The Corpse-Rat King

by Lee Battersby

  Gerd sat down, eyes fixed on the passing mourners. “What then? I mean, this was the plan, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, yeah. This was the plan.” Marius waved a hand into the crypt behind them. “We may as well try to steal one of this lot with the chances we’ve got.”

  Gerd stared into the darkness of the hall for long minutes. Then, slowly, he squinted in thought.

  “Why not?”

  “What?”

  “Why not?” He slid over, and kneeled in front of Marius. “Look.” He pointed back into the darkness. “It’s dark, it’s deserted. The guards aren’t there like they normally would be. Everyone’s paying attention to the show out front. We could sneak in, open up one of the display cases and carry one of the old kings out through a back entrance before anyone notices.”

  Marius stared at his young accomplice. “You’ve not actually visited the Hall of Kings before, have you?” he said at last.

  “Well, no. Not as such.”

  “No.” Marius leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. “Because if you had, you’d know that the dearly departed monarchs are ‘displayed’ inside stone vaults, the lids of which are carved from single blocks of granite or alabaster, and which probably weigh in the vicinity of several tonnes. And the only side entrance is the one that leads to the rather smaller and less enjoyable Hall of Queens, where Scorby’s proud centuries-long tradition of treating your wife like a second class citizen can be seen at its most emphatic.” He sighed. “Nice try, though.”

  Gerd sat back. “You’re right. We should probably just wait for the dead to drag us back below ground so we can admit failure.” He matched Marius’ sigh with one of his own. “Wonder what they’ll do to you?”

  “What?” Marius opened one eye and squinted at his companion.

  “Well, when you tell them you didn’t get them a ruler. I wonder what they’ll do to you for failing them.”

  “Don’t you mean, what will they do to us?”

  “No, no.” Gerd leaned back, and knitted his fingers behind his head. They interlaced with the ribs of a cherub who stare malevolently at Marius over his head, but he didn’t seem to notice. “My charge was to stay with you and keep an eye on you. I’ve done that to the best of my ability. You’re the one who had to get them a king. It’s a pity,” He took a deep breath, exhaled, and shifted position to one of utter comfort. “But you’re on your own on this one.” He crossed one leg over the other, wriggled around a bit on the stone floor, and lapsed into silence. Marius stared at him through his one open eye. Slowly, his gaze slid towards the darkness of the nearby Hall. Then his head turned towards it. He frowned in concentration.

  “I suppose…” he said at last. Gerd gave no sign that he’d heard. Marius lapsed into silence. “We could…” Again, his friend made no response, and again, he let the thought fall away. Marius stared into the blackness for long minutes, a frown creasing his features. Gerd lay on the floor at his feet, for all the world as if he were sunning himself on a Tallian beach. Eventually Marius nodded, checked himself, then a minute later, nodded again.

  “Okay,” he said. “This is what we do…”

  Gerd smiled and sat up. “About bloody time.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Even in the full light of the day, the Hall of Kings was a gloomy sepulchre, a vast white circle filled with columns like knotted ropes, whose walls and ceiling were one long bas-relief of human carnage. Skeletons played out life-sized friezes of glorious battles, bloody victories, noble and wholly fictitious death scenes. Stone crypts lay side by side like fallen dominoes, the lid of each tomb carved with a list of the dead man’s glories, each monarch quite literally weighed down by his achievements. Statues dotted the floor like twisted guardians, intermixing myth with reality – here, a depiction of Tessimus and the Snake, there a visualisation of Beldo holding up the Carlanian Wall, still further on the lover Malanar and his goddess wife Pheleon. With all the sconces lit it became a procession of ghosts, each flickering light rebounding from a multitude of curved and warped surfaces until the whole area seemed a shadow play just beyond the scope of recognition. In the dead of night, without even a single clump of half-terrified schoolchildren and a droning docent to add a human touch, it felt like the throne room of ghouls. At least, it would to the living. The two men who snuck from pillar to pillar were, of course, corpses themselves, and had seen the way the dead live. To them, it was just creepy.

