Until the End, page 37
She switched her attention back to Obsidian, who hung in mid-air, and wondered if he was processing what had just happened, the same as her, or if he was so different that she couldn’t have recognised his thoughts even if she could see them.
The Faceless Ones had just reduced themselves to that single spark of energy. They had sacrificed their physical forms, sacrificed the power that had always been theirs, in order to escape eradication. There was no way back for them, Valkyrie knew. She had felt what they did as it was happening, and she had sensed their resignation. Their total and utter defeat.
After countless eons, after wars between gods and another war between gods and humanity, after a humiliating exile and a triumphant return, the Faceless Ones had surrendered. They were no longer a threat, no longer a consideration, and so Obsidian had let them go.
Because now he had other things to wipe away.
“Mr President, we have grave news. The big monsters, the creatures that were called Faceless Ones, do appear to have been vanquished, as we reported.”
Flanery waited, looked round at everyone else crammed into the Oval Office, and frowned. “I can’t see how you could call that grave news, though. Wouldn’t that be good news? I’d call that good news. Jerry, wouldn’t you call that good news?”
His Chief of Staff nodded quickly. “The best news, Mr President. Vanquished because of your quick thinking.”
“That’s right,” said Flanery. “You think Paul Donovan could have done this? You think he’d be able to handle a monster invasion as well as I did? No chance. None. The guy’s a loser.”
“Sir, your quick thinking saved a lot of lives,” General Sheckley said, “but that’s not the grave news I mean.”
“Ah!” said Flanery. “I knew it! Because that’s good news. The big, huge monsters going away, that’s good news. Not grave news.”
“But the bad news, Mr President—”
Flanery bared his teeth and sucked in air. “What did I tell you? What did I tell all of you?”
The general, bizarrely, didn’t look away in shame. “You asked us not to bring you bad news, sir.”
“I told you. I told you not to bring me bad news.”
“But this is important. Urgent. Vital, even.”
Flanery sat back in his big chair. He’d had it brought in because it looked like a throne and it matched the big desk. The previous guy had had a small chair and it had made him look like a small man. Image was important, Flanery knew. Optics. It was all about optics these days.
The general continued talking as if Flanery had given him the nod to continue, and that just annoyed Flanery even more. “Our enhanced troops have been reporting heavy losses, sir.”
“Our super-soldiers, you mean.”
“Whatever you want to call them, Mr President, they’re reporting heavy, devastating losses.”
“Why? They have magic powers as well as the best guns.”
“But they’re going up against monsters and other people who have magic powers. Some of them have guns, too.”
“But our guys are soldiers.”
“Sir, as has been laid out in the reports we’ve sent over, the sorcerers we’re fighting are hundreds of years old.”
“Then they should be frail and weak.”
“As detailed in our reports, sir, they are not frail and weak. They’re hundreds of years old, their ageing has slowed, and they are fit and strong. They have fought in their own wars, and they have fought – alongside regular soldiers – in our wars. They are vastly more experienced – not only in wielding magic, but also in combat – than any of our fighting men and women could ever dream of being.”
Flanery didn’t like this guy. His voice was tight, like he was about to lose his temper, and nobody lost their temper with the President of the United States.
“The Faceless Ones are gone. Dead. Because of me. Because of my strategy. At this point, you should just be sending in our soldiers to clear up the mess they’ve left behind. What the hell is wrong with you? Can’t you even do your job?”
“Sir, this conflict isn’t even close to being over.”
Now that Flanery laughed at. “Are you crazy? Are you not seeing what’s going on? Turn on a TV, General! Everyone is hailing me as the greatest Commander in Chief who’s ever lived!”
“This isn’t about the goddamn news reports,” Sheckley said, snapping out his words. “I am telling you the facts. I am telling you what is actually happening. I don’t care what the news anchors say or what the journalist on the street is saying or what the opinion polls are saying – I am telling you what we actually know from actual intelligence our agencies have actually gathered.”
