Marching Dead

by Lee Battersby

  “He’s here?”

  Drenthe sighed theatrically. “Killed, yes, Helles. But not just killed.” He pushed Marius away, and ran his hands over the remaining straggles of his hair, patting them into place across his skull. “Recruited. We face a war, Marius. And how surprising that a man calling himself ‘Warbone’ would turn out to be a willing conscript?”

  “You killed me!”

  “I removed the final impediment between you and your rightful claim to the throne.”

  “What, the seven foot-tall maniac with an unconquerable army and an actual track record of being king?”

  “I removed the second-last impediment between you and your rightful claim to the throne.”

  “You don’t think you might have fucking asked first?”

  “Oh. I didn’t realise there was a chance you would say yes.”

  Marius clenched and unclenched his fists. Drenthe raised an eyebrow.

  “There will be plenty to hit soon. For now, try listening.” He inclined his head towards Marius’ mother. “May we use your quarters, good lady?”

  “Don’t you be nice to her,” Marius muttered, just as his mother replied: “Of course.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” Drenthe walked past her into the room. “Come on, Helles.”

  Keth took Marius’ hand, peeling the fist apart to wrap her fingers in his. “Please, Marius.”

  Reluctantly, Marius re-entered his mother’s room. Drenthe was leaning nonchalantly against the bookcase, the irreplaceable account of Scorbus’ war campaign in one hand.

  “So,” he said, as Marius faced him across the room. “What have we learned?”

  “You know,” Marius replied. “You’ve read it.”

  “I have. And I know what I learned.” He tossed the book to Marius. “I want to know what you learned.”

  Marius stared down at the cover.

  “It’s not his, is it?” He looked up at them all. “The crown. The throne. He had no legitimate claim.” He raised the book as if to dash it to the ground, held it for a moment, then lowered it and gave it back to his mother. “He didn’t even fight for it, just waited until someone else got it and then paid them off. He’s a usurper.”

  “That’s right. And what else does that mean, Helles?”

  Marius closed his eyes. “It means I’ve got to find another damn king.”

  “Not quite.”

  Marius opened his eyes and saw his mother, Keth and Drenthe standing in a group, all staring back at him with the same patient expression. He glanced from one to the other as understanding dawned.

  “No.”

  “You were crowned.”

  “You took it off me.”

  “You weren’t dead. Now you are.”

  “But you took it off me.”

  “You were never deposed, nor did you abdicate.”

  “I abdicate now.”

  “No you don’t, Marius.”

  “Well… it’s not mine any longer, is it?”

  “You are the rightful King of the Dead, Helles. You were crowned. You accepted the coronation. You know the path Scorbus takes your people on is not that which leads them to Heaven.”

  “But…” Marius seized on Drenthe’s last utterance. “I don’t even believe in God. Or gods.”

  “You will. Once you wear the crown, you will.”

  “But…” Marius turned towards his mother. His mother the nun. Then he tried Keth, but no joy there. She had always believed, Marius knew that, had always made allowance for his lack of faith, his nihilism. “But…”

  She came towards him now, taking him gently by the hands. “Marius. My love. If you don’t do something then nobody will. Nobody can. You are the only one who has a claim against Scorbus. You could turn your people against him. They believe in the crown he wears, your crown. But if you don’t…” She took her hands away, raised them towards the world outside. “Then who?”

  “I don’t know. Somebody. The King of Scorby! If he marshals his troops well, if he stays close to the city walls… he can call on the Tallian Amir for aid! I mean, if Scorbus takes Scorby he’ll look there next–”

  “Marius. The King is ten years old.”

  “His regent, then.”

  “Who is eighty-two years old and will likely be advising Scorbus within three weeks, given the amount he drinks,” added Drenthe.

  Marius stared at Keth. “I don’t want to.”

  “I know, my love. But what would you do, if you could?”

  “Run away. Hide. Pretend none of this was happening. With you. Somewhere safe and far away.”

  She ran a hand down the side of his face. “You know there is no far away, not this time. If Scorbus takes the living world then there will be nowhere safe for us to hide.”

  “And what will happen when he takes over the whole world in the name of God, and the thousands he commands, and the millions he will come to command, discover that it is not Heaven after all?” Drenthe asked softly. “What do you think will happen then?”

  Marius turned on the dead man. “You. You did this to me.”

  “You did this to all of us.”

  “If you hadn’t pulled me under…”

  “And what were you doing when I mistook you for the King, Helles? What were you holding?”

  Marius glanced at Keth and his mother. Drenthe had first taken him to the underworld when he was looting the King’s corpse in the aftermath of a battle. It was the crown he prised from the dead man’s helmet that persuaded the Dead of his nobility. There are some things you don’t want your mum and girlfriend finding out about. The fact that you steal jewellery from dead people is probably one of them. He stalked over to Drenthe and leaned in close enough to stare directly into the corpse’s single eye. With his dead sight he could see beyond the shattered orb, to the life that stared back at him from behind.

  “I don’t like you.”

  “You don’t have to.” Drenthe leaned back. “You just have to believe me.”

  Marius examined a moment longer, searching for a reason to doubt, to start their fight once more. Finally, he nodded.