  “So what’s the plan?” Gerd whispered, eyeing a nearby battle scene with distaste. Marius pointed along the row of tombs before them.

  “Twenty eight Kings of Scorby,” he said. “From Scorbus the Conqueror to Wet Somnac, missing only Felis Twain, who went mad and fed himself to his bears, and Nandus, who I’ve met.” He smiled. “A smorgasbord of monarchy, and all we have to do is move a one tonne block of granite to get at it.”

  “Right. So. How?”

  “First things first.” He stepped from the shadow of a column and approached the first tomb. “We need to find a live one.”

  “You what?”

  Marius placed his hand on the tomb. “Dethel of Alongia,” he read. “Conquered Scorby in 1108, declared the entire Somarrian peninsula a possession of the Alongian Empire, and spent the next twenty years systematically murdering anyone who didn’t fit the Alongian physical ideals. Still,” he winked, “he made the coaches run on time.” He knocked. “You in there, Dethel old son? Wakey wakey.” Only an echo answered him. He returned Gerd’s worried stare with a shrug. “Nothing in there but ashes, anyway. Alongians cremate their dead.” He moved across to the next one. “Ah. Veen the Liberator. Dethel’s eldest son. Had gone completely native by time the old man kicked on, mobilised the army and re-established Scorban independence. Reintroduced the ale races, established trade with the Faraway Isles, and most importantly for our purposes, was entombed like a proper Scorban.” Again he knocked on the wall. “Veen, calling Veen. Are you in there, Veen?” He paused, then knocked again. “Hey, anyone in there?”

  After several silent seconds, Gerd coughed.

  “We have a purpose in doing this?”

  “Yes, of course.” Marius stared at the vault thoughtfully. “I thought we’d get something from him at least. Maybe we’re better off starting at one end. Come on!” He strode purposefully towards the crypt nearest the entrance then stopped, and came back. “Changed my mind,” he said as he passed Gerd. “Begin at the beginning.” He strode to the far end of the line, at the deepest part of the curved hall. The crypts here were smaller, the decorations that adorned them worn smoother by time. The first was little more than a stone box with a giant skull made from smaller skulls perched at the head.

  “Scorbus,” said Marius, pausing to read the inscriptions on the lid. He pulled a face. “Maybe not.” He moved to the second. “Thernik, son of Scorbus. The Bone Collector. Builder of the cathedral of Tovis, established the University of Scorby, all-round nice guy and defender of the faith. Also collected bones.” He gestured towards the walls. “Lots and lots of bones. He should fit right in, don’t you think?” He knocked on the lid. “Hello? My Lord Thernik? Do you hear me?”

  From within the crypt came a muffled sound, as if someone was quietly shifting their weight. The tomb robbers exchanged glances, and Marius leaned back over the lid.

  “Hello?” he said again. Gerd clapped his hand against his forehead; “Of course,” he said, then, “Use your dead voice.”

  Marius straightened. “Ah, of course.” He took a deep breath, stilled himself, willed the life and vitality out of his flesh. He felt his skin tighten, the muscles of his jaw loosen and drop, looked down and saw the skin of his hands fade to grey and start to peel. His young partner nodded, and he spoke again, this time from the dead part inside himself.

  “Thernik, son of Scorbus,” he said. “Do you hear me now?”

  There was a pause. If Marius had any breath left in his body he would have held it. Then, a voice returned his call, deep and resonant as only a
voice produced by the mind, without the aid of breath or voice box, can be.

  “Fuck off.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The voice giggled. “Fuck off. Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, fuck off…”

  “Oh, Gods,” a second voice intruded, from somewhere further down the line. “Who woke Thernik?”

  “Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off…”

  “What is it?” A third voice came upon them.

  “Someone’s woken Thernik up.”

  “Oh, what?”

  “Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off…”

  “Thernik, for God’s sake, shut up would you?”

  “Fuck off, fuck off…”

  “Who the hell woke him up?”

