Last Stand of Dead Men
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2013
Reissued in this edition in 2017
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,
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London SE1 9GF
The HarperCollins website address is:
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Skulduggery Pleasant rests his weary bones on the web at:
www.skulduggerypleasant.co.uk
Derek Landy blogs under duress at
www.dereklandy.blogspot.com
Text copyright © Derek Landy 2013
Illuminated letters copyright © Tom Percival 2013
Skulduggery PleasantTM Derek Landy
Skulduggery Pleasant logoTM HarperCollinsPublishers
Skulduggery Pleasant © TM Derek Landy
Cover design © blacksheep-uk.com
Cover illustration © Tom Percival
Derek Landy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007489237
Ebook Edition © ISBN: 9780007489244
Version: 2017-05-25
This book is dedicated to you.
Whether you are a Minion or a Skuttlebug or just, you know, a normal person, it’s because of you that I get to do what I love and laughingly call it work.
I know some of you by name and some of you by sight (and some of you by smell, but let’s not get into that) but there are still countless others I have never met, and to all of you I say thank you for your support, your passion, and your lunacy.
Now please, for the love of whatever god you pray to, leave me alone.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Five Years Ago
Three Months Ago
Chapter 1: The Witches
Chapter 2: Back in Roarhaven
Chapter 3: The Big Day
Chapter 4: The Secret Origin Of …
Chapter 5: Unfair Advantage
Chapter 6: Stark Realities
Chapter 7: Saracen
Chapter 8: Searching the Aisles
Chapter 9: Roarhaven’s Number One Public House
Chapter 10: The Thirteenth Floor
Chapter 11: Big, Tough Man
Chapter 12: The Deadline
Chapter 13: Eye for an Eye
Chapter 14: Seeing the Future
Chapter 15: Spilling Blood
Chapter 16: The Supreme Council
Chapter 17: Muffins
Chapter 18: Regis
Chapter 19: Laken Cross
Chapter 20: Off to War
Chapter 21: Making Plans
Chapter 22: Staying Out of Trouble
Chapter 23: The Dark and Stormy Knight
Chapter 24: Stagnant Water
Chapter 25: The Old Gang Back Together
Chapter 26: The Pursuit Begins
Chapter 27: Mantis
Chapter 28: The Stick
Chapter 29: Tanith’s True Love
Chapter 30: Dead Men’s Tales
Chapter 31: Wolfsong
Chapter 32: The Ghost Town
Chapter 33: Monster Hunters and Me
Chapter 34: Rude Awakening
Chapter 35: Sneaking In
Chapter 36: Losing Blood
Chapter 37: Charivari
Chapter 38: The Keep
Chapter 39: Enemy Combatants
Chapter 40: Wolves at the Door
Chapter 41: Gunning for Ode
Chapter 42: Misdirection
Chapter 43: Undercover
Chapter 44: The Call to Action
Chapter 45: Under Attack
Chapter 46: The New Captain
Chapter 47: Ajuoga
Chapter 48: Assassins
Chapter 49: Intimidation Techniques
Chapter 50: The Battle at the Keep
Chapter 51: The Man with the Golden Eyes
Chapter 52: A Reasonable Reaction
Chapter 53: In Her Head
Chapter 54: Stephanie Edgley
Chapter 55: Refuge
Chapter 56: The Documentary
Chapter 57: Sunburn
Chapter 58: The Brides of Blood Tears
Chapter 59: The Rise
Chapter 60: One Little Word
Chapter 61: The Real Girl
Chapter 62: Roarhaven Revealed
Chapter 63: The Trap
Chapter 64: The Trap is Sprung
Chapter 65: The Warlocks
Chapter 66: The Siege at Roarhaven
Chapter 67: Wraiths
Chapter 68: Black Smoke, White Flame
Chapter 69: Quiet Moments
Chapter 70: Supercharged
Chapter 71: In the Sanctuary
Chapter 72: Rescue
Chapter 73: War Despondent
Chapter 74: The Thick of It
Chapter 75: Uneven Odds
Chapter 76: China’s Final Act
Chapter 77: The Sacrifice
Chapter 78: After the War
Chapter 79: The Package
Keep Reading …
The Skulduggery Pleasant series
About the Publisher
Up on the hill, watching them, a man with golden eyes pulled the collar of his coat tighter in a vain attempt to stave off the cold. His fingers and toes were already numb. His teeth were starting to chatter. How many times had he been in similar circumstances, enduring discomfort while he waited for the perfect time to strike? More than he could remember, that was for sure. It was worth it, of course. It was always worth it.
