Hell breaks loose, p.2
Hell Breaks Loose, page 2
Ghastly found himself watching the mortals as their precious moments bled from them. He liked to think that if he, too, was mortal, if he could only expect to live forty or forty-five years, he wouldn’t waste what little time he had waiting for a cup of wine or a plate of food to be served to him. He liked to think that he would fill his days with friendship and love and family, and never would he darken his hands with violence.
But Ghastly was a man of contradictions, and he liked to think a lot of things.
Being a sorcerer, knowing that his magic would extend his life to perhaps many hundreds of years, offered him nothing in the way of excuses when it came to how he did spend his days. If he, in all his wisdom, shook his head with sage disapproval at the squalid conduct of the unenlightened masses while, at the same time, filling his hands with sword and fire, then what grand lesson had he, in fact, learned? The answer, he was forced to conclude, was none. He had been gifted by the gods or by nature with long life and power, and he chose to pass his moments mired in war and conflict and killing. In truth, he was no better than the fumbling mortals around him. In truth, he was, perhaps, far worse.
Instead of the family he had once promised himself, he had joined a band of brothers, bonded by blood spilled rather than blood shared. The Dead Men were his family: a group of individuals too damaged to operate as part of a larger whole, but just damaged enough to carve out their own bloody paths.
No children for Ghastly Bespoke. No wife or husband or anything approaching that, not since Anselm, absent now from his life these past seven years. When Skulduggery’s family had been murdered, when Ghastly had lost one of his best friends – as well as the child to whom he had served as uncle with his whole heart – Anselm had done his very best to see him through the worst of it. Ghastly had devoted himself to helping Skulduggery, and Anselm had devoted himself to helping Ghastly, which left no one devoting themselves to helping Anselm.
Ghastly didn’t blame him, not for one instant, and he appreciated the way Anselm had waited till he had regained his footing before striking out. He had known it was coming for a time before it happened. He had known it since that cold evening when they’d sat by the fire and Anselm had said, “I wish, sometimes, that I could see what it is you’re chasing. Then maybe I would have a chance of becoming it.”
Ghastly hadn’t known how to respond to that, neither the words spoken nor the sadness behind them. But that was the first time either of them acknowledged the existence of a something between them: a gap, a wedge, a hesitation. Something that stopped them from fitting together with the snugness they would have needed to survive.
The war had taken its toll on a lot of people over the years and a lot of couples, and it took its toll on Ghastly and Anselm. Which was why Anselm was now somewhere else and why Ghastly was here in Tuscany, waiting to be told who to kill next.
A man staggered into the inn, announced to one and all that there was a cat stuck in a wheel out by the bridge, and staggered out, presumably to spread the news further. No one in the tavern appeared to care, and certainly nobody stirred, until Hopeless gave a little sigh and said, “I’ll just be a minute.”
He left, and after a moment Ghastly followed him into the afternoon sun. They walked up to the bridge, a bridge countless pilgrims had passed over on the road to Rome. There was an old, overturned wagon beside it.
“What do you think of all this?” Ghastly asked as they walked.
“I don’t know,” said Hopeless. “I shall have to see the cat to form an opinion.”
“I meant about Mevolent being in town.”
“Oh.” He shrugged.
“That’s the sum total of your opinion? A single shrug? We have a chance to end the war.”
“We have had chances before,” said Hopeless. “Every chance we’ve had, we have failed to actually end it. Mevolent is still walking around. So is Vengeous and so is Serpine. Sometimes I think the war is going to go on forever.”
“You used to be funnier.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“No,” Ghastly agreed, “you weren’t.”
Skulduggery was undoubtedly the most famous of the Dead Men, and Shudder was definitely the most feared. But Hopeless was by far the deadliest of them all. He’d been a knife in the darkness once upon a time, one of the hidden blades – an assassin without equal. Ghastly had known him for over seventy years, but barely knew him at all. It was as if he wore a different face for different people: when he spoke to Saracen, he was warm; when he spoke to Shudder, he was quiet; when he spoke to Skulduggery, he was cold.
