The Corpse-Rat King

by Lee Battersby

  The Corpse-Rat King

  Lee Battersby

  Marius dos Hellespont and his apprentice, Gerd, are professional looters of battlefields. When they stumble upon the corpse of the King of Scorby and Gerd is killed, Marius is mistaken for the monarch by one of the dead soldiers, is transported down to the Kingdom of the Dead. The dead need a King--the King is God's representative, and someone needs to remind God where they are.

  Marius is banished to the surface with one message: if he wants to recover his life he must find the dead a King. Which he fully intends to do. Just as soon as he stops running.

  LEE BATTERSBY

  The Corpse-Rat King

  To my beautiful wife Lyn, for her belief, her unwavering support, and her constant love.

  To Aiden, with faith that the huge steps he is about take carry him wherever he wishes to go.

  And to Erin and Connor, who keep telling me how much they want to be older so they can read this book.

  If I catch you using any of the rude words in here, I'll ground you.ONE

  The battle was over.

  The Jezel valley had been a place of gently rolling farmlands, with a series of short, steep hills at one end where sheep had jostled for grass under the shade of hardy, wind-swept trees. It was a perfect location for two armies to clash. In two hours, the valley had been transformed from a sleepy green nowhere into a madman’s finger painting of mud, metal and ruptured flesh lying beneath a swathe of early morning mist. The lower reaches of the hills lay bare, denuded of handholds by soldiers grabbing at whatever foliage might help them climb above the carnage, only to be dragged back under, fingers curled around snapping branches. Two hours of pre-dawn chaos was over. Now the silence was broken only by the cawing of crows and an occasional cry of disbelief as one of the soldiers left behind to pick through the carpet of corpses saw the face of a friend, or comrade, or brother.

  The dead lay across each other like so many stalks of threshed wheat. It was impossible for a man to step in any direction without sliding his foot across someone’s flesh. Men lay embraced in poses at once familiar and obscene, metal-clad parodies of lust turned to stone and forgotten. Loyalties were impossible to discern. Scraps of standards were wrapped around necks or half-buried in the mud that fifty thousand feet had churned to a strength-sapping soup. A careful census might discover who had drowned rather than been beaten into eternity, but no such census would occur. The dead were dead. Those who had decided the need for conflict would move on, to gather more troops and seek further opportunities for warfare. Men can be recruited, but lands are limited.

  Not all those on the field were dead, however. Here and there, members of the opposing armies wandered back and forth, bending to turn over a body here, removing a chest plate or shield there. In the aftermath of the battle, the need to identify those lords who had fallen, to ascertain blood payments and send tokens back to estates for identification and enshrinement, had brought down a practical kind of truce. Every now and again, soldiers from opposing sides would pass each other and stop to tell their stories and swap whatever items they had found on their wanderings. To count the fallen was a sad business. With so many thousands of corpses, there were enough deceased gentry that it would take two full days to drag the bodies away from the area. Only after that could the commoners be gathered up like so much kindling and put to the torch.

  Minor nobility had been herded toward the far fringes of the battle, in order to blood them in inconsequential clashes. Should they rise in their king’s favour before battles to come, they would have at least some sort of experience in their favour. At the farthest corner, where the ground had become stony and unworkable, ending in a copse of ancient, gnarled trees, two men in the colours of the Kingdom of Scorby tiptoed cautiously through the fallen. A casual observer would see nothing to separate them from the soldiery concentrated on the more profitable slopes towards the centre of the battlefield. They were thin and darkened by the sun. The young one was taller, a little on the burly side, perhaps even barrel-chested. Close-cropped hair sat above an open face framed by ears as large as jug handles. His companion – older, smaller – walked with smooth grace between the corpses, seemingly less troubled by the proximity to death. His hair was longer, brushed back off his sharp features and tied back with a simple leather headband. He was, perhaps, a touch too slight for the military, but the quickness and deftness of his movements marked him out against his lumbering young companion. There was nothing to cause alarm or distrust, no reason to let the gaze linger before moving on.

