Last Stand of Dead Men. Derek Landy

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 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.”

      

      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