” said Wahrheit.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “He must be targeted.”

  “He already is. If there is no objection, the kill order will go through.” Bisahalani looked round the room. No one spoke. “Very well,” he said. “The order is given.”

  yra was making muffins.

  The smell wafted throughout her small apartment, and Fletcher Renn put his head back on the sofa and inhaled deeply. She’d been branching out lately, experimenting with all sorts of new cakes and buns, but every few days she’d make another batch of muffins and he wondered how she could ever want to do anything else.

  “I love your muffins,” he mumbled.

  “That’s nice,” Myra said, patting his cheek as she passed behind him. “Are you watching that, by the way? If you’re not watching it—”

  “I’m watching it,” he said immediately, looking at the TV to find out what exactly he was watching. It seemed to be some sort of sporting game. “I love this,” he said as she went back into the kitchen. “This is the one where they have the ball and they try to score points. My favourite is the blue team. Look, they’re playing.”

  “You haven’t a clue what you’re watching, do you?”

  “Yes I do. It’s a cross between rugby and something that isn’t rugby. Badminton, maybe.”

  Myra walked back in, draped herself over the sofa behind him and rested her chin on his shoulder. “It’s Australian Rules football, or Aussie Rules, if you like. How do you not know this by now? You’ve been living here for over a year.”

  “I live a sheltered life.”

  She grinned. “I’ve heard it’s rugby crossed with Gaelic football. That’s from Ireland. Don’t ask me the rules because I don’t know them. And neither do you, you … you …”

  He looked up at her. “Call me a flaming drongo.”

  She laughed. “No I will not.”

  “Ah, go on. Please?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know the rules and neither do you, yeh flamin’ drongo.”

  He bit his lip. “I love it when you call me that.”

  “You’re so weird.”

  She started to straighten up, but he took hold of her arm and pulled her down on top of him. She laughed and squirmed until she was lying across his lap, and then she said, “I love you.”

  Fletcher nodded. “Yup.”

  “Yup?”

  “Hmm?”

  She sat up, turned to him. “I say I love you and you say yup?”

  “Uh,” he said, “you just … took me by surprise. That’s all. I wasn’t expecting it. This isn’t something I expected. This is kind of … y’know? A big deal, is what I’m saying. It’s a big deal.”

  “I love you, Fletcher.”

  “Yes, excellent, and to you I say … wow. That’s really great. I’m a lucky, lucky guy.”

  Myra stood. “Oh, God.”

  “Now, Myra …”

  She shook her head. “It’s fine. You don’t have to … I’m not asking you to say it back to me, I’m just saying it because I’m feeling it and sometimes when you feel something you have to say it so … I’ll go check on the muffins.”

  She hurried into the kitchen and Fletcher stoo
d. “Myra, wait, come on.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Could you get that?” Myra called.

  “Don’t be upset with me. I’m in shock right now, that’s all. I don’t know what I’m—”

  The doorbell again.

  “Fletch, please, just answer the door.”

  Cursing himself for his stupidity, Fletcher went to the door and pulled it open. A pretty girl stood there, brown hair tied back, wearing jeans and a leather jacket. Behind her stood a Maori in a ripped T-shirt and with a tattoo on the left side of his grinning face.

  “Kia ora, bro,” said Tane Aiavao.

  Hayley Skirmish pushed past Fletcher, into the apartment. Immediately she began snooping around. Tane came in after her, shutting the door behind him.

  “Don’t worry about her,” he said. “She’s just doing her I have no social graces thing. How’ve you been? You’re looking good. Are those muffins I smell?”

  There was a scream from the kitchen and Myra came running out, Hayley walking behind her, gun in hand.

  In the blink of an eye Fletcher was standing between them. “Put it down, Hayley.”

  “She’s got a gun!” Myra screeched.

  Hayley almost looked bored. “I walked into the kitchen to find your girlfriend brandishing a weapon.”

  Fletcher turned to Myra. “Weapon?”

  “A spatula!” Myra cried. “It was a spatula!”

  “In the hands of a trained killer,” said Hayley, “a spatula can be deadly.”

  “Or a really bad chef,” chortled Tane, but everyone ignored him.

  Myra clung to Fletcher’s arm. “Who are these people? Are these magic people? You said you weren’t going to bring magic people over here.”

  “I didn’t,” Fletcher said, trying to calm her down. “I don’t know what they’re doing here, but I’m sure they’ll tell us. Myra, the girl with the gun is Hayley. The big guy is Tane.”