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“Quiet!” The general roared, and silence consumed the courtyard. Baron Vengeous had that effect on them. Most of the courtyard was filled with new recruits, fresh from all over Ireland and elsewhere. Those that had answered the call to make a name for themselves and their families. To make them proud and elevate themselves to their natural positions in the world; at the top. Sharing those sentiments was an eighteen-year old Bensen Creed, a young nobody with big aspirations and a bigger family praying for his success.
Slowing his breathing, Bensen settled his nerves, picking up the sword he’d been polishing. Blushing slightly, he prayed to the Faceless that no one had seen him jump at the loud, commanding voice of the General.
“Recruits, you have done me proud this far, making your way to this location, so close to enemy territory,” Baron Vengeous’ voice carried over the courtyard from his position next to a large carriage, loaded and heavy with wooden crates and boxes. “But it is what the Dark God's command. It is what Mevolent commands. You have been tasked to escort important packages destined for the Lord himself. As such, expect the journey to be tough. This is Dublin, which means we are behind enemy lines. The only reason we can mass here safely is because most are waging battle at Newbridge, Blessington and Greystones. At this very moment, your brothers and sisters are fighting and keeping the heathens distracted so that you may have a greater chance of traveling a safe course free from interruption. I myself will be spearheading another project, yet another distraction to ensure your travels are easier. But do not think that you will be completely safe from harm. You may face both opportunists and the heathens that are threatening to destroy our faith and our way of life. From here, you will make your way to Lugg Forest, where you will be expected to make camp and stay the night. That will be your last safe point, because then you will improvise stops and routes in order to make it to Armagh County border, where you will rendezvous with Mevolent’s men. This will take a few days, but we have trained you and helped you become soldiers of the Army of the Dark Gods. This is an important mission. We expect that you will not disappoint.” The General slowly looked around the courtyard, and when his eyes landed briefly on Bensen, the young mage was forced to cross his legs in the hopes it would prevent his bowels from clearing.
A young woman raised her hand gingerly. “But, General sir, what exactly are we-” The General glared at her, pinning her to the spot and reducing her to a pale, quaking mess, before moving his eyes away. Bensen felt his shoulders relax, not even realising he had tensed. He’d heard of Baron Vengeous and his magical discipline. He wasn’t sure he could stomach witnessing such a scene.
“I realise that many of you are new, and that most of you have never fought a day in your lives. Which is why you will be accompanied by officers and lieutenants of the army. There is no room of error, and no room for disappointment. If any among you believe yourselves incapable of the task, please make it known now.”
Bensen looked around the courtyard furtively, not expecting any complaints. There were none.
“Good,” Baron Vengeous said. “Very good. Prepare yourselves, you’ll be leaving in half an hour.”
Bensen sighed and stood up, sheathing his well-oiled and polished sword. Once his fathers, the blade had been entrusted to him by his parents when he’d signed up. A congratulatory gift that carried the hopes and wishes of his family. Looking up, a hand over his eyes to shield them from the blazing sun, he knew it was going to be a long day.
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They had been marching for a while now, sweating, straining and exhausted from carrying their rifles, their ammunition, their blades and their bags of daily supplies. The Elementals amongst them were on the outskirts of the group, constantly reading the air for any foreign movement. Traipsing through large green fields with nothing but a muddy trail to inform them that they were indeed on a path, the recruits were tired, sunburnt and bored. There were no songs being sung. No gossiping being made. Bensen could hear the occasional mutterings of conversation, but the group was tense. They’d never been entrusted with such a task before, both monumental and important. Assigned to be in the middle of the huddle, right next to the cart, he told himself it was because they trusted his ability to protect such an important item, and not because he was rubbish at fighting.
Despite the sunburn that had grown around his neck and the mud that crept up his pants the further they walked, Bensen was happy. He’d always been an outdoors type of kid, and he was enjoying the songs of the birds that flew overhead and played in the trees.
“I knew today was going to be a long one,” the boy grunted beside Bensen, hitching up his pack and fiddling with the pommel of his sword.
Bensen offered him a tired smile. “Yeah, but I suppose this is what we signed up for, right? This in service of the Dark Gods. For Mevolent. Maybe this is what he needs to bring them back. The final piece of the puzzle.”