The Oval Office fell silent. Sheckley’s face was red and a vein pulsed in his gleaming forehead. Flanery felt his own face redden as rage spread upwards from his shoes. Nobody else in this meeting said a word. Nobody even dared look at anyone else.
“I defeated the Faceless Ones,” Flanery growled.
“The Faceless Ones ran away!” Sheckley said loudly. “Nothing we did actually affected them in any way, shape or form! And as big as they were, and as much damage and death as they’d caused all around the world, they weren’t doing anything! For the most part, they were just standing there!”
“You can’t shout at me!”
“Yes, I damn well can!” Sheckley jumped to his feet. “The most immediate threat to the American public has been, and still is, those Shalgoth creatures! They’re the ones actively seeking out and killing people! They’re the ones we should have been focusing on – like we said! But, as usual, you didn’t listen!”
“You can’t talk to the president like this,” snarled one of Flanery’s aides.
“Shut up, you pipsqueak! You know what else you’ve done wrong, Mr President? You decided to go to war with the sorcerers! You decided to start fighting the people with the magic powers who, from the very first day, were trying to help us!”
“You’re fired!” Flanery screeched, standing and almost knocking his chair over. “You’re fired! You’re fired! You’re fired!”
“I will take my firing,” Sheckley roared, “as a badge of honour, you incredibly stupid little man!”
The general stormed out of the Oval Office and Flanery screamed in unbridled fury. He picked up the phone and flung it to the far wall, but all those cables and wires meant that it snapped back, the receiver almost hitting him in the face. “Leave! Everybody leave!”
They all ran, all of them, scurrying out of the office like pathetic, snivelling mice. All except one man lounging on the couch with his legs crossed, a man Flanery hadn’t even noticed was there.
Perfidious Withering waited until the door closed before speaking. “That was a very impressive display, Martin,” he said in that plummy English accent.
“Get out.”
The slightest raised eyebrow. “Oh, dear – somebody has lost his sense of humour, hasn’t he?”
Flanery reached for the button that called in his Secret Service agents.
“Do you really want to do that, Martin?”
“I can get them to shoot you,” Flanery responded, finger hovering. “They’d do it. And they’re not ordinary agents, either. They’ve got magic. They’re wizards now, just like you.”
Perfidious smiled. “Barba non facit philosophum.”
Flanery recoiled. “What is that? Is that a spell? Did you just put a curse on me?”
“It’s Latin, Martin. And by all means, press the button if you want a demonstration of the correct way to wield magic. I’m always good for a matinee performance.”
Flanery hesitated, then sat with all the dignity he could muster. Which was an immense amount. “You’re not welcome here.”
“Before we get to that, I have a message to convey.”
“Yeah? I’ve got a message to convey, too,” said Flanery, and used his middle finger to scratch his nose.
Perfidious smirked. “How delightfully droll. Moving on, however, my employer is displeased with you, Martin. He has given you ample opportunity to change your ways and come back in line and you have rebuffed every entreaty. This makes Crepuscular Vies very sad.”
“I don’t care what makes Crepuscular Vies sad,” said Flanery, sneering.
“But you should. Mr Vies has guided you through some difficult times.”
“I didn’t need his help. I didn’t need anyone’s help.”
“You needed an awful lot of help getting elected.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about the Sensitive, the woman named Magenta Blithe. Do you remember her, Martin? The woman whose son Crepuscular arranged to be kidnapped? The woman who we forced to influence various senators and media personalities to support your nomination to the presidency?”
Flanery bristled. “I got where I am today because some of us are winners, and some of us are losers.”
Perfidious stood. “And you, Mr President, are a loser.”
Flanery went for the button and Perfidious flicked his hand and the desk slid halfway across the room.
“Circumstances have changed,” Perfidious said, buffing his fingernails on the lapel of his blazer. “You’re a part of that, absolutely. My employer has had to adapt and improvise around your blunderings – but adaptation and improvisation are what he excels at. His plans proceed regardless, and the end point is approaching. He has sent me here to say goodbye, Martin.”
