ARC: The Corpse-Rat King (3 page)

“Oh no,” he said. “Oh, no. You have the wrong man. I’m telling you. You really, really…”

He struggled against the grip of his warder, twisting to release himself. Something shifted under his shirt. Before he could lower his arms to grab it, a circle of gold fell out and rolled across the floor, to fetch up against the foot of the dead warrior. He gripped it between stiffened fingers, and raised it up so all could see. Then slowly, with great deliberation, he stepped forward until he stood in front of Marius, their faces separated by mere inches. He raised his arms, and with great care, placed the crown of Scorby upon Marius’ brow.

“Your crown, Your Majesty”

Marius closed his eyes, and uttered his first words as King of the Dead.

“Oh, fuck.”

THREE

The throne room was nothing more than a cavern carved out of the earth by dead hands, no more or less square than any other hole and no more or less careful in its construction than any other burrow. The throne itself was a wattle and daub frame that resembled a chair in the way a corn doll resembled a full-grown human, and really, what else could he expect when the only resources available were roots, earth and the shit of the world? And kingly robes. Good God, they had even found him raiment. They smelled of dirt and worms, and lay stiff as old blood against his body, but they were his kingly robes, and Marius was too numb to ask where they had come from, or who might have possessed them before him. The Ruler of the Dead, in his dead man’s clothes, sitting upon his throne of dead man’s shit. It was all so perfect.

Around him milled an obscene parody of a court. The dead, dust for voices, emptiness for eyes, facing him in impatient rows, waiting for his first proclamation. Expecting the word of God made flesh for confirmation that they were no longer alone. Marius stared above their heads, at the crowded entrance to what he now thought of as the main hall. There was no escape, he knew, no exit in that direction. Still, it was the only bearing he had left, and so he stared at it. And waited.

The figures in his “court” shuffled about aimlessly, conversing about who knew what, sparing him an occasional glance, hiding behind bowed heads if he attempted to match their gaze. Marius slumped in his throne. A bubble of fear and panic sat at the base of his throat, and unless it was released, he would choke to death upon it before long. Which would be ironic, he thought, and very carefully did not laugh.

A figure appeared at his elbow, silent and respectful. Marius ignored it. Eventually it offered the politest of coughs. Marius sighed, and glanced up. It was the soldier who had crowned him. Marius snorted, and returned his chin to the fist upon which it had been resting.

“What do you want?”

“Your Majesty--”

“Sod off.”

“Majesty, the people are waiting. They need to hear you speak.”

“Fine. Tell them to sod off.”

“Your Majesty, Please. Can you not see how they wait upon your word?”

Marius looked at the crowd. They glanced at him, he realised, not from awe, or fear. They waited in anticipation, and with more than a little unrest. He frowned.

“That’s another thing. How the hell can I see so much, anyway? We’re underground. I haven’t seen any shafts, or torches.”

“We are the–”

“Yeah, yeah. You are the dead. That’s your reason for everything, isn’t it? That still doesn’t explain why
I
can see.”

“You are our leader, Your Majesty. Our king. Whatever we can do, you can do. We are your subjects and servants. Of all the dead, you are the greatest.”

“Yes, but I keep telling you. I’m not… dead?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

Marius scowled. Bad enough to be amongst the dead, worse to be patronised by them.

“Look,” he said, rising from his seat before his tormentor could react. “I am
not
dead. I swear to you. I keep trying to tell you. You picked the wrong man. Hand on my…” He placed his hand against his heart, and paused, gaze slipping from the corpse’s face to stare at a point somewhere far beyond the walls. A smile spread across his face, and he looked back at the soldier in triumph.

“Let me feel your chest.”

“Your Majesty?”

“Your chest.” Marius reached forward and placed his hand flat against the left side of the soldier’s torso. “Ha! Give me your hand.”

The soldier complied. Marius laid it in the same spot. “There. You feel? Feel it? Nothing. No heartbeat. That’s because you’re dead!”

“Of course. We are the–”

“No, no, no. Here.” He placed the soldier’s hand above his own heart. “Feel that? Feel it?”

