Marching Dead

by Lee Battersby

  “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay.” He glanced back towards Tanspar’s tomb. “Look.” The front of the crypt showed something that purported to be Tanspar’s last battle. The King rode high above his subjects, his profile a mask of glory and righteous anger as the Tallian barbarians fell back under the perfection of the Scorban assault. Marius had seen the aftermath of the battle. It had been the first act in the tragicomedy that his life had become. He remembered no glory, only bodies and corruption and fear. The frieze extended past the corners on both sides: Tanspar’s reign had not been a long one. “See there, just at the corner?” A farewell scene. The King, riding out to war, waving goodbye to his adoring family. The young prince ascendant, a golden crown floating an inch above his head. Marius knew the artist was simply getting his sycophancy in early, but it might help the boy. “The most important thing in your father’s life,” he said. “And you’re there with him, now, forever.”

  Billinor wiped his eyes and stared at the frieze, then at the empty space beyond. “I’ll be there one day, won’t I?” he said, pointing. Marius blinked. There was a king for you, he thought. Nothing lasts longer than consideration of one’s legacy.

  “Yes,” he replied. “One day. Let’s just make sure it’s a long while from now, shall we?”

  Billinor nodded. Marius turned to the crypt.

  “Tanspar?” he projected. “Tanspar of Scorby?”

  The flow of conversation around him broke off. Marius shuffled nervously, and asked again. A voice, high-pitched and aristocratic, replied.

  “Yes?”

  Marius glanced at Billinor. The boy was staring at him, a frown on his face. “Give me a moment,” he said. Billinor’s frown deepened. “Tanspar of Scorby,” he projected once more. “I am Marius don Hellespont.”

  “And you are?”

  “I am…” he paused. “I have brought your son, Billinor. He has inherited a troubled kingdom. He needs your help.”

  “Billinor?” The voice changed immediately, worry and love displacing the cool reserve. An image of Tanspar appeared in Marius’s mind. A father’s face, creased in fear. “Is he okay? What troubles him? What is the matter?”

  Billinor was staring at him. Marius winked. “We’re talking,” he said. “Dead people talk within our minds.”

  The boy looked at Marius with the kind of contempt reserved for small children who suddenly understand that an adult is lying to them. “That’s not even a good trick,” he said scornfully. “It’s just making stuff up.”

  Marius blinked. Of course, he realised. From the outside, all he can see is me, standing still. He doesn’t hear the voices, can’t understand what’s being said. Any explanation I give him sounds like, well, the sort of lie an adult tells a kid.

  “I need something,” he projected. “Something only you would know.”

  “Tell him to trust you,” Tanspar replied.

  “Trust me.”

  “Only beggars and diplomats lie.”

  “Only beggars and diplomats lie.”

  “Bunnydor.”

  “What?”

  “Say it.”

  Marius shrugged. “Bunnydor.”

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then Billinor’s hands slowly rose to his mouth.

  “How…” He stared at Marius with enormous eyes. “You can’t call me that,” he whispered. “Only Daddy…”

  Marius tilted his head towards the crypt. Billinor swallowed. Marius knelt, and the boy threw his arms around his neck. Marius held him, letting the boy cry against his shoulder. He looked helplessly toward Keth. She stared back, her own tears clear against her cheeks.

  “What is happening?” Tanspar’s voice in his mind. Marius glanced at the top of the young King’s head.

  “We’ve persuaded him,” he said sadly. “He just needs a few moments to deal with it.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yes.”

  There were a few silent seconds, punctuated only by the sound of the boy crying. Then Tanspar spoke again, the voice clear in Marius’ mind.

  “While Billi is… distracted, perhaps you can tell me why you have brought him here to undertake this… form of conversation?”

  “There’s a war on his doorstep. Scorbus has risen from the underworld.” Quickly, he outlined the war waiting outside the walls of the city. “He doesn’t know what to do.”

  “He has advisors. Why does he not consult with them?”

  “Because you’re his dad. And his hero.” Marius dropped his gaze to the clean stone lid under his hand. “He saluted your coffin when it went past him, because it had a flag on it and you’d taught him–”

  “To love the flag.” Tanspar’s voice was deep with sadness. Marius nodded, realised what he was doing, and projected his nod. “So what do you wish me to tell him?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Come now. If we can communicate then I know you are one of us, and if one of us is bringing the King to consult with his dead father then I know why.”

  Another nod. “Not all the dead rally to Scorbus. We have a plan, but there are few of us, and we need the living to stay out of the way.”

  “I suspect as much. The question is, my dead friend, why is it you are the one to oppose him, and what are you hiding from my son?”

  Marius said nothing. Tanspar chuckled.

  “Nothing he would be inclined to believe, I think. So you bring him here, to use me as your mouthpiece. I ask you again. What would you have me say?”

  “Scorbus has one hundred thousand troops outside the city walls…”

  “Gods.”

  “I want you to…” Marius paused, tried again. “Scorbus wants a battle. He wants the city to send its troops out. If Billinor does that, he’s lost before the fight even begins.”

  “Every soldier killed will become a recruit for the enemy.”