Flanery blinked. “He has?”
“You’re free to do whatever you want. Continue giving those little magic Splashes to your troops. Ignore the damage it is doing to them, both mentally and physically. Mortal bodies are not meant to wield magic. I’m sure you’d know that by now if you ever bothered to read the medical reports your experts are sending.”
Perfidious approached and Flanery stood up out of his chair and backed off.
“You’re free to bask in unearned glory as misguided citizens chant your name. You’re free to stand on an aircraft carrier and declare Mission Accomplished while the Shalgoth are massacring thousands in the streets of your fair nation every single day. You’re even free to wage war against the very sorcerers who are trying to help you. My God, Martin – you’re free to abuse your paltry reserves of power in whatever way you see fit.”
“And … and you’re going to let me?”
“Me?” said Perfidious. “This was never about me, old boy. I happen to like you enormously. You remind me of a painting of a great man that hangs in the National Gallery in London. Not the man, mind you. Just the painting. Large and brash and yet so very flimsy, set inside a gold-leaf frame. Surprisingly fragile for something so immense. No, this is about my employer, Mr Vies. This is a man who has acknowledged that you have confounded him at practically every turn. He thought he could control you. He admits now that he was wrong. He thought he could anticipate you. Yet, at every opportunity to make the smart decision, you have veered most impressively away. You are uncontrollable, Martin, and entirely unpredictable.”
“You’re … you’re not going to kill me?”
“Oh, dear me, no. I do not kill. That is a line I have not crossed in a very long time. Mr Vies sent me to act as liaison precisely because of this reticence. Between you and me – the friends that I feel we have become – some of Mr Vies’ priorities have changed. I feel he has been influenced, in a positive direction, by his interactions with a good and noble young soul. To witness this transformation has been most heart-warming. And so he has sent me to deliver this final message, one of peace and goodwill, instead of coming here himself, and killing you. Mr President, it has been a singular experience interacting with you. Good luck in your future endeavours. You’re on your own now. Be sure to make the most of it. Valeas quam optime.”
Perfidious Withering smiled, and left the Oval Office.
The Dark Cathedral was quiet apart from the sobbing.
Followers of the Faceless Ones, the guards and soldiers and priests, the priestesses in their robes and the worshippers clutching their copies of the Book of Tears sat on the ground or leaned against the walls and stared, just stared, at nothing, their eyes red-rimmed, their mouths agape. Their gods had abandoned them, had fled, and the faithful were lost. The City Guard, the officers who’d maintained the shield around the city’s walls, had lost their focus. The shield had faltered. The shield had fallen.
Skulduggery and Valkyrie entered the Dark Cathedral and flew slowly upwards, witnessing sorrow on every level, and everyone was too distraught to even think about stopping them.
Damocles Creed sat in his uncomfortable chair. The Nexus Helmet was lying on its side on his desk. He no longer shared his thoughts with the Dark Gods because there were no Dark Gods, and he looked somehow smaller for it.
Creed watched them come in, took a moment to register who they were, and jumped to his feet.
“Guards!” he screamed. “Seize them!”
No guards came running in.
“Is this a bad time?” Skulduggery asked, enjoying the moment immensely.
“You heathens,” Creed snarled. “You heathen scum.” He fixed his gaze on Valkyrie. “Betrayer. Blasphemer. May your eyes rot in their sockets and your tongue shrivel in your mouth.”
“You’re taking this better than I expected,” she told him.
“This,” he said, shaking his finger at her, “this is your doing.”
Valkyrie perched on the edge of his desk. “What did I do? This was all Obsidian. He made your creepy tentacle-lords run away like little tentacle-babies.”
“You murdered your own children!” Creed screeched.
“Let’s leave the who-did-what-to-whom for another day,” Skulduggery said. “Damocles, we have reason to believe that Obsidian will be coming here. We think he’s going to want to finish off anyone who has the stain of the Faceless Ones on them.”