  But watch long enough, and the observer would see how they made pains to avoid their fellow soldiers, how they stooped and scuttled rather than strode with solemn grace, how they shied from any glance and how whatever it was they tore from finger and neck was quickly secreted so that, to all intents and purposes, their task seemed fruitless.

  Marius Helles watched his apprentice turn over a corpse and bend to remove the chain gloves from its hands. He tutted. No sense, this boy. It was obvious to Marius, even from several feet away, that the dead man was no noble. Nobody of gentility would grip a smithing hammer so tightly in their cold fist, nor wear a leather jerkin with so many patches. The helmet clinging to the dead man’s head was of poor manufacture, which accounted for the massive dent that had crushed the corpse’s head into such an ovoid shape. Despite all his teachings, the youngster still could not see the obvious and move on to more profitable prospects. Marius hissed, and the young man looked up from his task.

  “Not that one, Gerd. There.” He jerked his head towards a splash of burgundy cloth waving above a tangle of bodies. “Check that one out.”

  “But this one…” Marius had picked Gerd up whilst on the run from a disastrous money-printing venture in the Tallian foothills. Gerd’s accent bore the thickness of the mountains. Weeks of roadside elocution practice had done nothing to thin his tongue or round his vowels. An accent is a way to be tracked, Marius had told him, over and over, to no avail. He glared, and Gerd, thick as he was, took the hint.

  “Stupid boy,” Marius muttered, and picked his way across the dead soldiers towards the possible prize. Best to get there before the boy, in case Gerd mistook a ring for a wart and did him out of a week’s eating. He scanned the corpses to either side as he walked. There, just a few steps away, a flash of chequered cloth that Marius immediately recognised as belonging to the house of the Duke of Lypes, a rich province. He hunched over, close enough to identify the body. One of the Duke’s younger sons, sent to this end of the battle to keep him away from the battle-hardened mercenaries of the Tallian Empire who had borne the brunt of the main fighting. Marius smiled.

  “Bet some princess cries when you don’t turn up at her bedchamber tomorrow,” he said to the young man’s staring eyes. He traced the red slash that separated most of the young heir’s jaw from his lower face. His gaze travelled down the boy’s armoured body, hands patting and prodding until they discovered a small bag of coins at the waist. He undid it, and poured several silver coins into his palm.

  “Nice,” he said, nodding. Within half a minute, three rings and a gold charm joined them. Marius glanced towards the distant soldiers. When he was sure nobody was looking in his direction he rolled his tongue around, generating as much spit as his mouth could hold. One after the other, he began swallowing his prizes. When the last had been forced down his throat he gasped, then looked to where Gerd was standing over the body to which Marius had directed him.

  “Gerd!”

  Gerd made no response. He stood above the corpse, eyes wide, his hands raised to his mouth. Marius glanced at the nearest soldiers. No stare met his. He hissed again.

  “Gerd! Get down to it, boy.”

  Still Gerd did no
t move. He began to whimper, each inhalation drawing out a slightly louder noise. Marius shook his head in frustration. This was the last straw. A corpse rat who could not stand the sight of the dead was too much of a liability. If Marius managed to survive this, despite the boy’s best attempts to have them caught and strung, he would drop Gerd off at the nearest brothel with a handful of pennies, tell him to enjoy himself, and make for the border on the fastest horse an hour’s straining at the privy could shake loose. He closed the distance between them in three long strides and shook Gerd by his arm.

  “Do you want us to get caught, you idiot? What the hell…?”

  Gerd pointed to the corpse at their feet. Marius followed his finger. A face stared back at him: one Marius had swallowed on any number of occasions, every time he had lifted a purse from a careless Scorban passer-by. The velvet overcoat and the thin gold crown that topped the dead man’s helmet were only accessories to recognition. Even when caked with dirt and blood, the King of Scorby was unmistakeable. Marius reached out and grabbed Gerd’s coat sleeve.

  “Down in the presence of your King, boy.”