Whenever he spoke to Ghastly, though, he just seemed sad.
They reached the wagon. It lay tilted on one side, due in large part to only having one wheel – the wheel which now had a cat trapped between two collapsed spokes. The animal seemed calm as they approached, but once it noticed them it started struggling.
“Hello, Mr Cat,” said Hopeless gently. “I see you have found yourself in a bit of a predicament. How did you manage that, I wonder?”
The cat did not respond, and Hopeless moved towards it slowly. Ghastly stayed where he was.
“I am worried about Skulduggery,” Ghastly said, “about what he’ll do now that Serpine is so close. What do you think he will do?”
Hopeless crouched by the wheel. The cat tried turning its head to hiss at him, and when that failed it made do with simply hissing. “I think Skulduggery will do what Skulduggery does.”
“Which is?”
“Whatever he decides.”
“I cannot tell if you think you are being helpful.”
Closing one hand firmly around the cat’s upper body and ignoring the animal’s claws, Hopeless used the other to try to loosen one of the spokes.
“Skulduggery prides himself on his ability to follow logic beyond the point where it makes sense to the rest of us, while at the same time being an unashamed slave to his own darker impulses. He is a contradiction, and he has been for as long as I have known him.”
“So you’re saying we cannot possibly predict what he is going to do?”
“I’m saying you cannot predict what he is going to do.”
Hopeless let go of the cat and used both hands to pull the spokes further apart. The old wood strained and creaked. “I know exactly what he is going to do, should the opportunity for immediate revenge present itself.”
“And that is?”
“He is going to kill Serpine.” One of the spokes cracked and snapped off, and the cat squirmed free and bolted into the undergrowth beneath the bridge without even a by-your-leave. Hopeless straightened. “Goodbye, Mr Cat.”
The cat didn’t answer.
Hopeless turned to Ghastly. “I might be wrong, but I do not think I am. Skulduggery is the darkest of us all.”
“I thought you were.”
“I am the deadliest,” Hopeless corrected. “Skulduggery is the most notorious, Shudder is the scariest, and Skulduggery, once again, is the darkest. In case you’re wondering, Dexter’s the most honest, Saracen’s the most charming, Ravel’s the most loyal and you are the most decent.”
“Ah,” said Ghastly, “I’m the boring one.”
Hopeless sucked the blood from the scratches on his hand. “I’d prefer to be boring than deadly.”
They got back to the tavern. As they retook their seats, Eachan Meritorious strode in. Behind him were three women in long cloaks, wearing cloth masks over their faces. The mortals frowned and muttered at the strangers’ appearance, but said nothing.
“Gentlemen,” Meritorious said in greeting as he sat.
Saracen frowned. “Grand Mage, I can’t help but notice that you do not have the army with you. We are less than half a day’s ride from Mevolent himself and you come to taverns without a battalion stationed outside?”
“The army is not coming,” Meritorious said. “And I am not staying.”
Ghastly leaned forward on his elbows. “You think our information is incorrect?”
“On the contrary,” said Meritorious, “I think your information is completely accurate, and I commend you for gathering it. I commend you for every step you have taken along the way, right up to this point. You have done exemplary work.”
“Then explain,” Skulduggery said from beneath the bandages wrapped round his skull.
“I sent you here to verify if Baron Vengeous was, indeed, in San Gimignano. It appears my information was correct, which is very gratifying to know. If Vengeous were alone, I would send you after him without hesitation. You would capture him and he would face justice for every one of his crimes.” The barkeep started to come over, but Meritorious waved him away. “However, in light of these developments, a different plan is needed. You have a new mission.”
Dexter nodded gravely. “You want us to assassinate Mevolent.”
“Actually, I want you to save him from assassination.”
The table went quiet. Then Saracen laughed. Then stopped.
