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“Well,” said Ravel, “that is a shame.”
Bespoke turned to the dusty, dirty patrons. “How about the rest of you? Seen anyone like the men we just described?”
A few people kept staring at Bespoke’s face. Others looked down at their beers. One or two, and this caught the attention of the Dead Men, flickered their gaze to a man who sat alone with his eyes fixed on his hands. He was so knotted up, he was shaking. The long silence that followed grew heavy and seemed to weigh down on his narrow shoulders. It grew so heavy he evidently couldn’t take it any more and he jumped to his feet and went for his gun all at the same time. He made a mess of both, went stumbling and fumbling and panicking, and Hopeless crossed to him so quick no one knew quite what was happening till the man hit the floor with a broken nose and no gun in his hand.
Hopeless walked back to the bar, put down the man’s gun and picked up his drink, finished it just as the man realised he was bleeding.
“What did you do that for?” he said. He had a peculiar accent, German or Dutch or some such.
“You were going to shoot us,” said Vex.
“I was not,” said the man, though there wasn’t a person there who believed him.
“People try to shoot me all the time,” Rue told him. “Usually because of a wife or a daughter or a sister or a mother. The point is, I’m used to having people shoot at me. We all are. But we generally know why we’re being shot at.”
The man got to his feet, blood running freely through the fingers that cupped his nose. “I wasn’t going to shoot you.”
“I’m having a hard time believing you,” Ravel said, “seeing as how you were going for your gun at the time.”
The man didn’t have much to say about that.
“What’s your name, friend?” said Rue.
“Joost,” said the man.
“Joost? What kind of name is that?”
“Dutch,” said Joost.
Rue nodded. It figured. From the accent and all, and anyway, half the world had come west to search for gold.
This was when Anton Shudder stepped forward, and the five other Dead Men at the bar seemed to step back, even though no actual steps were taken. Shudder looked at Joost, and to the poor, panicking Dutchman it seemed like the world was narrowing to a very tight space.
“Tell us what the man with the green eyes said to you,” Shudder said in his quiet voice.
“Church,” Joost managed. “He said something about going to church.”
The church, such as it was, stood on a hill a few miles south. A ramshackle place where not much worshipping went on – and when it did, half of it was half-remembered and most of it was made up. It catered to three different townships, of which Forbidden was one. Its roof sagged and let in water when it rained, its walls groaned and let in wind when it blew, and its doors creaked and let in hypocrites when it suited.
There were two sides of narrow pews and a narrow aisle in between, and there was a table for an altar and the pulpit was a box to stand on. It had once been a barn, and it had never got rid of the comforting smell of cow dung.
In town, there’d lived a man named Wooley, a quick wit who always found amusing, if sometimes crude, names for people and places. He’d come up with a name for this falling-down church-barn that smelled of dung, and it was quite a clever and funny name, but he died of dysentery before he could tell anyone. Mighty unlucky man, that Wooley.
The Dead Men walked up from the bottom of the hill towards this sad-looking church with a single candle burning in its window. It was night, and a warm one at that, and they followed the winding trail between all those graves. They walked single file, with Pleasant in the lead, the moonlight making his skull shine beneath his hat. At the top of the hill the trail widened out, and it was at this point that the Dead Men stood abreast of each other, observing the double doors with the window on one side.
“Nefarian Serpine,” Pleasant called, “if you’re in there, come out. Come get what’s coming to you.”
The candle flickered behind the thin, cracked glass. The doors banged gently in the hesitant breeze. Pleasant looked at Rue, who shook his head. No one was in that church.
Pleasant made to step forward, then stopped. The other Dead Men watched him as he turned slowly. They started to turn, too.
Corpses lunged up from the graves all around them, pushing aside packed dirt and overturning markers of wood and stone. They burrowed out from six feet under and less, moaning and groaning and uttering sounds that whistled through dried-up throats. They clambered to their feet and staggered and lurched and shambled, all going straight towards the seven sorcerers who were slowly backing away from them.
