The Screaming Skull

by Rick Ferguson

  “Confound your mysterious pronouncements, wizard,” said the Lord Marshall, “These cretins couldn’t overthrow a gnome birthday party, let alone a dark lord. What are you driving at?”

  “The lemming imps take orders only from their queen,” Sklaar continued. “I propose that we send these chaps out behind a street-sweeper to find and slay her. If they succeed, we may be assured that Fate guides their hand. If they fall, then the devil gets his due, and the city may yet be saved.”

  “Aye, ‘tis sporting enough,” said Lord Farbrimm. “And while this lot are dying beyond the walls, we can spirit our booty out the back door. But what about the Girdle of Gargantua? We’re to just hand it over to the devil with our compliments?”

  “Absolutely,” said the Lord Mayor. “Even if we could get it off this fool without cutting off his head, I certainly wouldn’t want to possess it. I doubt either of you wants it, either. It’s no threat to Woerth without the other Phylaxes, and those were lost in the Dread Wars centuries ago. Even if the Skull turns up again, the devil won’t be able to use it for more than a paperweight.” He turned his gaze to us. “What say you, lads? Would you care to go down fighting?”

  “Hold on a minute,” said Amabored, oblivious as always to the proprieties of status or rank. “If these things are Phylaxes, why don’t you noble lords protect them? Why don’t you form a Quest of your own to find the others? If the Dread Wars are to return, shouldn’t you wise men be working to destroy the Phylaxes and save the Free Kingdoms?”

  There was a beat while the three lords absorbed Amabored’s mini-tirade. Then they all burst into laughter. Sklaar himself patted Amabored’s shoulder.

  “Allow me to let you in on a little secret,” said Sklaar, his eyes squinching impishly beneath his bushy white brows. “There’s a reason why the Wise in these tales always send a pack of nobodies to destroy the dark lord. It’s called hedging your bet.”

  “That’s right,” said the Lord Mayor. “Now get out there and kill that queen, lads. There is no other way.”

  “Thank you, my lords,” I said. “If need be, we’ll honor you with our deaths.”

  “That’s but little honor indeed,” said the Mayor. “But we appreciate the sentiment.”

  19

  It’s supposed to be every man’s fantasy: two hot babes fighting over him. Even if I were worth fighting over, however, I gave neither Melinda nor Cassiopeia the chance to do so—after all, I was lying my ass off to them both. To each woman, I had sold a phantasm: a standup, considerate, monogamous, easy-going chap who, even if he failed to provide a blazingly inventive sex life, could at least offer them a measure of comfort and security. At times, I even believed in this ghost myself.

  After a month of sneaking out on Melinda to see Cassie, I hardly recognized me. I lied to Melinda about where I’d been; I lied to Cassie about where I was going. I lied to my mates about what I was up to. I lied to myself about everything. Each night has my head hit the pillow, I turned my back on the woman who loved me to dream of the woman I loved. I wanted her, no matter the cost.

  It didn’t help, mind you, that time with Cassie was a day at the beach, while time with Melinda was like shoveling shit in the stables. Melinda had become consumed with running the Guild: fending off challenges, keeping the Under-Bosses in line, stopping the odd gang war, shifting the Guild businesses away from slavery and assassination to honest vices like gambling and brothels. She had become so dour and humorless that every moment spent with her became an effort of will. Cassie, meanwhile, knew how to party; those Greek pagans all pay fealty to Bacchus. The woman could drink any man I knew under the table, and it became a challenge just to keep up with her. Combine world-class imbibing skills with wit that sparkled like champagne and beauty that could stop your heart in its tracks, and you have a woman I was helpless to resist, even as she made no effort to snare me. Melinda never stood a chance.

  One bitter hour in the dark of night, after Melinda had blown up at me yet again for the contempt with which I so obviously regarded her, I said a prayer. Thanks to Wilberd’s counsel, I was a newly minted follower of Odin; that night, I challenged the All-Father to show himself.

  As Melinda slept next to me curled in a ball, I left our bed and slipped into the common room. I lit a candle, placed it on the hearth, and then knelt before it.