The boy scoffed. “If it was that important, he would’ve had the General himself lead this escort. People infinitely more experienced and more powerful than us would be here. We’d be back at the barracks learning how to not die. Nah, this is probably just some books for one of the nobles.”
“Or maybe,” Bensen pointed out, “Mevolent knew that this road might not be watched, and knew that even if it was, the heathens wouldn’t bother wasting their time and energy on a bunch of new recruits looking after something they’d assume is worthless,” Bensen shrugged. “Maybe that’s why the General isn’t with us for this one. He’d draw too much attention. That’s why he’s gone somewhere else. Remember what he said? He was distracting. Surely, whatever it is, it has to be important somehow.”
The boy was silent for a moment, then tilted his head. “Now, I like that idea quite a lot,” he laughed out loud, prompting some to turn their heads to look at them. “I’m Fate, by the way. Cartilage Fate.” He offered his hand.
“Bensen,” he shook Cartilage’s hand. “Bensen Creed. You been to the front lines yet?”
Cartilage’s face soured. “No, but it isn’t due to my lack of trying. My father was, when the War first began. I was kinda hoping I’d do his name proud. Being the most recent in a long line of powerful men, there’s something to be expected of you,” Cartilage’s face soured. “Baron asked for me personally, but that obviously doesn’t mean we are friendly. He shrugged me off before I even got the sentence out”
“I think we all want to make our families proud. Give them the reason to not hide anymore,” Bensen smiled, then hesitated. “If you don’t mind me asking, but.. You said was? Is your father…?” Bensen asked, mystified despite himself, but worried about insulting his new friend. He’d had friends that had become orphans thanks to the War, but they’d never liked talking about it. ‘Duh,’ Bensen thought to himself.
“Yeah,” Cartilage’s boots squelched as he yanked his foot out from a small mud-covered hole in the path. “Lord Vile cut him down.”
Bensen couldn’t hide his flinch of surprise. “Lord Vile? But wasn’t he-”
“On our side? That’s just propaganda. You want the truth? Talk to the people who come back. Vile was never on our side. He was just a fucking bomb that you dropped on the battlefield and tried to avoid as much as possible,” the venom and hatred in Cartilage’s voice sent shivers down Bensen’s spine, and though he raised his hand as a motion of comfort, he couldn’t bring himself to put it on the other boy’s shoulder. “My father didn’t realise Vile was part of the battle. Didn’t realise who was behind him until it was too late. All we got was a -”
“Stop!” Their commanding officer at the helm of the group called. Bensen craned his neck to see above the heads of the recruits in front of him, and couldn’t help but let out an audible gasp as he saw the towering trees of Lugg Forest. They’d made it to the forest.
Cartilage muttered something, and the others started getting restless. Bensen risked another peek and saw a group of men and women approaching them, a village not too far ahead to the left. Bensen frowned. There weren’t meant to be other troops around. And if they weren’t already under attack, that could only mean…
“Mortals,” Cartilage breathed beside him. “It’s fucking mortals.” His words carried over the rest of the group, who began chuckling and grinning, many with a malicious gleam in their eyes.
“We’ve had enough of you lot!” The lead mortal was shouting, waving a pitchfork around. “We’ve asked you time and time again to leave us be. Get off our lands and stay off of ‘em.”
The commanding officer walked forward, silent and slow, his eyes never leaving the mortals. Watching, Bensen was struck by how familiar the scene felt. A memory blurred in his mind, a memory of a grey wolf stalking a trapped red deer. He had closed his eyes and covered his ears when the killing had started, all those years ago. Not this time. This time, a combination of morbid curiosity and eager anticipation allowed him to watch as the commanding officer and his men descended down upon the mortals, their angry shouting quickly turning into horrified screams as they were massacred. Burning flesh and the tinny scent of blood wafted over the group, but all were too enamoured by the violence to notice. Bensen had heard of the attacks on mortals, but had never seen it in person. The heathens apparently wasted their time using Sensitive’s to help mortals forget about everything they saw regarding magic. He felt his lip curl at the thought. Who wouldn’t want to be remembered as a hero? As someone in power?