“Oh, God,” he said, “you’re serious.”
Meritorious indicated the women standing behind him. “Allow me to introduce some new friends of ours – the Masked Sisters, followers of the Lady of Darkness. This is Rapture, Zeal and Stone.”
The Masked Sisters nodded in turn. Sister Zeal was one of the tallest women Ghastly had ever seen, and he’d seen giants. Her hair was long and the colour of straw. Sister Stone was smaller but still tall, her dark hair tied in braids. They were both strong, with broad shoulders beneath their cloaks. Sister Rapture’s hair was blonde and short. She wasn’t as tall, and wasn’t as broad, but she was obviously in charge.
“Greetings, brothers,” she said.
“You follow the ways of the Lady of Darkness,” said Shudder. “You are no sisters of ours.”
“The Lady of Darkness is a mother to us all,” Rapture replied. “She casts her shadow over the world and shields us from the sun. You are our brothers, whether you wish it or not.”
“The Masked Sisters came to the Sanctuary with new information,” Meritorious said before Shudder could argue. “Their Sensitives had foreseen Mevolent’s arrival in Tuscany, and they had foreseen his death.”
“By our hand?” Ghastly asked.
“By the hand of an assassin named Strickent Abhor.”
“Then we let this assassin kill Mevolent,” Skulduggery said. “It is something we have failed to do on multiple occasions ourselves, and now you wish to prevent it?”
“If Mevolent dies by Abhor’s hand, catastrophe will follow,” said Rapture.
“This entire war is a catastrophe. Let it follow. Mevolent’s death will be worth it.”
“No,” said Meritorious, “it will not. Mevolent is trying to prise wider the Gate to Hell. He thinks it leads to a universe where the Faceless Ones are waiting. He is wrong. It will instead unleash a torrent of magical energy that will devastate this land, that will boil the seas and poison the air for centuries to come.”
Ravel narrowed his eyes. “And you would have us stand by and allow Mevolent to proceed with this madness?”
“That is what would happen,” Rapture said, “if Mevolent didn’t realise his mistake at the last possible moment, and use his considerable power to reseal the Gate to Hell forever. Strickent Abhor, our Sensitives tell us, will kill Mevolent before he comes to this realisation. Once he is dead, the Gate will remain open, and open wider, and the world will be cracked in two.”
“How accurate are your Sensitives?” Hopeless asked.
“Very,” said Rapture.
“Our own Sensitives have confirmed it,” Meritorious said.
Ghastly pushed his tankard away. He’d barely drunk from it. “And who has sent this assassin?”
“We do not know,” Rapture answered.
“Do we have any information that hasn’t been gleaned from psychics and dreamers?”
“You doubt what the Sensitives see?”
“I have been fighting in this war long enough, Sister Rapture. On more than one occasion, I have been sent into battle purely on the words of a Sensitive, and I have trusted them as far as I am able. But what they foresee rarely comes true. Knowledge of the future changes the future – that is the first rule of seeing the future.”
From the way Rapture’s mask moved, Ghastly could tell she was smiling a little. “This is true, undoubtedly. But then would not the second rule of seeing the future be that if you fail to act on what has been glimpsed, you are simply allowing it to happen? We can second-guess fate every moment of every day for the rest of our lives, but the truth is that we must do what we can when faced with a choice. That is all we can ever do.”
Skulduggery turned to Meritorious. “If the psychics are correct, and we sneak into San Gimignano and protect our enemy from this assassin, what happens afterwards?”
Meritorious shrugged. “Once Mevolent has sealed the Gate to Hell, you may do what you wish.”
“And did the psychics foresee us killing Mevolent once this is over?”
“They did not.”
“I did not think so. You are asking us to save his life.”
“No, Skulduggery, I ask no such thing. Instead, I command it. You will protect him, and the Masked Sisters will help you. Sister Stone is a Sensitive and can shield the thoughts of the group from Mevolent’s people. If you do not consider yourself able to carry out my orders, tell me now and I will have you replaced. If it is too difficult a task for you, for any of you, for the Dead Men as a whole, tell me now. There are other soldiers who will do what needs to be done.”
