Last Stand of Dead Men Read online

  First published in Great Britain by

  HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2013

  First published in this edition in the

  United States of America by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2019

  HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

  HarperCollins Publishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  The HarperCollins website address is:

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  Skulduggery Pleasant rests his weary bones on the web at:

  www.skulduggerypleasant.com

  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 HarperCollins Publishers

  All rights reserved.

  Skulduggery Pleasant © TM Derek Landy

  Cover design © blacksheep-uk.com

  Cover illustration © Neil Swabb

  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 ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, 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: 9780008266424

  Ebook Edition © ISBN: 9780008266431

  Version: 2019-05-09

  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

  he camp was dark and quiet, and the Warlocks slept.

  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 gla
d 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.”

  f its estimations were correct – and of course they were correct, they were never wrong – then the Engineer was going to make it. From the instant that warning ping had sounded in its head, it had had exactly four weeks to implement the shutdown procedure before catastrophe became somewhat inevitable. It used the caveat ‘somewhat’ because of course nothing was inevitable, not really. There were always hidden clauses to every eventuality. This the Engineer had learned in its travels, in what it called ‘life experience’. That the Engineer was not, technically, alive, mattered not. It existed, and it had sentience, and as such it had life experience. Moving on …

  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

  he sky was clear and the stars were bright and Gracious had fallen asleep on the grass. Donegan nudged him and he murmured and came round.

  “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.”