ARC: The Corpse-Rat King (36 page)

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…”

He bent his head and wept in his hands. A silent chorus sang “What a load of rubbish”.

“What, lad?”

He looked up, and restrained an errant giggle. Tanspar lay a dozen feet away in full regal state, and not a single eye was upon him. Every face in the room was turned towards the ragged seer. “I heard a voice.”

The crowd waited. Eventually someone at the back said, “What? Is that it?”

He pounced. “A voice,” he cried, “from inside the tomb!”

Yerniq frowned. This was all getting a little repetitive. He was aware of the press of people around him, and the dead King behind, and that his job was supposed to be ensuring the peaceful passage of one before the other, not babysitting strangers of no fixed stability who were just as easily marched down to St Tred’s Hospital and thrown into the nuttery. But the fool was speaking again, and Yerniq leaned in once more.

“Help me, it said. Help me.” Gerd sobbed once. “I leaned my ear against the cold stone…” He demonstrated on Yerniq’ breastplate. “Hello?” He knocked on the guard’s metal chest. “Hello? Who’s there?” He pulled back and stared around at the crowd. “Help me. Please, oh please. Get me out. Get me out.”

Again he pressed up against Yerniq’s broad stomach, and this time, he could see the crowd lean forward, as if expecting an answer. “Hello?”

The mob stilled, as if everyone around him was holding their breath at once. Gerd closed his eyes, and held still so long that the guard began to wonder if he had fallen asleep against his gut. Suddenly, the young man jumped up straight, and Yerniq let out a little yelp of shock. He was thankful to realise that he was not alone – several peeps came from the surrounding crowd.

“The King!” Gerd yelled. “The King!”

“What? Where?”

“Inside the crypt! Trapped inside, the ghost of Scorbus is calling! Quickly!”

He grabbed Yerniq and Ghaf and dragged them forward. The crowd parted, and closed in behind. Yerniq wanted to stop, to dig his feet in and bring order to bear. This was a nonsense story, surely, delivered by a nutcase who needed more than a meal or two to bring him to his senses. But something had gripped the mob, and they, in turn, seemed to have the soldiers in their grasp. They surged forward, Gerd at their head, until suddenly they were in the Hall of Kings , and Yerniq stood at the foot of Scorbus’ crypt, staring down at the cold marble.

“Right then,” he said, swallowing and looking up at the madman. “Why don’t you just show us…?”

“Sssh!” Gerd commanded. Despite himself, Yerniq quietened. Gerd leaned forward, and placed his head against the top of the crypt. The crowd, silent to a man, leaned forward.

“Hello?” he asked, in a high, wavering voice. “Hello?”

Nothing. The crowd stayed still, collective breath held, but still there was no answer. Eventually, Yerniq straightened. He blinked, and as his eyes opened his entire countenance changed. The soldier took over: his lips curled, his eyebrows rose, his eyes fixed upon Gerd with knowing cynicism. Somehow, without knowing it, his arms had risen to his chest. Now he lowered them, and placed his fists on his hips.

“Well, now,” he began…

“Hellllp meee…”

Whatever air had been in the room left. Yerniq’s eyes bugged. His arms fell. He leaned forward, jaw dropping as he stared at the lid of the crypt. Around him, nearly fifty bodies copied his movements.

“The King!” Gerd pronounced. “Hear the voice of the true King of Scorby!”

Three feet away, curled naked against the bas relief figures of the next crypt, Marius frowned. “Don’t over-cook it,” he projected, even as he swallowed and once more threw a “Help me” towards the crowd. Ten years of practice had gone into his ventriloquism act, and he’d only ever performed in public once – a disastrous night in front of an aging duke and his nymphomaniac underage foreign wife. It had been enough to learn that, no matter how skilled he may be, no woman is going to sleep with a novelty act when there are pages in the room. What’s more, he had to concentrate to maintain his dead state, to keep his grey flesh blending closely enough with the granite to avoid casual notice, especially with everyone’s attention firmly fixed upon his neighbour’s tomb. Gerd’s response to his order was to send back a mental giggle.

“I can see your peepee,” his young offside mocked. “I’d complain to the sculptor, if I was you.”

“The stone’s cold, okay?” Even Marius had to stifle a laugh at his injured tone of voice. “Just don’t lose them now, okay?”

“Don’t worry,” Gerd fell across the lid of the tomb, his fingers scrabbling at non-existent seams, “They’re going nowhere.” He raised his head, and howled at the crowd. “Get him out! We must release the King!”

“Now, wait a minute…” Yerniq began, but whatever note of caution he wished to sound was obliterated as a surge of bodies stepped forward to grip the edge of the massive stone vault. “Ghaf!”

The young guardsman looked at his superior from his point at the vault’s far end. “You want to be responsible if it’s him and we
don’t
do this?”

Yerniq pondered the question for several moments, then carefully spat on his hands and took up position between two visitors.

“Right,” he said, sweeping his gaze across the company. “If we’re going to do this, we do it properly. On three, lift and slide towards the bottom. Ready?”

He paused. “Three!”

As one, those around the lid leaned into the job, grunting with effort. Gerd cavorted around them, urging them on. Marius’ thrown voice pleaded with them to hurry. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Yerniq felt the stone shift.

“Harder!”