“No one is asking to be replaced,” said Hopeless.
“Protecting Mevolent means protecting Baron Vengeous, too – and Nefarian Serpine. They must be allowed to investigate La Porta dell’Inferno and then seal it once they realise what it is. If you do not think you can do that, I will understand.”
“We can do it,” said Ghastly. “Skulduggery, tell him.”
“We can protect Mevolent and Vengeous,” said Skulduggery.
“And Serpine?”
“Serpine, too,” Skulduggery said. “Of course.”
The Dead Men and the Masked Sisters rode towards the towers of San Gimignano, following the road between farmland and vineyards and cypress groves. The warm air brought with it hints of saffron and something Ghastly couldn’t identify. They passed people on horseback or in carts and received wary looks from each and every one of them – the Sisters for their hidden faces, Ghastly for his scars, and Skulduggery for his head covered in bandages.
The town ramparts rose from the rolling hills, but it was the towers that caught the attention – dozens of them dotting the skyline, a sign of wealthy families vying for influence. On their approach to Tuscany, the Dead Men had passed plenty of miserable hovels, little more than roofs of planks that looked, from a distance, like tents. Entire families slept upon palliasses, if they even had any, surviving on chestnuts and macaroni. Contrasting that with the opulence on display here was a somewhat jarring sensation.
To the west of San Gimignano were the remains of a fort, to the north a church, in the middle the cathedral. They left their horses outside the walls and joined the flow of people travelling through the town’s narrow veins and arteries, breathing in the familiar smells of civilisation. The houses were flat-roofed, with either a low parapet round the top or a balustrade, on which were placed flowerpots containing myrtles, Catalonian jasmine, coxcombs, balsamines, and other odoriferous greenhouse plants. Delicate arbours trailed over the wood to protect it from the heat of the sun. The noble ladies had magnificent terraces attached to their apartments, which were shaded with silk awnings, and alleys formed of orange and lemon trees.
Ghastly and Skulduggery broke off from the group and managed to find a deserted street. Immediately, they boosted themselves up to a terracotta rooftop.
“You cannot kill him,” Ghastly said, breaking their silence.
“I cannot kill who?” asked Skulduggery. “Oh, of course. Serpine. Of course I can’t. We have our orders, and the Dead Men are known for obeying orders.”
“Actually, we’re quite notorious for disobeying them.”
Skulduggery’s head tilted. “We are? I suppose that does sound more like us, if I am to be honest. Yes, you are right. I was thinking of somebody else entirely.”
“You understand that we must curtail the urge to disobey for the time being, yes?”
“Absolutely.”
“Somehow I don’t believe that you do.”
“Ghastly, how long have we been friends? A long time, yes? Ever since our encounter with those pirates …” His voice turned wistful. “The open sea, the wind in our faces, the arrogance of youth. We were told what to do back then, do you remember? And we disobeyed, and because of that we plunged into the most excellent of adventures that cast our friendship in iron from that day forth.”
“And we almost got a lot of people killed.”
“We did, this is true, but that just adds to the frisson, does it not?”
“If we add to the frisson this time round, the results could be too awful to contemplate.”
Skulduggery’s head tilted in the other direction. “I do not know about that, Ghastly. I can contemplate quite a lot of awfulness.”
“If you go after Serpine, I shall have to stop you.”
Skulduggery was quiet for a moment before speaking. “So if I attempt to find redress of the man who murdered my family, who then tortured me to death over three long days of indescribable agony, you will physically intervene?”
“To save the rest of the world, I will.”
Skulduggery clapped a hand to Ghastly’s shoulder. “But of course you will, for you are a decent fellow, and I would expect nothing less.” Then he turned and walked to the edge of the building as he took a pouch from his coat.