More and more crawled to the surface, breaking through to add their sounds to the growing chorus of the dead. Hundreds of graves, going back sixty years. Some of the dead, zombies they were called, were fresh enough, and some were little more than skeletons. Skulduggery Pleasant might’ve felt right at home at that moment. If he did, he didn’t show it.
“Start shooting,” he said.
Guns cleared leather and immediately the night was shaking to the thunder of gunfire. The Dead Men stood in a line and fired calmly, making every bullet count. Shots to the legs to slow them down, to the chests to drive them back, and to the heads to give them a death they wouldn’t be walking away from. Bullets were easier than magic when it came to zombies. Quicker, too. Even the skeletons, those without a brain, went down when a bullet shattered their skulls.
Bone fragments flew. Rotten flesh burst. Soon enough the Dead Men were standing in a cloud of acrid gunsmoke, and still the zombies came.
“Reloading,” Vex said, taking one step back. The other Dead Men closed in, filling the gap. When his guns were ready, Vex said, “Firing,” and stepped into the space that was immediately made for him.
That’s how they went, the Dead Men, doing this dance, covering for their partners. Guns got hot and fingers got singed, and still they fired and reloaded and fired, and still the zombies came.
Three zombies from the back pushed forward. Fresher corpses, these. They ran at Bespoke and he blasted one of them in the face and one in the throat. The bullet passed right through the spinal cord and the head flopped backwards, tearing decaying skin, then fell off. The third zombie he punched with a column of air that lifted it off its feet. He fired at it as it hurtled backwards, hit it in the back of the head.
The zombies were surrounding them now. The Dead Men moved into a tight circle, constantly turning, a spinning top of death. Empty cartridges fell. New ones slid into chambers. Hammers pulled back and struck down and powder lit and lead flew. Faces, heads and bodies disintegrated. The spinning circle of Dead Men spun its way halfway down the trail. The slower-moving zombies had to adjust their lumbering course a few times just to get within snarling distance.
Pleasant slipped into the middle of the circle and Ravel covered his back while he holstered his empty Colts. He held up his hands, gripping the air. It wasn’t easy to do what he was doing. The rifles and shotguns that had stayed behind with the horses lifted from their holsters and packs, and he brought them up the hill, over the heads of the foul-tempered dead.
“I’m out,” said Hopeless, returning his pistols to his belt. His rifle, a Sharps, fell into his waiting hands and he brought it to his shoulder and resumed firing.
Rue was next, and he made his Winchester sing, using the butt whenever a corpse got too eager. Shudder had the shotgun, a double-barrelled monstrosity he liked to call Daisy. He fired that from the hip, blowing apart any zombie dumb enough to go up against him. The others all had Henrys, except for Pleasant himself, who favoured the Spencer. They dug in their pockets for shells, reloading as fast as they were able, but it was clear there were more zombies than there were bullets.
A big zombie, a man who’d died scarcely two weeks before, charged into the circle and the circle split apart. Any rational mind watching might think that this’d be the moment to panic, but the Dead Men went about their business, hurried but calm, knowing that one mistake, one fumble or misfire, could lead to being swarmed and torn apart. They dodged among the grasping hands, firing and lashing out, reloading whenever they had a moment.
One by one, rifles were dropped and balls of fire flew. Coloured streams of light burst from Vex’s hands, sizzled right through necrotic flesh. Rue went to work with his bowie knife and Hopeless took out that machete of his. Only Shudder was still firing, his pockets providing a seemingly endless supply of shells.
“To the church,” Pleasant shouted when it became clear they were about to be overrun, and each of them started making their way back up the hill.
A wave of his hand opened the double doors and they grouped together once more, backing into the shelter of the Lord. But the Lord must’ve been busy that night, or else He was sleeping on the job, because there was no respite in here. The carnivorous corpses kept coming, clambering over the pews, and the Dead Men kept backing up, shoulder to shoulder. They slowed their retreat some, only stopping when they had to, when the sheer numbers forced them to.