  “That means yes, Helles?”

  “That means: what fucking option do I have?”

  “Hey!”

  “Sorry, mother.”

  “I should think so. Just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you should forget your manners.”

  “Yes, mother.”

  Keth hid a smile. “I like her.”

  “You be quiet, or I’ll tell her what you do for a living.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Why? What does she do?”

  Marius squinted like a vaudeville pamphleteer. “She cooks babies and feeds them to temperance advocates.”

  “Oh, well.” His mother blew a raspberry. “We’ve all done that.”

  Marius turned to Drenthe.

  “I can’t believe I’m going to say this.”

  “What?”

  “I want to hear Gerd’s opinion.”

  He found him in the lower dining hall, seated at one of the long tables used by the nuns at mealtimes, with Granny seated opposite. Other than that, the room was empty. They each had a bowl before them, and a small loaf of bread had been torn open. As steam rose from their meals, Marius watched them as they dunked lumps of bread and chewed on the resulting sopping mess.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “You should try this.” Gerd held up a sodden ball of bready goo. “Turnip soup. It’s good.”

  “We don’t eat.” Marius plonked himself down next to them. “We don’t have to eat.”

  “I know. But it’s really good.”

  Marius glanced at Granny as she slurped up another spoonful. “It’s not turnip,” he said. “You see any turnip fields on your way here?”

  “What is it, then?”

  He leaned towards her. “We’re sixty feet underground,” he muttered. “What do you think they do with all the worms?”

  She threw him an evil little
smile, and sucked on her fingers. “Then it’s good worm soup,” she said, taking care to flap her lips and spray his face with droplets of it.

  “Oh, gods.” Marius wiped his face. “When are you two going to get it? When are you going to stop thinking like…” He fell silent.

  “Thinking like what?”

  “A living person.” Marius pulled at his hair. “Bloody hell. We’re all doing it. I’m doing it.” He glanced at them both. “I am such an idiot.”

  “No argument there.” Granny slurped up the last of the bread and began attacking the inside of her bowl with three fingers. “I mean, you see me turning down free food just because I don’t have to eat? No, sir. It’s warm and it’s filling, and I don’t have to do the washing up. You’d have to be an idiot to turn that down.”

  “Granny.”

  “What?”

  “Be a love.” Gerd pushed his bowl over. “Take these down to the kitchen, would you?”

  Granny peered at the empty crockery, then at the two men. She pursed her lips.

  “All right,” she said. “Long as I don’t have to wash them.”

  “Thank you.” Gerd sat back and raised his face as she passed. She leaned down and grudgingly accepted a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t be long.”

  “Aye, well.” She squinted at Marius. “You are an idiot. You both are. Telling you to look after him has been a load of bollocks all along, so…” She pinned her gaze to Gerd, and her voice immediately softened. “Give him good advice, boy. Look after you both.”

  “I will.”

  “Hmmph. Be seeing you do.”

  She scuttled out the door, leaving the two companions alone.

  “Well, then.” Gerd said as soon as she was gone. “What’s happened, then?”

  “You’ve got Granny back.”

  “Yep.

  “I’ve got Keth.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “We could let it go at that, couldn’t we? We could go now. We’ve done what we set out to do.”

  “Yep.” Gerd looked at Marius, then at the door through which they’d come. “But the job’s only part done, isn’t it?”

  Marius stared at him. “How much do you know?”

  “Not much. But you wouldn’t be coming in here asking my permission to run off if it was something you wanted to do, would you?”

  Marius sighed. “No, I guess not.”

  “What is it, then?”

  Marius rubbed his face once more, then told his friend what had transpired in his mother’s room. Gerd listened in silence, waiting until Marius ran out of words before he placed his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his clenched fists.

  “Well,” he said. “If you want my permission to run away from that, you can have it. That’s a hell of a job to be handed and no mistake.”

  “What? Really?”

  “Oh, yes. I wouldn’t do it.”

  “No.” Marius frowned. “Right.”

  “So, when you going then?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about that.”

  “No time like the present.” Gerd sat back and clapped his hands. “Don’t bother about telling your mum and the woman you love. I’ll let them know you’ve gone.”

  “Hang on…”

  “We’ll sort something out, I expect. Maybe we can elect a parleement.”

  “What, a parliament of what? The dead?”

  “Sure, why not? No need to concern yourself. We’ll give it a go.”

  “Wait a tick. I never absolutely said…”

  Gerd stopped, opening his hands. “Then you’re not here for my permission, are you?”

  Marius stared down at the table. “Bollocks.”

  Gerd smiled. “Good. So let’s get on to it, then.” He stood and extricated himself from the bench. “I’ll go and get Granny. Your Majesty.”

  “Bloody hell.” Marius dragged himself upright. “Bloody fucking hell.”

  TWENTY

  The door to his mother’s room was closed. Marius knew they were waiting beyond it. All he had to do was turn around and walk away. He could be in a basket before they knew anything was amiss, at the top of the cliff before they worked out he wasn’t coming back, and hiding under the bed in a bordello in the cheapest, nastiest part of Borgho City before they decided to do this thing without him and got themselves all senselessly slaughtered…

  He opened the door.