“Your heart…”

“Strong as a whale!”

“Beating.”

“Like the pounding of a thrupenny whore!”

“That means you’re–”

“Alive.”
“An imposter!” The soldier stepped back, and drew a battered sword. Marius became very aware of the bodies around him, all of whom were staring in his direction.

“That’s not strictly true,” he said, backing away. Half a step and he fetched up against the edge of the throne. He toppled backwards, landing in an undignified heap on the seat. His robe swept up and across his face, and the too-large crown slipped down. By the time he untangled himself he was hemmed in by the mass of corpses, and the blood-rusted tip of the sword was pressed hard against the joint between his throat and shoulder. Marius swallowed, and the sword pushed further into his flesh.

“Hang on,” he managed to croak. “I tried to tell you.”

The soldier leaned into his sword. A trickle of warmth ran down the outside of Marius’ throat.

“Told. You. Not dead,” he managed, before the pressure against his throat became too much, and he escaped into darkness.

FOUR

He would not have expected to wake, or to still be alive. Or to find his hands unbound, and a hole in the ceiling above his head, with the glint of daylight shining bright blue at the far end. The crowd of corpses standing above his supine body; rusted axes, sickles and swords in their hands – that was closer to what he had expected. Being forcibly hauled to his feet and dragged to the nearest wall – that was definitely what he expected. Having the crown of the late King of Scorby thrust into his hands, well, he wouldn’t have expected
that
if he’d been given three guesses.

“Is there something going on?” he asked, trying his best to frame an innocent smile. For all the reaction he engendered, he may as well have kept his mouth closed. The corpses holding his arms simply pressed him harder against the coarse earth wall until he gasped with pain, ending any further attempt at conversation. Marius struggled, but soon gave up. The dead don’t tire as easily as an exhausted and beaten thief. Even if he could have freed himself, where would he have run? Up the chimney towards daylight? Marius tipped his head back. The hole taunted him from at least forty feet away. Maybe the dead need sunlight every now and again, he thought, then stifled a giggle. It was too close to hysteria.

From somewhere in front of him came the rustle of leather. He delayed lowering his gaze, straining to feel the breeze of the upper world on his skin. After long seconds he closed his eyes and sighed. No such luck. The real world was out of reach.

“It is very far away.”

“Yes.” Reluctantly, Marius’ eyes met the soldier’s one remaining orb.

“Farther for us than you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Once the dead travel below, we do not leave.”

“Oh.” Marius surveyed their mean surroundings. “Well, you know, a drape here or there…”

“Perhaps you will bring some back with you.”

“I’m sorry?”

But the soldier had turned away, and gestured to the corpses holding Marius. They extended their arms, and Marius slid further up the wall. When he was dangling at the height of their reach, two more bodies detached themselves from the crowd and grabbed at Marius' kicking ankles. Before he could voice his objections, he was hoisted onto his back, limbs spread wide, high above the heads of the crowd.

“What are you doing? Let me down.”

The arms lowered him slightly, until he was at eye level. Marius was just about to issue further orders when bone-strong fingers grasped his jaw and turned his head towards their owner.

“Don’t forget to hold on,” the soldier said, and let him go. Marius’ bearers heaved, and he flew up into the chimney. Reflexes did his thinking for him. His hands and feet dove for the chimney walls, finding sanctuary in the soft earth and clinging, leaving him wedged in the narrow space like a spider between the rough edges of a pub’s corner walls. For long seconds, the only sound was that of his panicked gasping. When he could trust himself to do so without fainting, he looked back down, and saw the soldier staring up at him. Marius had the overwhelming impression that his stiff, immobile face was smiling.

“Find us a king,” the corpse called out.

“What? Why?”

“You stole his place. You are in our debt.”

With the benefit of distance, Marius felt a small spark of courage return.

“And if I don’t?”

“We will come for you.”

“And if I never come back this way?”

The soldier shook his head, slowly, a movement of deliberate malice.

“You will come back.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Feel your heart.”