“And that’s you, big guy,” Valkyrie said. “You and me.”
“Let him come,” Creed responded. “I will make him pay.”
“We would love to see that,” Skulduggery said, “but, before you die, we’d like to take the Void meteorite off your hands. It’s not that we doubt your ability to make Obsidian pay – good on you, we like that enthusiasm – but we have no actual faith in your ability to do anything of the sort. So just in case you have that little old rock hidden away where only you can find it, we thought we’d pop by, pick it up, and leave you to your quick and amusing death.”
Creed looked at them both and appeared, to Valkyrie at least, to be thinking it over. “Filth,” he said at last, disproving Valkyrie’s theory. “You’re filth. You’re degenerate, heathen filth. We had gods all around us. They had returned to us, even after everything we’d put them through. They had forgiven us, and returned, and they were about to usher in a paradise on Earth. But you couldn’t abide that, could you? You couldn’t abide happiness and unconditional love. You couldn’t abide the very idea of living for something greater than you – living for the world. For the universe. For existence itself.”
“Wow,” said Valkyrie. “That sounds awesome. Pity that was only going to happen for a select few and everyone else was facing a lifetime of pain.”
“The faithful shall be rewarded,” Creed said. “That was the promise they made us.”
The window disappeared and Obsidian drifted towards them.
“Dammit,” Valkyrie muttered, letting the necronaut suit flow over her clothes.
“Creed, give us the meteorite,” Skulduggery said. “It’s our only chance to stop him. Creed!”
Before Obsidian’s feet even touched the floor, Valkyrie let loose. White lightning flowed from her fingers. When that had no effect, she shook her hands, drew on another kind of energy, and blasted Obsidian in the chest with black lightning. He staggered slightly, but didn’t fall, and didn’t crumble to dust.
“Aw, hell,” she muttered.
Skulduggery grabbed her, pulled her back towards the door, and they were about to run when Creed pulled a handgun from his desk. It was clunky, odd-looking, carved with sigils, and Creed pulled the trigger without ceremony and Obsidian jerked back, chips of black flying from his shoulder.
Valkyrie narrowed her eyes, examining the weird energy that twisted around the bullets in the gun. Meteorite-infused bullets. Creed had made a weapon out of it.
“Die,” Creed whispered, and fired again and again, each shot sending Obsidian backwards, each cutting through his skin, cracking the surface and burrowing into what lay beneath.
Obsidian fell to his knees. Creed aimed at his head and pulled the trigger and the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. No more fancy bullets.
Creed dropped the gun, pulled a sword from a wall compartment. The handle was metal and the blade was jagged meteorite stone, and he took two long strides and prepared to swing for Obsidian’s neck and Valkyrie raised her hand out of sheer instinct, white energy crackling, and Creed flinched, expecting the bolt that would send him spinning – but she hesitated. The sword in his hands was the world’s only chance to end the threat of Obsidian.
Skulduggery reached out, lowered her hand, and she didn’t object.
Creed’s smile was entirely unpleasant – but, when he returned his attention to Obsidian, there was already a tear in space opening beside him and he was falling through. Creed cursed, slashing after him, cutting a swathe through his back, and then the tear closed up.
“Coward!” Creed screamed after him. “Come and face me! Come and die!” He turned, snarling. “You let him get away. I had him, I was going to end him, and you let him get away!”
Valkyrie glared, but didn’t respond.
“We’ll be taking that sword, if you don’t mind,” Skulduggery said.
Creed stepped back against the wall. The floor beneath him opened and he dropped into it and it resealed before Valkyrie even realised what had happened.
Skulduggery walked over. Stamped on the ground a little. “So old-fashioned,” he murmured. “I love it.”
He took Valkyrie’s arm and led her to the window and they flew out. Someone was taking shots at them from street level, but they rose quickly into the clouds.
