“That’s the last of them,” Skulduggery said. “Now for the main event.”
The hidden door to the Sanctuary hung open like a gaping wound. A dead Cleaver lay just inside. Stephanie hesitated for a moment, then stepped over the body and they followed the steps down.
The Sanctuary’s foyer had witnessed most of the carnage. It was littered with the dead. There were no wounded here, there were no dying – there were only corpses. Some had been cut to ribbons, some were unmarked and there were places, spread across the floor, where there was only the dust of those who had fallen before the Sceptre. Stephanie tried to step without touching the remains, but they were piled so deep that this was impossible.
She passed the Administrator. His body was curled, his fingers hooked and frozen in death. His face was a mask of agony. A victim of Serpine’s red right hand.
Skulduggery went to the doorway on their left and peered around, making sure the corridor was empty. Tanith passed, pressing herself against the wall and nodding to him. He moved forward, stopped, nodded back to her, and they continued like this as they stalked deeper into the Sanctuary.
No more walking straight into danger, Stephanie thought to herself. This was the only sign they gave that they might actually be afraid.
She followed along behind. Her palms were slick with sweat and her mouth was dry. She felt as if her legs weren’t going to support her for very much longer. Her thoughts went to her parents, her loving parents. If she died here, if she died tonight, would they even notice? Her reflection would carry on with its empty masquerade and they’d gradually begin to realise that this thing, this thing they thought was their daughter, its affections weren’t even real. They’d realise it was all an act, but they’d still think it was her. And they’d live out the rest of their days thinking that their own daughter didn’t love them.
Stephanie didn’t want to put them through that. She was going to die, she knew she was. She should turn now, and run, run away. This wasn’t her business. This wasn’t her world. It was like Ghastly said, the first time she met him – Gordon had already lost his life because of this nonsense. Was she so keen to join him?
She didn’t hear him. She didn’t hear his footsteps, not even when he was so close he could have reached out and stroked her hair. She didn’t catch a glimpse out of the corner of her eye, and she didn’t notice his shadow or see a reflection, because if he didn’t want to be seen, he wouldn’t be seen. But as he was moving behind her she felt his presence, she felt the air shift slightly and brush against the skin of her hands and she didn’t even have to turn her head – she just knew.
She launched herself forward and Skulduggery and Tanith looked back as she rolled and came up.
The White Cleaver stood there, silent as a ghost, deadly as a plague.
Tanith turned to see Valkyrie coming up out of her roll and saw the White Cleaver standing behind her.
“Valkyrie,” Tanith said, keeping her voice low and steady, “get behind me.”
Stephanie moved backwards and the Cleaver attempted to stop her.
“I’ll hold him off,” Tanith said, not taking her eyes off her adversary. “You stop Serpine.”
Tanith drew her sword, and she heard Skulduggery and Stephanie hurry away. The White Cleaver reached over his shoulder and pulled out his scythe.
Tanith stepped towards him.
“I ordered you to distract the Hollow Men, didn’t I?” she said. “You were one of the Cleavers assigned to us.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t even move.
“For whats it’s worth,” Tanith said, “I’m sorry about what happened to you. But it was necessary. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for what is going to happen to you. But that’s necessary too.” He started twirling his scythe and she raised an eyebrow. “Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.”
He lunged and she blocked and sprang at him, her sword slicing through the air. He ducked back and blocked, spinning as the scythe whistled over Tanith’s head. Her sword clashed with his blade and then the handle of the scythe, and his blade clashed with her sword and then the lacquered scabbard she still held in her left hand.
She ducked under his guard, staying in close, where she had the advantage, where he couldn’t manoeuvre the scythe.
His blocks were lightning fast but he was on the defensive and one of her strikes would get through eventually. Her sword sliced through his side and he stumbled back, out of range. Tanith looked at the blood on his white coat and gave him a smile. Then the blood started to darken and a black stain moved over the red.
Her smile dropped and the bleeding stopped altogether.
She backed away. There was a door behind her and she waved it open as the Cleaver advanced.
The room she backed into was filled with cages, and in these cages, men and women stood and sat. She realised instantly where she was – the Sanctuary’s Gaol. The people in these cages were the worst of the worst, criminals of such a sickening and grotesque order that they had to be held here, in the Sanctuary itself. The cages bound their powers while at the same time sustaining their bodies, keeping them healthy and nourished. It meant neither the Elders nor the Cleavers had to bring them food and water – these criminals only had themselves for company. And when the person in the cage next to each of them was as maniacal and as egotistical as they were, that was hell itself.
The Cleaver pursued her steadily down the steps, sparks flying as their blades clashed.
The prisoners watched, and for the first few moments, they were confused. The Cleavers were their jailers, yet this Cleaver wore white, and they recognised something within him, something that identified him as one of them. They started to shout and cheer as Tanith was forced back, enemies all around her.
She blocked a strike and her bruised wrist gave way. The Cleaver took full advantage, his blade passing along her belly, drawing blood. She grimaced in pain and retreated under the Cleaver’s impossibly fast onslaught, barely managing to keep up her defence.
The prisoners laughed and jeered, reaching through the cage bars at her, pulling at her hair, trying to scratch her. One of them snagged her coat and she spun out of it, throwing her sword and scabbard into the air as she freed her arms from the sleeves and catching them again before the Cleaver could close the gap.
He swung and she blocked with the scabbard and flicked up with the sword but he was twisting the scythe, deflecting the strike and coming back with one of his own.
Tanith dodged back, lost her footing and went into a backwards roll as he brought the scythe down, the point of the blade striking the ground where she had just been.
The prisoners howled with laughter as she turned and ran to the wall, the Cleaver right behind her. She jumped to the wall and kept going till she was upside-down, and she crossed the ceiling, trading strikes with the Cleaver below her. He was forced to walk backwards, to defend and attack over his own head.
The Cleaver slashed and missed and she saw her chance and took it. She struck his left hand with her scabbard and his fingers opened. She dropped and flipped, landing before he could recover, and snatched the scythe from his grasp. She kicked out and he stumbled back and she drove her sword into him.
The prisoners stopped jeering. The Cleaver took a step back.
Tanith swung the scythe, burying the blade in his chest. He fell to his knees, black blood dripping on to the floor.
She looked down at him, felt his eyes through his visor, looking back at her. Then his weight fell back onto his haunches, his shoulders sagged and his head lolled forward.
The prisoners were muttering now, cheated out of seeing her die. Tanith gripped her sword and pulled it from the Cleaver’s body,