The two men stared at each other for long seconds. The soldier placed his hand over his chest, and nodded to Marius to do the same. Marius inched around until he could wedge one shoulder into the crumbling wall, then slowly, carefully, did the same. He held it there for half a minute, eyes fixed upon the dead face below him.

“We have your heartbeat.”

Marius felt life draining away, leaking from his body and dissipating in the heavy air. The soldier waved a hand in dismissal.

“You cannot escape us. The entire world is home to the dead. Now climb.”

“Wait.”

“What?”

Marius risked a glance at the journey above him, closed his eyes in sudden dizziness, and glanced back down.

“How will I contact you? Do I call out, or sacrifice a cat or something? I don’t even know your name.”

“We will know,” the soldier returned. “Now go.”

“Wait!”

“No more.” The soldier stepped back, out of Marius’ circle of vision. “The path to the world above is closing. Unless you want to drown, leave.”

As if summoned by his voice, a spray of fine earth fell on Marius. As he watched, the circle of air below him filled in, the earth rising upwards as if intent upon capturing him. With nowhere else to go, he dug his fingers and toes into the chimney walls and began to climb.

The most wonderful smell in the world is that of fresh air. It hit Marius as his fingers crested the rim of the hole and clawed at handfuls of rough grass. After the heat and fetid air of the underground realms, the swirling breeze felt like an orgasm. Marius closed his eyes and almost lost his grip, until the pressure of earth against the soles of his feet reminded him of the urgency of his mission, and he scrambled over the lip of the closing hole and lay upon undisturbed ground for the first time in an eternity. Marius wasn’t ashamed to weep. Indeed, he had done so many times as the situation warranted it: to escape a bar room beating; to entice a sensitive woman into his bed; at the sight of a gold riner between his fingers when the purse he snatched had weighed for pennies. Now he engaged in a different type of sob – that which comes from unexpected and blessed freedom. He exhausted himself against the warm grass, pressing his face into the ground and letting his tears and snot soak the grass, until an itching sensation against his cheeks and forehead caused him to stop and twitch his head away. The irritation spread to his neck and round to his throat, then down to his chest. Marius frowned, and wiped his hand across his forehead. It came away with passengers – tiny red multi-legged invaders, crawling over every inch of his exposed hand, biting him with every step.

“Shit!”

He pushed himself away, swatting at the angry ants. Their greater numbers prevailed. Marius was forced into a shambling dance, pulling his shirt over his head and using the cloth to beat at torso and legs as he hopped and swung himself about. The ants fought back, moving across his chest and down onto his stomach, heading inexorably south.

“Oh no, no you don’t!” Marius fell to the ground and rolled, crushing untold assailants beneath his weight. He felt a tickle at his waistband.

“No, no, no!” A boot flew in one direction, its twin in the other. His trousers fluttered after them, then his underpants. Naked and angry, Marius rolled and swiped, jumped and danced, cursed and swore and threatened undying enmity, until at last he stood above the anthill, waving a fist at what lay below.

“Funny!” he yelled. “Very fucking funny!”

He may have heard a laugh, or it may have been his imagination. He kicked at the tiny hole in the grass, bending his toe back and uttering a yelp.

“I see you’re as in command as always,” a voice behind him said. Marius stiffened in shock, hands automatically cupping his groin. Slowly, eyes wide, he tilted his head to look back over his shoulder. He felt his rectum tighten, and winced.

“Gerd?”

Gerd stared at him in impassive silence, his big jug-face grey and still. Marius smiled uncertainly, and sidled over to his undergarments. Slowly, he bent at the knees until he could risk snaking a hand out to recapture them. He flicked his wrist, and slipped the underpants over his ankles in one swift movement, then shimmied into them, eyes fixed upon his former charge. Only once his most essential parts lay under cloth did he turn and face the younger man.

“How did you get here? You were–”

“Dead?”

“Well–”

“Being carried away to be posthumously tried for treason and sentenced to cremation and dumping in unhallowed ground?”

“Yes, well, that was what I–”

“Impaled on a sword because of the betrayal of my teacher and supposed friend?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call myself–”

Gerd stepped forward, quicker than he had ever managed in life, and had Marius’ genitals in his hand before the older man could so much as flinch.