He threw his weight against the stone with renewed zeal. The lid resisted for long seconds, then with a grinding noise loud enough to wake the already-waiting dead King, slipped forward. Men moved from the sides to the top, adding their weight to the line of momentum. The stone slid further forward. A line of black space opened up as the crypt was exposed. It grew wider as each shove from the company opened up more of the hole. Ghaf let go, slipped between two of the workers, and plunged his arm into the gap.

“I can feel him!” he yelled, then. “No, wait. No.” He looked up at Yerniq, a puzzled expression flitting across his broad face. “No, that’s a skellington. But it’s… yaaah!” He tried to pull his arm out, but it was stuck fast. He pulled again, and again, growing more frantic as his efforts continued to yield no result. “He’s got me! Yerniq! He’s got me!”

“What?” Yerniq stared at the young guard thrashing about at the other end of the vault. “What are you playing at?”

“Help!” Ghaf pulled and pulled to no avail. The hole grew wider. “Let me go. Let go, you bastard.” He reached down with his other hand, panicking all the harder when that, too, refused to come back.

“What is it?”

The gap was more than a foot wide. Men stopped pushing at the stone. Several of them moved towards Ghaf, grabbing him about the waist and adding their strength to his frenzied efforts.

“The skellington!” he yowled. “The skellington’s got me!”

Slowly, the combined efforts of the rescuers began to have an effect. Ghaf’s arms emerged from the vault. As his left elbow emerged, Yerniq gasped.

“What the hell?”

A bony hand grasped the young guard’s arm just below the joint. Several of the rescuers noticed, and let go in shock. He shot forward, and they quickly grabbed him once more and pulled. Gerd danced in the shadows, laughing in his high-pitched voice.

“The King! The King comes!”

“Help me!” Marius’ voice deepened, became more commanding. Men leaped to obey, overcome by the moment. Soon, a dozen were pulling at each other in a chain, Ghaf’s body at its head. His arms re-emerged. As his elbow passed out of the crypt, the skeletal hand that gripped it let go. Fingers wrapped around the stone edge of the crypt wall. Only one arm remained. Yerniq ran round to the side and reached down into the hole to grip Ghaf’s arm. His fingers brushed bones.

“Pull, men!”

“The King! The King comes!”

“Free me! Release me!”

“Yerniq! Make him let me go!”

“The King!”

Ghaf’s arm finally emerged. The bony hand that gripped it let go to join its brother on the crypt wall. Suddenly released, the chain of straining men fell backwards into a heap. Marius peeked at them from his cramped perch.

“All right, Your Majesty,’ he broadcast. “Time to arise.”

As the pile of rescuers sorted themselves out, Scorbus, first and greatest king of Scorby, rose from his tomb.

TWENTY-SIX

The skeleton stood above the fallen rescuers and surveyed the Hall of Kings. For five seconds nobody moved, then, as if of one mind, the pile of men found their feet, backing away from Scorbus’ gaze until the bony wall pressed into their backs. Scorbus raised one leg and stepped out of his tomb. Marius gazed up at him. The King was huge: six and a half feet if he was an inch, shoulders broad as a bear; the long arms that hung from his shoulder joints spoke of a physical power that had been used, and enjoyed, regularly. The massive skull swung from side to side as he regarded his freedom, and Marius was amazed at just how large the bones were, how thick, how they radiated such a sense of solidity. Add flesh to them, he realised, and the effect would be overpowering. At the wall, Ghaf raised a quavering arm.

“Skellington,” he squeaked. The sound attracted Scorbus’ attention. He leaned forward, peering at the guardsman with his empty sockets.

“Bow down!” Marius boomed. The rescuers yelped, and the smell of fresh urine slowly began to permeate the air. They disobeyed the order. Most of them were clinging to the bony outcroppings for support. Marius sighed. He couldn’t believe it was going to take more than a giant ambulatory skeleton to get this lot moving. He closed his eyes for a moment, deadened his senses, then unfolded from his hiding place and stepped into their circle of vision.

‘Bow down” he yelled again, showing off his dead face. On the other side of the crypt, Gerd threw back his hood and joined him. Marius noted, from the side of his eyes, that he too had deadened himself. He stalked forward until his rotting features were a handful of inches from Ghaf’s sweating face.

“Run,” he said.

Ghaf didn’t need further persuasion. With a whimper, he peeled himself from the wall and made for the exit at a flat sprint. As if he were the plug holding back the flood, the others swept after him in a wailing, screaming torrent, out the exit and into the great hall. Marius watched them go, a satisfied smile on his face.

“Well,” he said as the last back disappeared from view, “that was fun. Welcome, Your Majesty, to the first day of the rest of your death.”

He turned to Scorbus, and sketched out a bow. The King looked at him for long seconds.

“For Gods’ sakes, man,” he replied. “Get some clothes on.”

“Oh, yes.” Marius scurried to the pole behind which he had hidden his clothes and slipped them back on. He returned moments later, and held out a pale gold circlet in his hands.

“You might like this,” he said. “It belonged to… a friend of mine. A king, Majesty, not so majestic and notable as yourself, perhaps, but still…” He bit his lip for a moment, shocked at how much the memory of Nandus upset him. “A King of Scorby nonetheless.”

Scorbus reached down and removed the crown from Marius’ grip. He placed the circlet round his brow. It fit snugly, and Marius realised just how huge this man must have been, fully fleshed.