Bespoke gestured behind them and the makeshift altar and the pulpit slid to the side, out of their way. By the time they reached the single door at the other end of the church, every zombie still moving was packed inside.
At Pleasant’s signal, Hopeless kicked open the door, held it for his friends, and the Dead Men turned and got the hell out of there. Shudder was last, but instead of running, he turned in the doorway and pulled open his shirt. Pleasant, Bespoke and Ravel held out their hands, forming a wall of solid air, keeping the zombies from getting at their friend. They dropped the wall when Shudder nodded. The zombies rushed forward.
There are types of magic that are easy, relatively speaking, that take no particular toll on the sorcerer using them. They’ll get tired, sure. They’ll get worn out, and drained. That’s what happens when magic is used. Same as anything a body does.
But then there are types of magic that demand a price. Anton Shudder’s magic was one such. The risk he took every time he used it, the pain and anguish it caused him, were immense. Few people ever mastered that discipline of magic. There were those who said it could never be mastered. Shudder himself was one such person.
His gist burst from his chest – a screaming, squawking, nightmarish version of Shudder himself. It was made up of every bad thought and feeling the man possessed, and by the look of the fangs and the claws and the madness, those bad thoughts were many, and resourceful. Attached to Shudder by a twisting stream of light and dark, it went at the zombies like they were the things it hated most in the world. Which, at that moment, they were. It went through them and over them and back again, that stream looping over itself like an ever-growing snake. The zombies, with no room to duck even if they’d had a mind to, were reduced to tatters.
Shudder’s knees gave out and Rue and Vex each grabbed one of his arms, held him up. With the last of his strength, Shudder called the gist back to him. It hollered and screeched and fought, but the thread between them shortened, and shortened again, and then the gist was sucked back into Shudder’s chest, and the night was silent apart from the low moaning of the zombie remains.
Rue and Vex helped Shudder walk away, and Pleasant, Bespoke and Ravel clicked their fingers and filled their hands with flames. They tossed those flames through the door, manipulated them a little, and within seconds the whole church was burning, taking the last of the zombies with it.
The Dead Men headed back down to their tired horses, where Hopeless was waiting for them. He’d collected their fallen rifles and had picked up something extra along the way. A man in black, unconscious, with blood running from his nose and his hands in shackles. Beside him, as he lay in the dirt, was his staff.
They rode back into town, found an empty corner in Sullivan’s Livery and dumped the Necromancer in there while the Dead Men took rooms for the night. Only Pleasant stayed to guard him – true dead men never needing sleep. Pleasant stood, arms folded, looking at Noche. Not saying anything. Not moving – not even to breathe.
A few minutes past eight the next morning, the rest of the Dead Men turned up, rested and fed. A bucket of water woke the Necromancer, who sat up with a lunging breath and then rolled over into a series of coughing fits. When he was done with all the spluttering, he looked up at his captors.
“What’ll we do with him?” asked Bespoke.
“I think we should kill him,” Rue said. “I don’t like him. Look at his eyebrows. They’re odd. He’s got odd eyebrows, and I think they might be magical. He’s trying to hypnotise me with his odd, magical eyebrows.”
“Nobody is trying to hypnotise you,” Shudder said.
“We should shave them from his face and experiment on them.”
“I think the stress has finally got to our dear friend Saracen Rue,” said Ravel sadly. “He was a good man while he lasted. Annoying at times, perhaps, but a good man nonetheless.”
“I will be missed,” Rue nodded.
Noche frowned up at them. “You’re all insane.”
“You should have the measure of insanity,” said Vex, “what with all the palling around you’ve been doing with Nefarian Serpine. Why are you associating with the likes of him anyway? The Necromancers have been staying out of the war. Are you really going to join the losing side right before it ends?”
“My brothers and sisters remain neutral.”
“So it’s just you, then,” said Pleasant. “A rogue Necromancer teaming up with the most notorious of Mevolent’s Three Generals. Why? He’s been running from us for months, and we’re closer to him now than ever. It’s only a matter of time before we have him.”