  The group of conspirators looked up. Gerd and Granny sidled past him and went to stand next to them.

  “All right. But I’m not doing this alone.”

  “You never had to.” His five allies stood as one. Marius eyed them.

  “We’re going to need an army.”

  Drenthe smiled. “We already have one.”

  The halls at the base of the nunnery were enormous, great caverns carved by hand out of the rock in ancient times. Marius and Drenthe stood with their backs to the giant wooden doors that dominated one wall of the largest hall, and watched as hundreds of dead were put through their paces by a cadre of muscled corpses. In unison they raised shields, drove wooden swords forward, stepped, retreated, stepped again, raised shields, repeated. It was all performed in silence. Not a word was spoken, nor a command issued. To the nuns it must have seemed eerie. To Marius and Drenthe, former military men who could hear the tumult of projected voices inside their heads, it was a training ground no different to any other. Marius made out familiar faces amongst the trainees.

  “From V’Ellos?”

  Drenthe nodded. “The same. While you were faffing about on the water we came directly by land. I’d been drilling them in the warehouses, but now we have a team of fighters to instruct them.”

  “The tubmen.”

  “One every quarter for the last two years.” Brys appeared at their elbow. “Recruited from the finest docksides, taverns, and whorehouses the north can provide.”

  “And what’s in it for you?”

  Brys favoured him with a look of hurt. “Helles. You doubt me.” She smiled. “Money, of course. Lots of money.”

  “Good.” Marius performed a mental head count. “You’ll have plenty to spend, then.”

  “On what?”

  “Men.” He waved his hand at the practising troops. “These aren’t enough. We need more. Mercenaries, muggers, thieves, murderers, policemen. I want as many bastards as we can afford, and I want them here as soon as you can fetch them.”

  “But why?”

  “Because we’re going to war, Brys, against an enemy that already has an army of soldiers and gets more every time they put a knife through someone’s armour. We need bodies and we need them already hardened.”

  Drenthe butted in. “But you can’t drill those sorts into a fighting unit, not in the time frame we’re talking about. No matter how skilled they are in fighting one on one, they’ll go to pieces at the first sight of real battle against organised troops.”

  “I have no intention of taking them into a battle.” He swung the doors wide and stalked up the corridor towards the stairs, Drenthe and Brys in his wake. “I’m going to start a street fight.”

  “How?”

  He stopped a few steps above them and looked down at their confused faces. “You really think I don’t know how?”

  Brys grinned. “I think you could start a fight in a nunnery.”

  Marius grinned back. “What makes you think that?” He turned back to his climb. “And hammers. Equip them all with hammers.”

  “Why?”

  “Because swords create dead people.” He made a short chopping motion with his fist, like something blunt crushing a skull. “Hammers destroy them.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Not for the first time in its fifteen hundred year history, nor even the tenth, the library of the nunnery was home to a council of war. Admittedly, never before had the council contained four dead people, a dancing girl, and a smuggler, but it can’t be warrior kings and shiny armour all the time. Marius stared at each of them in turn. Finally, when it seemed
like silence had overtaken him completely, he spoke.

  “Scorbus is a thousand years old,” he said. “His tactics are a thousand years old. He knows nothing of the modern world, of modern cities. He’s lain in a box for a millennium without any sort of outside influence–”

  “He’s had the other kings to talk to.”

  Marius shot Gerd an annoyed look. “Twenty or so different voices, all arguing against each other, each one with a differing idea of what a King should be. And only two of them fought any real war of conquest. Even one of those was against a tribe in the mountains, not established fortifications on the plains.” He shook his head. “No. He’ll resort to what he knows best, what’s worked for him before.”

  “He’s already taken the main approaches to Scorby,” Drenthe interrupted. “If we wait too much longer he’ll control the whole of the coastal plain. Helles, we must–”

  “No he won’t.” Again, a shake of the head to silence dissent. “And you know it otherwise we wouldn’t have taken so long to get where we are now. No. It’s something I realised while you two were eating your soup.” He pointed at Gerd and Granny. “Scorbus has been dead for a dozen lifetimes or more, but does he think like a dead person?”

  The group exchanged doubtful glances.

  “Oh, for all the gods in the sky!” Marius rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, then back at them. “Look at what he’s done. Gathered troops amongst his own people, concentrated them into one vast army at the start point of his invasion. Rolled across the landscape in a great big, noisy column, waving flags and blowing trumpets more than likely. Slapped down the odd town here and there and winkled out traitors and bendable politicians so he can claim easy victories and keep marching in a nice straight line towards… where?”

  “Well, Scorby City, of course. I don’t see–”

  “Exactly. Straight at the biggest city on the continent, where he can form up all his troops in nice straight lines and nice square blocks and meet his enemy on the field of combat like a good old-fashioned king. And then everyone can look his opponent in the eye, and men on horses can ride up and down giving stirring speeches, and it will all be nice and honourable and formal, and he can rely on human nature to cock everything up so he can wait at the back and pick up the spoils after all the real fighters have killed each other and come over to his side.”