There was movement behind him, but he didn’t turn. He recognised the footsteps. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
The old man stopped beside him, cupped his hands and blew into them to warm them. “I had visitors,” he said. His voice was rough. Words scraped from his throat. “The Skeleton Detective and a girl. She has old blood in her. Ancient blood, I reckon. She’s dangerous.”
“She’s thirteen years old. She’s a child.”
“She won’t stay a child. A few more years and she’ll be a threat, you mark my words.”
“Consider them marked,” said the man with the golden eyes. What had Madame Mist said about the Torment? Once upon a time, he’d been formidable, he’d been dangerous, but he was an old man now, a good blade that had lost its edge. Maybe she was right.
“These plans of yours,” the Torment said, “the plans you’ve made with my fellow Children of the Spider. These are good plans. They will suffice.”
“You’re onboard, then? What changed your mind?”
The Torment’s lined faced was half hidden by the long grey hair and all that beard, but he didn’t look like a dulled blade any more. He looked suddenly sharp. “My visitors. Their arrogance has stirred me from my apathy. The mortals they protect have run this world long enough. It’s past time we took over.”
“I’m so glad to hear it,” said the man with the golden eyes. “In that case, there are some Warlocks down there in need of killing, if you’re in the mood …?”
The man with the golden eyes approached the camp from the south, the Torment beside him, while the mercenaries closed in from all around. Mortals, in dark military clothing. Heavily armed. Not a sound was made, and yet one of the Warlocks stirred, woke, sat up, looked out into the night, a night that was suddenly lit up by the bright flashes of gunfire.
The three Warlocks leaped up, caught in the crossfire. Notoriously hard to kill, even they couldn’t survive the relentless barrage of bullets. Light spilled from every wound as they jerked and fell and stumbled, and then the light faded and they toppled.
Silence followed, broken only by empty magazines being replaced.
The Torment put his gun away. He didn’t like using mortal weapons. He didn’t like having to work by their side. But he was going to like what came next.
The mercenaries walked into camp, made sure that the Warlocks were really dead.
“You three,” said the man with the golden eyes, “take the jeep and go. I’ll be in touch to arrange payment.”
Three mercenaries faded into the darkness. The other two stayed close, waiting for orders.
The Torment grabbed the taller one’s head, twisted till the neck broke. The smaller one stumbled back, going for his weapon, but the Torment took it from him and used it to beat him to death.
While the mercenary was being killed, the man with the golden eyes surveyed the scene. The other Warlocks would return to find their brothers slaughtered, and they would find the bodies of two of the soldiers who did it. Mortal soldiers, wearing no uniform, with no insignias or identification.
“Why did you let the others live?” the Torment asked when he was done. “They can identify us.”
That was half right. The other mercenaries could identify the Torment, but the man with the golden eyes was already fading from their memories. “For this to work, they need to be able to boast about their missions. The three I let go have the biggest mouths. Their boasts will eventually reach the right ears.”
The Torment scowled. “There is a faster way to do this.”
“No,” said the man with the golden eyes. “We’re not ready yet. But we will be. Soon.”
If it had been where it was supposed to be when the ping had sounded, the four-week countdown would have mattered not one jot. Unfortunately, the Engineer was not where it was supposed to be. A regrettable unfolding of events, to be sure. The Engineer felt most bad about that. Not that it was the Engineer’s fault. No one could possibly lay the blame at the Engineer’s mechanical feet. Had it not stood guard for almost three decades? Had it not fulfilled its duty for the most part? Was it really the fault of the Engineer that its advanced programming, a wonderful mixture of technology and magic, enabled it to experience the human phenomenon of ‘boredom’? Was it really the fault of the Engineer that it had decided to go for a walk, or that when the ping sounded, when the Engineer was finally needed to leap into action, instead of being right there, ready to help, it was on a beach in Italy looking for unusual shells?
No, the Engineer thought not.
It was making good time now, though. The magical symbols carved into its metal body erased it from the memories of mortals the instant they saw it, allowing the Engineer to travel in broad daylight, through busy city streets. The Engineer smiled (internally, for of course it had no mouth). It was feeling good. It was feeling optimistic. Moving at its current speed, it would arrive back in Ireland in plenty of time to shut everything down before a series of overloads and power loops inevitably led to a sequence of events which would, in turn, eventually lead to the probable destruction of the world. The Engineer wasn’t worried.