Noche smiled, the smile adopting a certain smug quality. “But time isn’t on your side, is it? You’re absolutely right – Mevolent is rumoured to be injured, his forces are scattered, Vengeous is missing, and the war, they say, is coming to an end. Last I heard, your Sanctuaries were offering a reward to whoever tells them where Mevolent is hiding … But what everyone’s talking about is the amnesty. So long as the war is ended soon, and not allowed to drag out, they’ll be offering forgiveness to all of Mevolent’s followers who aren’t yet imprisoned. That’s why you’re so eager to get to Serpine – because you know that time is ticking away. If you don’t get him before the amnesties are granted, you’ll lose your chance to have your revenge. Won’t you, skeleton?”
Pleasant tilted his head in that way of his. “You’re working with him. I really don’t care why. Maybe he has something on you. Maybe you owe him. Maybe you’re just a glutton for punishment. I don’t care about you or your motives. All I want is a question answered.”
“You’ll not get any information out of me,” Noche sneered.
“We just want to know one little bit of information,” said Rue. “It’s barely worth mentioning, really. Barely worth the breath that would carry the words from my lips.”
“Just one tiny bit of information,” said Vex, “and then we’ll let you go. You can run off and we won’t tell anyone you helped us.”
“We’ll swear to it,” said Bespoke.
“Our word is our bond,” said Rue.
“Serpine,” Ravel said. “Where is he headed?”
Noche glared. “I’ll never tell.”
“Please?” said Ravel. Another glare, and Ravel straightened up. “Right, well. You are of no use to us whatsoever, are you? I don’t even see why you went to the trouble of being captured, I really don’t. What’s the point of being a prisoner if you’re not going to divulge secret plans to your captors?”
“Defeats the purpose,” Vex grumbled.
“It does indeed, Dexter,” Ravel said. “What do you have to say for yourself? Are you suitably ashamed? You should be. If I were you, I’d have a good long think about what a disappointment you’ve been to us. We had high hopes.”
“The highest.”
“That’s right, Saracen, the highest. See? You’ve upset Saracen.”
“I just have something in my eye,” said Rue.
“I have never seen Saracen Rue weep,” Ravel said, “since this morning, but you’ve made him weep like a little child. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
Noche looked at them warily. “You are all insane.”
Anton Shudder walked forward. “Tell us where Serpine is going. I don’t play games like my friends. They’re saying all this to confuse you and frighten you. I prefer to simply ask, and I expect a simple answer.”
“I would rather die,” said Noche, a touch less convincingly.
“Do you know my chosen discipline, little man?”
“You’re a … You have a gist.”
“That’s right. And when I let it out there are times when I just cannot control it. And it’s a sight to behold. Terrifying. Ferocious. Merciless. Tell us what we want to know or I shall release it, and believe you me you will garner its full attention.”
Noche swallowed like he’d something sharp stuck in his craw. “Serpine … he mentioned Lancaster County, in Nebraska, as somewhere he’d be safe. Sounded like that’s where he’s headed.”
Rue peered at him. “Are you lying?”
“No.”
“I don’t trust him.”
Ravel nodded. “I don’t trust him, either.”
“I trust him,” said Vex happily. “And I’ve changed my mind about his eyebrows, too. Skulduggery, can we keep him?”
Pleasant tilted his head at the Necromancer. “You’re lying.”
“No, I—”
Pleasant splayed his hand and Noche flew off the ground, hit the wall, his feet kicking at air.
The Dead Men fell silent, lost their smiles and looks of good humour.
“My friend Anton will kill you,” said Pleasant, “but I will kill you worse. Why are you with Serpine?”
“Please, I …”
“You have one chance. If you lie to me, I will start killing you.”
Something changed in Noche’s eyes, something dripped away. His melting resolve, most likely.
“He’s heading for the Temple,” he said. “I was to meet him, take him back to it.”
“The Necromancers are going to hide him?”
