Skulduggery Pleasant: Last Stand of Dead Men (68 page)

Scapegrace hurried over to Thrasher, kicked him in the side. Thrasher groaned, opened his eyes.

“Master?”

“Get up,” Scapegrace commanded. “And take off that ridiculous mask.”

Thrasher did as he was told as Dacanay’s radio crackled into life, and the voice of the man who had just run off came through loud and clear. “Multiple wraith attacks just north of your position,” he said. “I’m dealing with one of them, but there are three kids being chased along Amrita Street, and a woman with blue hair is cornered by the fountain. Over.”

Dacanay held the radio to his mouth. “I’m taking Amrita Street,” he said. “Out.”

“Wait,” Scapegrace said. “The woman with blue hair. That’s Clarabelle. She’s our friend. You have to help her.”

But Dacanay was already running. “Sorry,” he said. “Kids come first.”

Scapegrace watched him go, and turned to see Thrasher looking at him.

“Master?”

Scapegrace didn’t know what to do. Thrasher was looking at him with that big, stupid face, and Scapegrace didn’t know what to do. He swallowed. “We help Clarabelle.”

They sprinted to the top of the street and turned right, towards the fountain in the square. The moment it came into view Scapegrace wanted to run the other way, but then he saw Clarabelle. She had climbed into the fountain itself. Around her, three wraiths were closing in.

“Scapey!” she yelled. “Gerald! Help!”

“We’re coming!” Thrasher yelled back.

Scapegrace looked around, scanning their environment for a weapon, or an idea, or some kind of plan. He couldn’t find anything.

“Master?”

A shout bubbled up from somewhere within him. “Hey!” he screamed. “Hey, wraiths! Hey! Come get us!”

Thrasher joined in, jumping up and down and waving his ridiculously muscled arms. One of the wraiths noticed them, started walking over.

“Now what do we do?” Thrasher whispered.

“We lead it away,” Scapegrace said. “Look how slow it moves. It’s walking. We can run. It’ll never be able to—”

A breeze rustled through the square and the wraith came apart like smoke, solidifying again right in front of Scapegrace.

Scapegrace screamed as the wraith reached for him, and Thrasher lunged, his big fist clunking off the wraith’s pale, angular cheekbone. The wraith barely noticed yet Thrasher staggered away, clutching his hand, his knuckles burning. Scapegrace kicked at the wraith’s knee, but missed, and his supporting foot slid out from under him and he fell. The wraith looked down at him … then raised its head. Scapegrace craned his neck, the world upside down, and saw someone walking towards them. He rolled over.

The Black Cleaver approached.

Thrasher grabbed Scapegrace’s arm and dragged him out from under the wraith, hauled him to his feet as the Black Cleaver pulled out his scythe. The wraith observed the Cleaver like he was a species it had never encountered before. Behind it, the other two wraiths abandoned their pursuit of Clarabelle and started walking over.

The Cleaver moved, his scythe flashing, and the first wraith’s hand fell to the ground. There was no blood, no pain, and the wraith looked at its stump without emotion. The Cleaver whirled, taking the wraith’s right leg off at the knee. The wraith fell, tried to get up and the Black Cleaver took its head.

But even that didn’t stop it.

While the Black Cleaver turned to face the other two, Scapegrace stepped forward, kicking the disembodied head away from the wraith’s grasping hand. It wasn’t that long ago that he himself had been a head, but he didn’t feel bad about what he’d just done. Let the wraith put itself back together on its own time.

The remaining wraiths became smoke that blew apart, coming together again on either side of the Black Cleaver as he spun, ducking under their attempts to grab him. The scythe caught the crescent moon and sliced through the throat of one of them. It lurched, its head lolling back, held in place by a flap of pale skin. The last wraith caught the Cleaver’s arm. Scapegrace heard the snap of bone, but the Cleaver didn’t even flinch. He rammed the top of his helmet into the wraith’s face, broke its leg with a single stomp that drove it to its knees, and wrenched his arm loose. Then he gave a little jump back as he brought his scythe up and over, and the blade embedded itself in the wraith’s head with a solid
thunk
.

Scapegrace and Thrasher watched in awe as the Black Cleaver pulled his scythe free and the wraith crumpled sideways.

There was a scream, somewhere off to their left, and without a word the Black Cleaver was gone.

Clarabelle hurried over. The water from the fountain had drenched her, but she didn’t seem to notice. “You rescued me,” she said, her big eyes bright.

“Well,” said Scapegrace, “it wasn’t really us …”

“You rescued me,” she insisted. “You really
are
my friends.”

“Of course we are,” said Thrasher.

The wraiths were slowly turning to smoke, and that smoke was linking up with its missing body parts. Scapegrace didn’t want to be around when they solidified. “We should go,” he said.

Clarabelle clamped a hand over her mouth as they hurried away. “I’ve never had friends before,” she said. “Not really. I had one. We grew up together. Everyone thought we hated each other, but I just assumed that she was imaginary, and she assumed
I
was imaginary, so we never spoke to each other when there were other people around.”

Thrasher hesitated. “Sounds reasonable.”

“But she died, thirty years ago,” said Clarabelle. “So I’ve had thirty years without a friend. And now … now I have two of the best friends in the whole world. I’m the luckiest girl
ever
.”

Roarhaven was full of empty buildings just waiting to be filled by an influx of sorcerers who wanted to be part of the first capital city of sorcerers. Scapegrace led them into one of these buildings, closed the door behind them and barricaded it.

“We’ll wait here,” he whispered. “Maybe by morning they’ll be gone. Clarabelle, what were you even doing out here alone? There’s a war on – we were told to stay indoors.”