  Marius and Gerd stared at each other.

  “What’s going on? Another voice, and another.

  “Somebody woke Thernik up.”

  “Who the hell did that? Pelenus?”

  “Not me.”

  “Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off…”

  “Um,” Marius leaned over the tomb, as if somehow his physical presence might be intruded into the conversation. “Excuse me?”

  “Krenk?”

  “No, Krenk’s not talking, remember? He’s still upset over the comment you made about the Finnite War.”

  “Oh, for Goddess’ sake.”

  “Fuck off, fuck off…”

  “And another thing. This whole Goddess thing–”

  “Look I told you before–”

  “Oh, do we have to hear this again?”

  Another voice spoke up, and another, until a dozen voices were arguing back and forth to an undercurrent of fuck offs, while the two men outside stared at each other in helpless wonder.

  “What the hell did you do?” Gerd whispered.

  “I don’t know. I just…”

  “Silence!”

  The voice that silenced those babbling was another beast. The Hall fell into a sudden quiet that made Marius’ inner ear ring.

  “Who disturbs us? Who pulls Thernik from his rest?’

  “Fuck off.”

  “Enough, Thernik.”

  A pause, then “Fuck off, Daddy” in a tiny voice. There was the subtle clatter of bones rearranging themselves within Thernik’s tomb, then silence.

  “Um, excuse me?” Marius coughed, then realised that would do nothing for the squeak in his mental voice. He composed himself and tried again. “Your Majesty?”

  “Who is this that speaks to me?”

  “Am I speaking…” Marius paused, realised just whom it was he was conversing with. “Am I speaking with… Scorbus?”

  “I am Scorbus.”

  He blinked. “Bloody hell.” He turned to Gerd, who raised his hands in amazement.

  “Who are you? Why do you prise us from our rest?” The magnificent voice sounded peeved, waspish rather than angry. “Do you know how long it took us to get Thernik to quieten down last time?”

  “I, uh, I apologise for that.” Marius said. “We… what’s wrong with him, anyway?”

  “Who are you that would know?”

  “Ah, oh yes, of course.” Quickly, Marius explained their presence, and the mission they hoped to accomplish. As he finished, an excited babble broke out amongst the dead kings, until Scorbus quietened it with another booming command.

  “Enough!” The babble ceased. Marius had the impression of a great head turning towards him, eyes boring into him through the marble wall of the crypt. “You will take me.”

  “What?” Several voices cried out in concert.

  “I’m sorry?” Marius said simultaneously.

  “You will take me.”

  A chorus of protest broke out. Each former monarch loudly proclaimed his own right to rescue and to claim the throne that awaited them. Marius laughed, bringing the hubbub to a standstill.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, projecting an image of himself wiping tears from his eyes. “But I don’t think any of you are in a position to make demands, do you? I rather think it’s up to me to decide who to free, don’t you all?”

  “You will take me.” Scorbus said.

  “And if I don’t?”

  There was a pause, as if the King was reigning in a great temper and trying to pick the calmest, most reasonable tone with which to address him. Then, in just that reasonable tone of voice, he said, “Because if you don’t, you will lose the favour of so many of those you wish to appease that it will be as if you never delivered them a king at all, and everything you hope to gain from this exercise will be forfeit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It is simple,” the King explained. “I am the first king. All oaths of allegiance belong to me. All those dead of whom you talk. Any who lived in my time will not follow a king who came after me. None will follow a king who came after them, not on the assurance of you, and not once they recite the oath of allegiance. Once they hear the words, and realise who you could have brought them, they will follow none other.”

  “Oh, Gods,” Gerd said. “He’s right.”

  “What?

  “I pledge allegiance to the land of Scorby,” Gerd stood with his hand over his non-beating heart, staring into the darkness, “to its king, to the land created by the first and greatest, Scorbus of Scorby. I pledge my everlasting allegiance and obedience.” He beat his chest three times. “To Scorby, Scorbus, and the King.”