  “But…”

  Marius yanked and sent Gerd sprawling over the King’s body. He knelt upon one knee, and when Gerd made to rise, pushed him back down.

  “Marius, he’s dead.”

  “I know that, you idiot.” Marius busied himself about the corpse, testing the welds of his fine plate armour. His gaze flitted about restlessly. Should anyone look their way, the stillness of his bent head would reveal nothing but concentration. “Do I look pious to you?”

  “No, but then why…?”

  “Because your goggling act has caught the attention of at least two of the soldiers, stupid, which means our day is over unless we can get away before they come within shouting distance.”

  Gerd raised his head, and Marius’ fingers ceased their exploration long enough to flick him on the bridge of his nose.

  “Stay down.”

  Gerd flinched and dropped forward. His face hit the mud with a soft squelch, and Marius suppressed a smile. Gerd whispered from the side of his muddy mouth.

  “Are they coming?”

  “Not yet.” Marius separated a signet ring from the King’s hand with a tug, then tore a bracelet from his wrist with a practiced twist of his fingers. “They’re conferring. Shit!”

  “What? What?”

  “They’ve separated. One of them is coming.” He palmed his booty and slid it up a sleeve, then redoubled his efforts, reaching forward to snatch at the crown around the top of the King’s helm.

  “Marius?”

  “What?” The soldier was almost close enough to shout. He yanked at the crown, praying to Gods whose names he couldn’t remember that it was only placed upon the helmet, rather than welded. Kings did not normally wear such obvious identifying marks in battle: it encouraged enemy soldiers, rapacious for the largest ransoms possible, to make a beeline. But Tanspar, the young Scorban monarch, had been a man under siege in his own kingdom, and grandiose, crowd-pleasing gestures such as this one had become a signature. In this case, it had backfired in more than one way: the crown slid off the helmet with a soft scrape and disappeared inside Marius’ jerkin.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Shut up, boy. This is our fortune.”

  “But you said… only steal what you can swallow, you said.”

  “Shush.”

  “But it’s not fair…” Gerd struggled to raise his head.

  “Hey!” the soldier called out in a broad Scorban accent. “You!”

  “Shit.” Both thieves froze, panicked eyes fixed upon each other. If the soldier had seen Marius slip the crown into his shirt front, all was lost. There was only one penalty for looting.

  “You see?” Gerd wriggled one arm free, voice rising in panic. “See?”

  “Gerd!” Through his lowered eyelashes, Marius watched the soldier stop and draw his weapon halfway from its sheath. There was no escape now. They were discovered. Gerd pushed against his restraining grip, trying to rise.

  “Get off me,” he said. “Get off.” He drew his feet underneath him. Marius started to protest. Running was futile. Soldiers were everywhere, and where there were soldiers, archers would flank them in case a sudden flare-up between opposing parties occurred. The only way for a corpse rat to stay alive was through stealth. Slow movement, invisible progress across the field, sliding into woods or high grass when attention was diverted. That was the way to survive. Running from anything was an admission of guilt.

  The soldier had drawn his sword now, and was striding towards the two thieves, calling for his compatriots. Gerd pushed up, drawing his back out of the mud, his arms straight and stiff. Marius’ eyes shifted from one figure to the other. They were caught, unless… he gritted his teeth. The timing would have to be perfect. Gerd was still out of the soldier’s view. He let go of the younger man’s tunic, and as he pushed himself up from the ground, Marius crumpled. He slid his head under the half-raised arm of the soldier to the side of the King and pressed his face into the mud, breath held. Gerd reached his feet and turned to run. Marius slid his face sideways until it lodged painfully against the edge of the dead soldier’s cuirass, so that he had half a view of the events as they unfolded.

  “I’m sorry, son,” he whispered into the mud. There was no other way. Marius wanted to live. There really was no other way.

  The soldier closed in on Gerd, weapon held out in front of him like a horn protruding from his midriff.

  “I said stop and identify yourself, boy!”