“I was looking at houses,” Clarabelle said. “I was told I could choose one to live in, because I work for the Sanctuary and everything. I don’t like any of them, though. None of them feel like home. I don’t think this place will ever feel like home.”

“Why don’t you just live with us?” Thrasher asked.

Clarabelle’s eyes widened. “Could I? Scapey, could I live with you?”

Scapegrace peered out through the window, making sure the wraiths hadn’t followed them. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

Clarabelle hopped up and down, but Thrasher managed to get his hand over her mouth before she started squealing. When she was done, she whirled, grabbed Thrasher in a hug. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! My two best friends ever! Gerald, my dear, sweet Gerald. You risked everything to save me. You have the heart of a lion.”

Thrasher beamed. “You think so?”

“I do.” She whirled again. “And Scapey, my dear Scapey. When I looked up and saw you running towards me, I just knew everything was going to be all right. I knew you’d save me. You’re my hero.”

Scapegrace blinked at her. He was her hero?

He stood a little straighter. His chest didn’t need any puffing out, but he puffed it out anyway. He was her
hero.

“Oh, Master!” Thrasher said, his eyes wide.

“Shut up,” said Scapegrace.

“Do you know what this means?”

“Be quiet.”

“It means you didn’t have to learn kung fu. You didn’t have to put on a mask. You didn’t have to be the Dark and Stormy Knight. Master … you were a hero all along.”

“Yes,” Scapegrace snapped. “I got that. I realised that myself. But now you’ve taken a moment of personal triumph and validation and you’ve ruined it by making it obvious.”

Thrasher’s face fell. “Oh.”

“Stand over there and don’t speak for the rest of the night.”

Thrasher turned, and slouched towards the corner.

Idiot.

he wraiths were gone by morning, but the dawn brought with it a fresh bombardment. Those floating balls of energy drifted to the wall and did their damage there or beyond. Watchtowers fell, mages and Cleavers were killed by the blasts or, more likely, falling masonry. A few explosions rocked the city itself, damaging houses and other dwellings, though casualties here were not as high as they could have been. After the night of horror they’d just witnessed, most citizens of Roarhaven were moving towards the Sanctuary and away from the wall. An exact death toll had yet to be calculated. The wraiths had retreated before the sun came up, but there had been reports all morning of people missing as well as dead.

Stephanie remembered a time when she didn’t need sleep. As a reflection, all she’d had to do to regain her strength was to step into the mirror and she’d emerge like a freshly charged battery. But now that she was a person, eating and drinking and sleeping took up so much of her time she felt sure she was doing it wrong.

She ate breakfast and checked the Sceptre. The black crystal was still glowing as fiercely as ever, and she wondered if it ever needed to be recharged. Her stick did. It hung between her shoulder blades, solid and heavy and reassuring, but utterly devoid of magic. It had saved her life, though, and she wasn’t about to throw it away simply because it didn’t keep its stun effect for long.

Bane and O’Callahan were comparing bruises when she found them, and together they went to the top of the wall. Skulduggery was already up there with Vex and Saracen and General Mantis. Everyone moved hunched over. The Warlocks’ aim was improving.

“They’ve been at this for hours,” Vex said as another explosion rocked the wall. “How long before they get bored, do you reckon? Before or after the wall topples over?”

“We need to take the offensive,” said Saracen. “We need to get our people down there.”

“General,” Skulduggery said, “tell the others your suggestion.”

Mantis swivelled its gas mask towards them. “Thank you. Some of you may have noticed that our enemy leaves itself vulnerable when it attacks. Its number is split into three. The Wretchlings are closest to the wall, twelve thousand of them. Behind them, Warlock Energy-Throwers, twenty in all. And behind them, Charivari has been glimpsed, sitting on the hill with approximately fifty Wretchlings and a further twenty Warlocks. That is our opportunity.”

“You want to go after him?” Gracious asked.

“Three cloaking spheres ought to conceal my troops,” Mantis said, nodding. “I am sure Grand Mage Ravel has one or two secret exits from which we could leave the city. We would then move around behind them, attack from the rear, and either kill or capture Charivari.”

Vex frowned. “And if you’re noticed, the attacking force will return and you’ll be wiped out.”

“If the attacking force notices, that will be your signal to open the gates and charge at the Wretchlings. Without Charivari to issue commands, they will find themselves fighting a battle on both sides.”

Stephanie didn’t know if her words would be welcomed here, but someone had to say it. “There are more of them than there are of us.”

“Surprise is a sharp weapon to wield,” Mantis replied. “But you need not engage them fully. You would just have to sow enough confusion to allow us to slip backwards, still under cover of the cloaking spheres. Then you would return to the safety of the wall and leave our enemy confused and standing in the middle of a field, not knowing which way to turn.”

“In order to be ready at the gates, we’d need to drastically reduce our numbers on the wall,” said Vex. “The Wretchlings could swarm us.”

“I did not claim this plan to be without risk.”

“If it goes wrong,” Saracen said, “you’ll be out there alone. We won’t be able to get to you. And Warlocks aren’t known for taking prisoners.”

“Death comes for us all. But I do not believe we will fail.”

A few days ago, Mantis was the enemy – alien and unknowable. Today it was a friend, and Stephanie didn’t want to see it risking its life on something so dangerous.

“What does His Highness say about this?” Vex asked.

“Ravel doesn’t
get
a say,” Skulduggery responded. “On this wall, I’m in command. Mantis has a plan, and it’s a good one, and I’m inclined to agree to it. Unless anyone here has a reason why I shouldn’t.”