  Okay, All-Father, I prayed silently with head bowed. I want the woman Cassiopeia. I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I want her more than wealth, more than fame. And yet it’s impossible to believe that I’ll end up with her. So, give her to me, All-Father. Give me this woman, and I’ll know that you exist. I’ll believe in you to the end of my days.

  And guess what? He did. And not via showy miracles, either. Rather, the prayer implanted in my mind the notion that if I just stayed the course, if I continued to lie my ass off, then things would work out in my favor. It could have ended otherwise, with both women telling me to go fuck myself. By all rights, I should have wound up alone. The Quest took care of that possibility; I was always meant to win Cassie. To win her, I had only to stab Melinda in the heart.

  Having seen my prayer answered, I did believe in the All-Father—until sixteen years later, when I held Cassie’s hand while she died. Then I knew there was no All-Father, after all. If I was wrong and he did exist, then I vowed to find him in the afterlife and gut that merciless fucker like a river trout. Real or not, Odin can go fuck himself.

  20

  When Cassie and Melinda confronted each other for the first time, I could see, even as I was lashed to a catapult, the thunderstorm of emotions in Melinda’s eyes. Time froze. She stood poised atop the courtyard wall, crossbow at the ready, auburn hair flowing, green eyes blazing. Behind those eyes lay confusion, jealousy, sadness, and rage, all locked in a death-struggle for mastery of her heart. Across the way, the same emotions warred in Cassie’s eyes. The enormity of the betrayal I had wreaked upon these two women fell upon me like a cliff face sheering away from a mountainside.

  “You’d better haul ass,” Lithaine was saying to me, as we jumped down from the catapults. “Those women want your balls on a plate.”

  Before either of them could produce the garden shears, the air assault began. Life is, after all, entirely dependent on timing.

  Outside the city walls, the Plague Horde waited—but waiting was all they could do. With the wizards at the School holding fast despite Sklaar’s demise, anything that touched the city walls from the wrong side would be incinerated. Should the magical shielding fail, five thousand hard-case Redhauke Guards waited on the battlements giddy to avenge Farbrimm’s assassination by wetting their blades in Plague Knight blood. Should Eckberd prevail and sack the city, his forces would be so depleted that the Free Kingdoms would quickly retake it. The city faced not imminent destruction, but rather the slow strangulation of a prolonged siege. Could Redhauke hold out until relief came? The city could be resupplied by water for a time, but Eckberd’s navy would no doubt soon arrive to blockade the Everdeep and tighten the noose. With winter capering just over the horizon, the outlook was dire.

  Eckberd the Pestilent, Lord of the Plague Knights, had in mind a simpler solution to the standoff. For all his power and wisdom, Sklaar was a surprisingly two-dimensional tactician; his opponent suffered not from such shortcomings.

  Before I could adjust to my newfound freedom, Melinda raised her crossbow in my direction. The woman could shoot the wings off a fairy at fifty chains—if she wanted me dead, then dead I would be. I scrambled for cover and found none. Then the thought came to me: I deserve this. Once I had vowed to pay my debt to her with my life; now was as good a time as any. So, I stood straight, found her gaze with mine, and waited for the shaft to pierce my heart.

  Melinda didn’t murder me. Instead, she aimed the crossbow above my head and speared a Chaos dwarf piloting a steam-powered ornithopter. The machine banked sharply downward and crashed into the palace in a horrendous crunch of wood, brass fittings, and hide-sewn bat wings.
The sky was filled with such machines, from which their dwarf pilots dropped onto the city streets hundreds of silvered glass spears. These shattered upon impact and released billowing blooms of scarlet light.

  “What the hell are those things?” I asked Redulfo.

  “Sorcery dampeners,” the wizard shouted above the din. “Eckberd is shutting down Sklaar’s magical defenses—and without Sklaar, our own ornithopters are useless. You know what comes next.”

  “He’ll rain fire on the city,” said Amabored. “Burn us out.”

  “Then there’s only one thing for it,” I said. My three friends strode to my side. We stood together, four comrades bound not by blood nor even honor, but rather by the shared desire to save our asses. “We leave by the front door. Take the Skull and Girdle to Eckberd.”