  Gerd threw his meagre booty into the air, squealed, and ran two steps before the soldier was upon him. The soldier lunged, and the sword slid into Gerd’s back and through him without the slightest impediment. Gerd stopped, impaled. His head fell forward, his eyes taking in the foot of metal protruding from his stomach. He opened his hand, and a glitter of jewellery fell to Earth. Marius stilled his breath. Please, he prayed, do not turn. Do not speak my name. Gerd opened his mouth. His head lolled towards Marius. His lips moved in spasms. Marius saw the beginning of his name: once; twice. Then Gerd’s lips lost their strength, his neck gave up its fight to hold his head upright, and the dead thief slumped off the sword and hit the ground. The soldier turned towards Marius, and Marius unfocussed his eyes, staring into infinity.

  “Oh, God,” The soldier whispered. His face swam into Marius’ vision, blurred outline filling his sight. Marius fought the natural urge to blink it into focus. A metal-gloved hand reached out towards him, then beyond.

  “Oh, God. Oh, no.” The soldier said again, then turned his head to shout. “Garion! Ektar! Here, for pity’s sake. The King! The King is fallen!”

  Shouts answered him, and the squelch of several sets of footprints sounded from all sides of Marius’ head. A weight was lifted from across his shoulder. The soldier spoke briskly to his comrades.

  “Take him, quickly. Get him to the camp.”

  “What about the others?”

  “For God’s sake, man. I’ll deal with them later. Take the King. I’ll bring the thief in. Lord Bellux will want the body for burning. Go.”

  The light above Marius changed as the bodies moved, unblocking the morning sun. The King had been taken from the battlefield. Only common meat remained. Marius counted to forty, then let out a single, slow breath. He blinked once to clear the stinging from his eyes, then focussed his sight upon his immediate surroundings.

  Less than a foot from him, a dead soldier stared back. A gash ran across the bridge of his nose from the left corner of his lip up into his forehead. A black pit gaped where his right eye had been destroyed by the killing stroke. Whoever had struck the blow had done so with strength, or desperation – most likely both. Marius could see jagged edges where the weapon had shattered the bones of the soldier’s face. The socket had half-collapsed under the blow and white shards peeked out from between the ruptured flesh like a hard-boiled egg dropped from a great height. Marius, used to death, gulped
back a sudden rush of bile. Already, flies were congregating in the shattered orb. Soon, prompted by the rising sun and the increasing heat of the day, more would come, until the eye that had once shone white would become a crawling mass of tiny black insects, writhing and mating, then flying away to die, leaving maggots in their place. Marius closed his eyes upon the thought. When he opened them, it was to stare directly at the hole once more, unmoving and directly in his line of sight.

  As he watched, the empty eye socket blinked once.

  Marius’ head shot back involuntarily, striking the edge of someone’s helm behind him. He let out a tiny scream, then resisted the urge to look around to see who might have heard. He blinked and slowly raised a hand to rub at his face. No sounds disrupted the stillness. Whatever soldiers remained were, he hoped, on the far side of the battlefield. If he were to raise his head and scan the area, he would find himself alone. How quickly he reached the sanctuary of the nearby grove would be a matter of how much caution he wished to forsake. From there, it was a matter of divesting himself of his stolen uniform, dressing in the simple village clothes he had stashed in a roll under the oak tree at the centre of the grove, and making his way out of the area along any of the merchants’ paths leading to Vernus, or Qued, or one of the major cities of Tal where his prizes could be broken apart, melted and sold. It would do him good. It had been two days since he had eaten, two days of forced marching through the wilderness to get to the battle just as it was ending, with poor dead stupid Gerd dragging along behind him so that he missed every open farmhouse window at every mealtime along the way. It was obviously affecting him. He needed to eat: something solid, with real meat, and an ale of heroic proportions to wash it down. Then sleep, and however many girls he could afford. Marius exhaled, and steeled himself to raise his head. It was time to lay down the corpse-rat and be a man for a while. All he needed was a slice of fortune, a space in which to make his dash.