Then, the attack was over as quickly as it had begun, and there was a reigning silence, as the recruits, none of whom had seen such a brutal display in their lives, absorbed the sight before them. Then there was a noise of amusement. A man chuckled. A woman giggled. Suddenly, the whole group was laughing and crying out and cheering and the officers were giving sweeping bows and that drew more laughter and cheers and clapping and Bensen joined in, his smile wide and laughter deep. Cartilage slapped him on the back as he bellowed with laughter and the woman before him gave him a high five, grinning widely.
As he turned to celebrate with the others behind him, he saw a dark shape flicker over the shoulder of the man behind him. Stepping out of line, he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, hoping to catch a glimpse at what it had been. After a few moments, however, he gave up and shrugged.
‘Probably just the smoke,’ he thought, as they walked past the human bonfire.
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“So how come we kill mortals?” A woman asked somewhere to Bensen’s left. He turned his head to look, but couldn’t identify who was asking. The moon and the fire they were sitting around could only provide them with so much light. “Why not reveal ourselves? Get them on our side?”
This elicited a few chuckles. “What would mortals do for us?” Cartilage smirked, an amused expression on his face as he shoved another piece of wood into the dying campfire. Sparks flew, illuminating the group and sending wicked shadows dancing along the treelines.
“Well,” the woman stammered, clearly embarrassed by the response, “they could do the things we don’t want to do. Move stuff around. Be our servants.”
“You trust mortals to do something well?” Came a chuckle.
Grinning, Cartilage elbowed Bensen. “How about you, Bensen? You know any mortals willing to do the work for us and do it well?”
Bensen shrugged, suddenly self-conscious of the eyes on him. “We had some mortal servants a while back. You know, doing yard work. Polishing. Cleaning the house.”
“And was there anything different about them?”
Bensen see-sawed his hand. “They were fine. Didn’t talk or anything. Always needed help putting stuff up in the higher parts of the kitchen and stuff. Needed us to use magic for some of the more difficult tasks.”
“So basically,” a large man with a beard said gruffly, “they’re a lot like us, just inferior. Got it.”
Cartilage and the others roared with laughter, and Bensen laughed with them, bumping his tankard against the others.
After a long swallow, another boy, smaller than Bensen, couldn’t have been older than Bensen himself, spoke up. “Do you think we’ll be sent to the front lines soon?”
“Aye!” The large man roared. “Hopefully soon!”
The boy shook his head. “I don’t think I want to go. Not after hearing about the kind of people we’ll face.”
“What? A bunch of mortal lovers?” the man sneered. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have joined up, pipsqueak. You should stay home looking after the kitchen with your mother and sister.”
“How about the Dead Men?” Another asked solemnly, and the camp grew quiet. They all knew of the Dead Men, even before signing up. Their fearsome savagery. Their merciless conquests. The bloodbaths and the fields of bodies they’d leave behind. They were hated as much as they were feared. Many would ask how this group of Irish men could find it so easy to senselessly slaughter their own people. How they could be so cruel and sadistic, leaving mangled corpses and weeping widows behind.
“Perhaps the Diablerie will keep them occupied. I mean, we’re not exactly important targets,” Bensen pointed out. “They wouldn’t send people like the Dead Men after us.”
“The Diablerie have-” Cartilage started.
“Shhh,” a woman hissed angrily. “Don’t speak ill-will of them. It’ll bring bad luck.”
“Bad luck?” Cartilage said dubiously. “If we wanted bad luck, we’d say how ugly China Sorrows is, or how stupid Serpine is, or how rubbish the Dead Men are.” The woman’s face grew paler with every word, and even some amongst them had begun shifting and fidgeting. Cartilage smirked. “Look. We’re still a distance away from the front lines. If the Dead Men, the Diablerie or any other secretive group is anywhere, they’ll be there. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Still,” the woman grumbled. “I hope Dr. Nye visits you in your dreams.” Cartilage laughed and Bensen joined in despite himself, the other boy's laughter that infectious.
Something in the woods snapped a stick and they all tensed, the woman jumping so hard she lost her marshmallow in the fire. They all scanned the forest around them carefully, except for Cartilage, who sat back against the rotten tree stump behind him and continued roasting his marshmallow.
“Don’t fret. The sentries are out there,” Cartilage soothed. “We won’t be snuck up on tonight.”