  “And when we find him,” said Lithaine, “we filet him.”

  “You got that right,” said Amabored.

  “Perhaps he doesn’t,” said Redulfo.

  “No!” came Cassie’s voice, ringing across the courtyard.

  She strode forward, an Athenian warrior-priestess with mace at the ready, and she looked as hot as a demon’s tit. When she reached me, she pulled off her mailed glove and rocked me across the chops with it.

  “Are you that fucking stupid?” she asked. “You all heard what the Ki-Rin told me. It’s not just the fate of this city at stake, or your lives. It’s the fate of the Woerth! You must find those Phylaxes, and you must start looking now. March out there with your dicks swinging, and it’s not just the end of you, as if anyone would give a shit. It’s the end of everything! So, find a way to sneak out of this city and do your fucking jobs, you miserable pieces of shit.”

  There was no answer we could give to that speech, so we gave none. Redulfo responded for all of us by saying, “There’s only one problem: there’s no way out of the city.”

  “I know a way.” Having descended from her perch, Melinda stepped forward. I saw her, too, as if for the first time: the most powerful woman in Redhauke, with five thousand rogues at her command. Jesus, I never stood a chance against either of these women. What the fuck was I thinking?

  “It’s inside the palace,” Melinda continued. “We’ll have to get through the guards. And then we’ll have to make it down to the catacombs.”

  “The catacombs?” asked Lithaine. “I’d rather face the Plague Knights.”

  “What happens after that?” Redulfo asked. “We don’t have the slightest idea where to go.”

  “If we can get you out through the catacombs, a boat will be waiting to take you to a ship,” Melinda said. “The ship is called The Bilge Rat, and the Captain is a friend of mine. I reached out to him through the aether in case we needed to flee the city. His ship should be anchored somewhere between the city and the mouth of the Whitehorse River—and he’ll agree to transport the lot of you downriver and to the bay. He’s also the greatest treasure hunter in the free kingdoms. If he can’t track down the Phylaxes, then no one can.”

  “I’ll go with you, as far as the boat,” said Cassie. “I can at least make sure you live long enough to escape the city. After that, you’re on your own.”

  We all nodded our heads like a bunch of dumb fucks. The women were in charge now, and we were just happy to have a chance to escape the city with our miserable lives. Melinda sent Fiona off to make sure the boat was in position, and then we headed for the palace.

  I took Melinda by the shoulders. “You’d do this for us? After what I’ve done?”

  “I’m not doing it for you,” Melinda said. “Now take your hands off me, and let’s go.”

  21

  The Palace guards turned out to be less of a problem than we anticipated; they had all fled the palace, taking with them every transportable object of value. Our dearly departed Lord Mayor had taken no chances, despite his certainty that the army camped outside the city was just another illusion. Fortunately, the armory hadn’t been looted; a few moments within, and we were all armed for battle.

  Our footfalls echoed madly through the empty marble halls as Melinda led us through the palace, down several staircases, and finally into the catacombs below. We paused at the top of a stone staircase to get some torches going. Melinda’s wide face was set to a determined scowl. She was Melinda the Blade now, and I had seen the last of whatever love for me she had once harbored.

  “You’d all best draw steel,” Melinda told us. “Fiona has been in contact with the warden of the catacombs, and he tells us that the Rat King has mobilized his troops. We’ll need to find him and parlay for passage.”

  To most of the city, the Rat King was just a rumor trumped up by rat catchers to make their job seem more glamorous than it was. The truth was far more terrifying. For all its wealth, power, and military might, Redhauke thrived only at the pleasure of the rats, who outnumbered the city’s humanoid population ten to one, and who could lay waste to it anytime they pleased via pestilence and massed attack. The city fathers had long ago made peace with the rodent kingdom: The rats suffered the city’s population to live, and Redhauke’s succession of mayors allowed the rats to feast on the city’s offal, its old and sick, and the occasional infant plucked from its crib. The rat catchers were paid agents of the Rat King, spying on the populace for their verminous liege. The last war between the city’s humanoid and rodent factions occurred a century ago when Lord Mayor Fractulus had imported ten thousand cats into the catacombs to rid the city of its vermin for good. Ten days later, Fractulus’s steward found the mayor’s skeleton in bed, stripped clean of every scrap of flesh as if it had been prepared for an anatomy class. Since then, both sides had kept the peace.