And then the truck hit it.
War is the business of barbarians.
—Napoleon Bonaparte
“You were supposed to be keeping an eye on the place,” Donegan said.
“I was,” Gracious yawned.
“You were asleep.”
“I was resting my eyes.”
“You were snoring.”
“I was exercising my lungs.”
“Get up.”
Grumbling, he got to his feet and stretched. He didn’t have to stretch very far. He wasn’t that tall. Still, what Gracious O’Callahan lacked in height he made up for in muscle and cool hair. “Hi, Valkyrie,” he said.
“Hi, Gracious.”
“So is this your first time meeting a witch?”
She nodded.
“You’ll do fine, don’t worry. Witches are more afraid of you than you are of them.”
“I thought that was bees.”
He blinked. “You might be right. Yes, you are right. Bees are fine, witches are horrible. Always get those two mixed up.” He was wearing baggy jeans and a faded Star Wars T-shirt. Valkyrie imagined that he had a special nerd room at home where he kept all of his weird clothes that referenced old movies, and she imagined him standing in the middle of that room for hours, slowly rotating on the spot, an unsettling smile on his face. By contrast, Donegan Bane, a tall and slender Englishman, favoured sports coats and narrow ties with his skinny jeans.
He glared at Gracious. “I can’t believe you fell asleep.”
“I didn’t fall asleep.”
“Then do you know if she’s home or not?”
“I haven’t a clue,” Gracious admitted. “I fell asleep.”
Valkyrie had first met them only a few months earlier, but she felt she knew them well enough by now to know that, if given the opportunity, they would stand on this hill and bicker for hours. So she turned and walked down to the cottage, and after a moment they followed her.
They arrived at the door and Donegan knocked three times. They waited and the door was opened by a frowning girl.
“Hello,” Donegan said with a smile she didn’t return.
“Do you know what time it is?” the girl asked. Valkyrie judged her to be around her age, maybe seventeen or eighteen. She had pale skin and full lips and luxuriant red hair that framed her face.
“Why no,” Donegan replied as if it were a game. “What time is it?”
She scowled. “What do you want?”
“My name is Donegan Bane and this is my colleague Gracious O’Callahan – we’re Monster Hunters. We’re here with our associate Valkyrie Cain, and we were wondering if your grandmother was home.”
“You’re Monster Hunters?”
“Indeed we are. You’ve probably heard of us. Writers of Monster Hunting for Beginners,The Definitive Study of Were-Creatures, and The Passions of Greta Grey, our first work of romantic fiction.”
“And you want my grandmother?”
“If your grandmother is Dubhóg Ni Broin, yes.”
“Are you going to kill her?”
“I’m sorry? Oh, no! No, nothing like that. We just want to talk to her.”
“So you’re not going to kill her?”
“No,” Donegan said with a laugh. “I assure you, she’s quite safe.”
The girl’s eyes narrowed. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“We came here unarmed,” Donegan said cheerfully, and Gracious looked at him.
“You’re unarmed?” he asked, surprised.
“Yes,” Donegan said. “Aren’t you?”
“Well, I suppose so. Apart from my gun.”
Donegan glared at him. “What? Why did you bring a gun? I told you to come unarmed.”
“I thought you were joking.”
“Why would I be joking?”
“I don’t know, I thought that’s what made it funny.”
Donegan looked like he might strangle his partner, but then forced the smile back on his face and turned once again to the girl.
“I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t catch your name …?”
“Misery,” the girl answered, suspicious.
“Misery, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My friend here has many problems; he’s quite bright in his own way, but likes taking guns to inappropriate places. Let me assure you that we mean your grandmother no harm. We just want to talk to her.”
“Why?”
Valkyrie stepped forward before either of the Monster Hunters could make the situation worse. “We’re looking for a friend of ours. Maybe you’ve seen him? Tall? Skinny? Wears nice suits? Also he’s a skeleton? His name’s Skulduggery Pleasant and he’s wandered off on his own and we think your gran might know where he is.”
“Why would my grandmother know that?”
“Because he came to see her, and that’s the last we heard of him.”
“We don’t have much to do with sorcerers,” Misery said. “They don’t like us and we don’t like them. I don’t recall seeing your friend, either. What did you say he was? A zombie? A mummy?”
“A skeleton.”
“A skeleton, yeah. No, haven’t seen one of those in ages.”
“I think you’re lying,” Valkyrie said.
Misery smiled coldly. “What if I am? What are you going to do about it?”