Bensen shifted, feeling the sticks, leaves and hardened soil under him. He raised his knees to his chest, looking at his leggings, which had darkened in colour and become crusty after a day of sludging it through the mud of the Irish countryside. The fire set a soft, warm glow that stayed the chill of the night, but he gathered his jacket and wrapped himself further into it, thankful for its existence.
“So what do you think will happen for us next?” Bensen asked the group before him, hoping to cut the tension.
“After some more training,” Cartilage murmured, throwing a pebble at the fire. Burned wood collapsed, causing the fire to blossom and warm all of their faces. “I believe our next destination will be the front line, acting as reinforcements.”
“Finally,” a weedy looking man with a moustache sighed. “After the Leadership Massacre and Vile’s five-year rampage, the Sanctuaries and their heathen army have never been weaker. Their flailing and scrambling at anything. The Diablerie are in a good position and the Generals are making sure Mevolent’s army wins every fight. We’ll be ruling the world soon enough,” the man chuckled. “I’ve always wanted to be free.”
Cartilage shook his head. “What bullshit propaganda are you listening to? We’ve lost a few fights since Vile’s disappearance. Hell, the front lines are at Armagh. Mevolent’s base! You want this war over, you’ll be wanting to push the front lines all the way back here. To Dublin. Or have you forgotten that the Sanctuaries control the bottom half of Ireland?”
The man scowled. “There’s nothing wrong with being optimistic.”
“Not if it’s blatantly false.” Cartilage pointed out.
“Look guys,” Bensen placated. “Lord Mevolent isn’t going to give up on us. He’s the most powerful sorcerer on the planet. Both General Serpine and Vengeous are doing everything they can to take back Dublin. We just have to keep moving forward. For our families. Our friends. So we can be free.”
The others all cheered and they sang and talked and for a long while, Bensen could almost forget about the war.
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Bensen woke with a start, rolling off of the stick that was digging into his back. Scrambling up groggily and promptly falling over backwards, he blinked the sleep away and looked around. The early morning dew had dampened his hair and the sun was soft and low in the sky, cutting through the forest in patches, leaving their encampment in the shadows. He saw the resting forms of his comrades, the tents still pitched and the embers of their fire dim. Bensen got up slowly, careful not to wake the others, and wandered through the brush to find a suitable tree to relieve himself on.
Rubbing his sunburned neck gingerly, his hand came away with bits of skin. He winced, dreading the pain to come. Walking through the bushes, crushing ferns and plant life underfoot, and brushing low-hanging branches away, Bensen enjoyed the peace and quiet, daydreaming of a time where he, his friends and his family could live without fear of discovery. Where they could usher in a new age full of magic, beauty and freedom. Smiling, Bensen spotted a nice hollowed out tree to finish his business next too. He was unbuckling belt when he stopped, realising he’d forgotten about the sentries they’d posted last night. He looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of one, to no avail. As he frowned and looked around, the weight of the deafening silence suddenly hit him. There were no birds singing in the trees. No deer grazing. No wolves howling. His skin prickled and he shivered. He took a step backwards and pressed his back against the tree. Calming himself, he stepped into the hollow of the tree to give himself some comfort, and his foot hit something soft and squishy. He looked down and almost yelled out in shock, his cry a strangled noise that barely escaped his lips, as he looked down at one of the sentries. The corpse laid there, its neck open and bloody, eyes unseeing. He’d seen dead people before, but nothing like this. Not up close. He was stepping backwards, his hands trembling violently, when the screaming started.