  “In that order,” Scorbus said in a soft voice.

  “Oh, balls.”

  The others lay silent, beaten into submission by the knowledge that, no matter how great they may have been in life, they were no more than subordinates to him that stood at the head of their line.

  “I never thought about that,” Marius said softly.

  “No,” Scorbus replied, “I imagine that, in this room, you’re not alone.”

  “Well.” Marius looked about him: at the walls; at the crypts stretching around into the dark; at Gerd. “I guess that’s that, then.”

  The other kings remained silent, except for one, final, clear statement.

  “Fuck off, Daddy.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The great hall was silent except for the rustle of clothing as respectful mourners shuffled slowly past the King’s display. Occasionally, someone would break down and be led away, sobbing, or denouncing the Tallian bastards who had done this to the beautiful young King in his coffin, but they were minor disruptions. Given the chance, Scorbans can be as dignified and sombre as the next race, especially if there’s a chance to make some political capital out of it. At this time, when they felt the eyes of the continent upon them, an unprepared visitor to the Bone Cathedral might gag to death on the air of dignity. Still, common folk are common folk, and there was no power on Earth that would have kept them in an orderly queue once the young man in the robe came screaming out from the Hall of Kings, pointing back over his shoulder and gibbering about ghosts and demons and whatnots.

  If there’s one thing Scorbans love more than the chance to put on an air of injured decorum, it’s a bloody good spectacle.

  Within moments, the line dissolved, and a crowd surrounded the stranger, growing in numbers as those further down the queue pressed forward into the space suddenly left open, only to be captivated by the hubbub in the circle’s centre. The guards, unable to maintain order and drawn into the ruckus by their own Scorban curiosity, pushed through the milling crowd, armoured elbows digging a path with abandon. As they broke into the centre space, the newcomer was drawing the breath to drive his gibbering to an even greater level.

  “Right, right!” the elder of the guards announced, puffing his chest out as he caught sight of just how many young women were staring. “What’s all this then?”

  “Demons!” Gerd pointed back the way he had come. “Demons in the King’s tomb!” He tore at his hair. “Demons and ghosts and ghouls, oh my!”

  A chorus of raspberries sounded within his mind. He ignored the comments upon his acting ability and fell to his knees, wailing
hysterically. The guards exchanged glances.

  “Come on now, lad,” the senior guard said. “How about you stand up?” He leaned over and placed a gentle, yet heavy, hand upon Gerd’s arm. “Here, Ghaf. Grab his other arm.”

  “Right-oh, Yerniq.” The younger guard did as he was bid, and they slowly raised Gerd up. The crowd pushed forward, and Yerniq pushed back. “Hey, hey! A bit of room here, please.” Gerd turned slowly in their grip, and stared back towards the Hall of Kings.

  “Voices,” he moaned, in a voice that drew a chorus of “Rubbish” and “get off” from his unseen audience. Those directly in front of him, however, leaned forward. As pious and grief-stricken as they were, this beat a dead King any day. “Voices from the tomb of the King. Haunted!” He fell back into the guards’ arms, scrabbled at Ghaf’s breastplate for purchase, and hauled himself up. “Haunted! Unless…” He stared at the entrance. “No!” he breathed. “It couldn’t be.”

  “What?” Yerniq turned him to face the older man’s scowl. “What are you talking about, son? Come on.” He gave Gerd a gentle shake. “You’re interrupting a very important occasion, young man. This had better be good.”

  Gerd stared about him like a frightened rabbit. Slowly, slowly, he regained his composure. When he looked at Yerniq again, some of the wildness in his eyes had departed, and his acting was only moderately on the wrong side of ham.

  “Voices,” he repeated. “From the tomb of the great Scorbus. I was within the hall, contemplating the death of the young King and the line of great masters that have preceded him…” At that, the raspberries in his head grew even louder, until Scorbus ordered the other Kings quiet, and they settled down. “I was standing before the crypt, head bowed in quiet meditation, when… when…”