“Whatever I have to.”
“Ah, there it is, the arrogance that my grandmother is always talking about. And what kind of sorcerer are you, then? Let me guess. Standing here, dressed all in black … Are they armoured clothes you’re wearing? They are, aren’t they? And that big ugly ring on your finger – that’s from that death magic thing, isn’t it? Necromancy? But you … you’re my age. You’re too young to have had the Surge. You’re probably still experimenting with your little sorcerer disciplines, like a good little girl. So I’d say you’re an Elemental. I’m right, amn’t I? See, witches don’t have disciplines. Real magic isn’t about choosing one thing over the other. Real magic is about opening yourself up to everything.”
“Yeah,” said Valkyrie. “That’s really interesting. Is your granny home? Could we talk to her?”
“She’s home,” said Misery. “She’s busy, though.”
“Doing what?”
“Witchy things.”
“Could we come in?”
“Nope.”
“We’re coming in, with or without your permission.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“No, you really wouldn’t.”
“I think,” Gracious said quickly, “that the wrong foot has been gotten off of. Misery, you seem to me to be a lovely girl, and I sense a sort of kindness in your eyes which reminds me of a newborn fawn, or the noble hedgehog. We’ve been looking for your grandmother for days now, and yesterday our dear friend Skulduggery went missing. We’re very worried, as you can imagine, and some of us, without naming any names, might be a little more short-tempered than usual.”
“I’m not short-tempered,” said Valkyrie.
“Then how did you know I was referring to you?”
“Because you pointed.”
“Getting back to the subject at hand, Misery, we would really appreciate it if you’d let us in. Please?”
Misery looked at him, but didn’t respond.
“Um,” said Gracious, “hello?”
“Quiet,” she said, “I’m thinking.” She chewed a plump lip, then sighed. “I don’t really get along with my grandmother. She’s stuck in her ways and … I look at her and she’s all withered and stuff and I don’t want to end up like that, you know? I don’t want to live in a cottage in the middle of nowhere for the rest of my life. I want to live in the city. I want to wear high-heeled shoes every once in a while and do things that don’t all revolve around being a witch.”
Gracious nodded. “I understand and sympathise with everything you’ve just said, apart from the bit about the high-heeled shoes, which I wouldn’t know about.”
“Can you promise me you’re not going to hurt her?” Misery asked.
Valkyrie frowned. “Why would we hurt her?”
“Because she has your friend trapped in the cellar.”
Valkyrie stepped through the doorway. “He’d better be OK.”
Misery held up her hands. “He’s fine, he’s fine. From what I can hear they’re just talking. If you can promise me you won’t hurt her, I’ll show you how to get down there. Deal?”
“I’ll defend myself,” Valkyrie said. “If she attacks me, I’ll defend myself. But … we promise to go easy on her if it’s at all possible.”
“That’s really the best deal you’re going to get,” Gracious added, a little apologetically.
“Fine,” said Misery, after a moment’s consideration. “Come on in. Wipe your feet.”
The cottage was dark and weird and smelled funny, like boiled cabbage and wet dog. Valkyrie could see why Misery didn’t like living here. She couldn’t see a TV or even a radio. It was lit by oil lamps, and there was a brazier in the corner. In the winter, she imagined this place would get very cold.
Misery pulled back a rug and lifted a heavy trapdoor. She put her finger to her lips, and Valkyrie nodded.
The cellar was bigger than she’d expected, but about as gloomy. Valkyrie and the Monster Hunters walked down the stone steps, then crept through the tunnel towards a flickering light, following the sound of Skulduggery’s voice and another, a woman’s. The nearer they got, the more distinct the words became.
“—see what this has got to do with me,” said the woman. “I’m just an old witch living out her life with an ungrateful granddaughter. What would I know about the affairs of Warlocks?”
Valkyrie peered round the corner. Dubhóg Ni Broin looked remarkably like the witches in fairy tales. She was old and small and stooped, with tangled grey hair and a long chin with a wart on it – an actual wart. She was wearing a black shawl over a shapeless black dress but, disappointingly, no pointy hat. Still, Valkyrie wouldn’t have wanted her to slip fully into caricature. That would have been silly.
Facing Dubhóg, his back to Valkyrie, Skulduggery Pleasant stood in a chalk circle. She knew enough about symbols and sigil magic by now to know that the circle was binding his powers, but there were other symbols there she didn’t recognise. Seeing as how he didn’t just step out of the circle, though, she guessed they were there to keep him in place.