His shock eradicating his ability to run properly, he staggered and stumbled through the trees, bouncing off of rough bark and scrambling up after falling over holes in the ground and wet shrubs. As he ran, he realised just how far he had wandered from camp, and the screaming began to drift away with the wind, leaving behind the smell of fire and death. Finally, he reached the small hill overlooking the camp and stopped, the scene before him a far cry from the peace and tranquility he had left behind. Now, chaos and bedlam reigned, most of his comrades dead or dying, the few remaining struggling against seven men clothed in black apparel, cracked, dry and scuffed from years of use. A monstrous creature flew across the rudimentary battlefield, roaring and screaming as its terrible claws slashed and cut into men and women. Fireballs and streams of energy dominated the space between the battling adversaries, and Bensen watched as the large man he had spoken to last night fell to his knees, screaming and clutching a melting face. Another man beside him keeled over, a hole burnt through his chest from an energy-stream. The seven men twisted and turned, covering each other’s backs, leaving no corner left unchecked. Their swords clashed against the armaments of Bensen’s comrades, and his comrades were cut down quickly and brutally, their blood staining the grass and seeping into the mud. Every now and again, death in the form of lead balls would be spat out from a Duval or a Sharpe pistol, removing any identifying facial features and eradicating any chance of the victim of going back home. As fire raged around the campsite, and the smoke curled and wafted into the heavens, the seven men became wraiths, brutal and dangerous and unknown. Bensen felt the icy grip of fear latch onto him as a realisation dawned on him. These men were unstoppable. They were untouchable. Bensen couldn’t help but let out a whimper.
Suddenly, Cartilage was beside him, a feral snarl on his face. He looked down at Bensen and shoved a Kentucky rifle into his hands. “Don’t miss. Cover me!” Leaving Bensen speechless, Cartilage charged down into the thick of the battle, throwing fire at a dark figure. The figure emerged from the smoke, revealing a scarred head and a grim look. Waving the fireball away, the man danced forward and struck Cartilage with a vicious roundhouse. Cartilage’s head snapped back and he staggered, but the scarred man refused Cartilage the time to regain his senses and, his blade winking in the early morning sun, drove the blade through Bensen’s friend. Bensen’s heart stopped and he watched his friend fall to his knees, looking up at the scarred man in defiance, before keeling over sideways.
Bensen flattened himself, the rifle underneath him. “You did nothing,” he whispered to himself in shock. “You did nothing.”
Silence dominated the space now, all the screaming and crying left for the dead to do past the veil. Bensen felt tears running down his cheeks as his mind caught up with the moment and it all clicked. These were the legendary Dead Men. His teeth began to chatter and his stomach churned. He wiggled himself further into the grass and mud, ignoring the muck that had splattered on his cheek.
He prayed to the Faceless Ones that they would pass. Even now, so low in the mud and grass, he could see them standing in a circle, observing the carnage. He saw Anton Shudder, the man whose Soul tore out of his chest to wreak vengeance on his enemies. The scarred man, Ghastly Bespoke, son of Kattalan Hammer, the woman who had forced the Commander into a stalemate. Dexter Vex, Erskine Ravel and the man called Hopeless, all scarred and grim and dangerous. He saw Saracen Rue, his eyes scouring the landscape in search of prey. A natural predator, he had been told. No spy or assassin or mortal had ever escaped him.
‘Saracen Rue knows things.’
‘Oh, by the Faceless, please let him not know me,’ Bensen wept silently. ‘Please let me stay hidden. I’m nothing. I’m not anyone important. Please let me stay hidden.’
And he saw Skulduggery Pleasant, the man from Hell. His teeth chattered and his sweat prevented him from maintaining a good grip on his sword. He watched as they checked the cart, grabbing the chest and opening it up. He watched as the man called Hopeless reached inside, and withdrew a large leather-bound book with black ribbon tied around it. He showed it to the other Dead Men and stowed it away in a pack. Bensen looked on, unsure of what exactly made this book so valuable, when he realised Saracen Rue was staring right up at where he was lying. Terror seized his heart, his blood running cold, freezing him in place.
‘Oh please, oh please, oh please.’
Saracen pointed in his direction and his lips moved to utter one word: “There.”
Before Bensen could react, the air around him shifted and he was torn from his hiding place and he landed in the mud at their feet. He looked up at them, all muscular and strong and powerful and battle-hardened. Wrapped in cracked leather and black cloth, Bensen saw soldiers. Warriors. Death dealers and widow makers. Saracen Rue fixed him to the spot with piercing eyes and Skulduggery Pleasant approached him. The Dead Man stared down at him, his skull impassive. He spoke without turning. “No witnesses.”
“No witnesses.” The others murmured.
Skulduggery Pleasant’s fingers curled and Bensen’s throat constricted. He struggled to no avail, and he watched that impassive skull tilt as his world darkened.