  These thoughts in mind, we descended into the catacombs single file: Melinda in front, Amabored behind, then Cassie, Redulfo, and Lithaine, with me guarding the rear. The staircase descended for what seemed like a league. The stone walls grew slimy. Eventually, we left the stairs behind and entered a low-ceilinged tunnel bisected by a stinking stream filled with waste. We turned south, aiming in the general direction of the Whitehorse, hoping to intersect one of the Under-Canals.

  That tunnel dead-ended into another, and that one into another, each tunnel becoming taller, broader, and descending lower, until at last we found ourselves in a vast, high-columned gallery through which flowed a canal broad enough to float a fair-sized dinghy. We continued south to the sounds of filthy waterfalls plummeting from side-tunnels high above our heads. Shafts of dirty light speared down from apertures hidden somewhere above.

  And then, we saw the first rat. It was a garden-variety gray rodent, the kind you’d shoo out of your kitchen with a dust broom. Perched atop an ancient wine barrel tucked into an alcove off the main gallery, it sat on its hindquarters blinking at us and sniffing the air. Then it leaped off the barrel and vanished into a crevice.

  “That was a scout,” whispered Melinda. “We may expect the vanguard presently.”

  Continuing forward, we saw more rats lurking atop rubble, creeping along the low crenelated wall that topped the gallery, and lining the path before us. A dozen rats became two dozen, ten score, a hundred score. Soon the entire gallery before us teemed with the scurrying, scampering, squirming bodies of ten thousand vermin ranging in size from church mice to german shepherds. They chattered together in their verminous tongue, and the sound was such to drive us mad.

  We stopped. There was no going farther until the rats made their intentions clear.

  “If they attack, toss the torches on the ground in front of us,” said Amabored, his hand drifting to his sword hilt. “That will buy us some time. Redulfo, how many can you incinerate before they reach us?”

  “I have a couple of mystical missiles and a fireball ready to go,” said the wizard. “Maybe a few hundred.”

  “Don’t be daft,” said Melinda. “If they want us dead, then dead we’ll be. Let’s wait and see what they want.”

  At the far end of the gallery, obscured by the murky gloom, a shadow filled the canal. It grew lar
ger as whatever object casting it neared. We heard the lap of water against wood, and large creatures dog-paddling.

  Only they weren’t dogs. The light revealed a team of a dozen humongous rats, each as big as a Shetland pony, paddling together in the canal. Harnesses tied them to a makeshift barge constructed of driftwood, scraps of iron, pieces of furniture, and wine barrels. Atop the barge stood a throne made from human bones. Atop the throne writhed something that bent our minds sideways.

  Was it a single creature, or something more terrifying still? It looked like a thousand or more rats all entwined together in a squirming mass of coils: long pinkish tails wound tightly in knots, rat bodies fused like conjoined twins, huge clumps and clots of dozens of rats knotted together with matted fur tangled in disgusting plates. Each individual rat was still alive. Rat-limbs worked furiously, jagged rat-teeth chomped, beady rat-eyes regarded us with menace. Together, these fused clumps of rats made up the thing’s torso, its limbs, and something approaching its head. Within the massive, teeming ball of rats that made up the latter, a pair of torch-like red eyes gleamed at us.

  “The Rat King, I believe,” Melinda said.

  Up to that point, it was the most fucked up thing I ever saw.

  22

  Which moment was more terrifying: seeing the Rat King for the first time, or watching the Chimera Gate open on the sea of lemming imps through which we were expected to wade to find their queen? In retrospect, neither moment makes my all-time list of most scared-shitless encounters. Contenders for the top spot include the moment I unmasked Garrin Grimmreaper, or the moment we got our first look at the Violet Queen on her home turf—but the former moment was too surreal, and the latter too abstract, to qualify. For Number One, I have to give it up for Koschei. That asshole knew how to throw a party.