  “Exactly. And then when it’s over, Scorbus comes into the unprotected city and recruits everyone else.”

  “Slaughter. Genocide.”

  “Reclaiming what he believes is his. Subjugation by right of conquest. Only in this case…”

  “Subjugation involves killing his subjects. But why would Billi not realise this? Surely anyone would advise him not to venture forth.”

  “Because you rode to war.”

  “I was killed!”

  “You’re his hero.”

  “And what would you have him do instead?”

  “Withhold his troops, stay behind the city walls. Let me fight his battle for him. I have troops of my own, dead troops loyal to me. I have a plan that I am convinced will work. I just need Billi… I need the King to keep his people off the battlefield.”

  “And why would he allow you to do this? You would seem to have more in common with his enemy than with my son.”

  “Scorbus believes himself the rightful King of the Dead, but he’s not. I am.”

  “And how…” The words were slow to arrive, deliberate, as if the speaker half-suspected the coming answer. “Do you substantiate your claim to this throne, sir?”

  Marius winced. He had hoped to avoid this moment, but Tanspar was too canny.

  “I was crowned with full ceremony,” he said, “and have neither abdicated nor been removed by greater right of succession.”

  “That is not the full truth, sir.”

  Marius glanced towards Keth. She had collected Billinor. Now she stood with him and dried his eyes, before directing him back to Marius.

  “Please. This is too important.”

  “You will tell me how you came to your throne.”

  “Your Majesty, there are greater things at risk than this.”

  Billinor had turned towards Marius. He took a deep breath, let it out, and took a step.

  “Tanspar…”

  “You will tell me! Or I shall advise him as I see fit, and damn this city and all within it if it means my boy is safe!”

  Marius bent his head. “They found me on a battlefield, hiding underneath a dead soldier. Wi
th a crown. So they thought the obvious. By the time they realised, I’d already been proclaimed.”

  The pause that followed was long enough that Billinor was able to cross the floor and hoist himself up to sit on his father’s crypt – ignoring Marius’s proffered hands, he noticed – before Tanspar spoke again.

  “I was found without my crown. It had been removed from my helm.”

  “I am not the person I once was,” Marius replied.

  Again a long pause. Billinor stared at Marius. He shook his head slightly, and the young King frowned.

  “And who wears my crown now?”

  “Scorbus.”

  “I see.” Marius could feel Tanspar considering, weighing up his options. “Has my son returned?”

  “He has.”

  “You will repeat my words to him, exactly as I say them. And you will recover my crown.”

  “I… I will.”

  “You are in my debt, Mister don Hellespont. You will keep my son safe, and recover my crown, and you will still remain always in my debt.”

  Marius sent him a nod of acquiescence. He looked up at Billinor.

  “Ready?”

  Billinor nodded. Tanspar began to speak, and Marius relayed his message, exactly word for word. When it was done he stepped back, and Billinor lay down upon his father’s cold stone crypt, and spread his hands as wide as his little frame could reach.

  “I love you, Daddy,” he muttered.

  “He loves you.”

  “I love him, too.”

  “He loves you too.”

  “Tell him…” Marius heard Tanspar choke slightly, then continue, stronger. “Tell him to take the passage behind the lower library on his way back. They’ll be looking for him, now. Don’t go by the kitchen.”

  “Your father says he’ll always love you.”

  “You promised me, don Hellespont.”

  “I know.” He held his hands out to the young King. Billinor took them, and dropped down off the crypt. Keth had drifted to the back of the room while the conversation had taken place, slipping inside the entrance to the smaller and darker Hall of Queens. Now she returned, and held out her hands to the boy. Marius placed a hand on his shoulder, held him still for a moment.

  “I’ll see him back safe,” Marius told his father. “I promise you. And thank you for helping me try to make it all straight.”

  Tanspar said nothing. Marius released Billinor and he took off towards Keth at a flat run.

  “Wait.”

  Marius stopped. Billinor, oblivious to the command, threw himself at Keth and buried his face in her chest. She put her arms around him and frowned at Marius in confusion. He gestured her to be patient.

  “Yes?”

  “One more thing. You came here when I was lying in state. You freed Scorbus.”

  Marius projected a nod.

  “You visited this war upon my son. In every way it was you who brought him to this.”

  Marius could have made any number of denials, pointed to any number of mitigating factors. Instead, he felt his shoulders slump. “Yes,” he replied. “When it all comes down to it.”

  “Tell me. If whatever plan you have works, if my son survives this action we have advised him to take… will you remain behind, to bring him to talk with me once more?”

  “I… No. I don’t believe so.”

  Tanspar’s image nodded. “Should I thank you, then, for fetching him here, to inform me of this danger? My ten year-old son, and I shall not know his fate until he is lying here next to me, dead? All I can do is lie here not knowing whether that will be tomorrow, or fifty years. Would you thank a person who delivered you such fear?”

  “No. No, I wouldn’t.”

  Tanspar’s image flicked off inside his mind. The dead man’s voice was bitter in the sudden blackness.

  “A pox on you, don Hellespont. I hope you spend whatever eternity you earn in Hell.”

  Marius looked across at Keth: warm, loving, alive Keth.

  “You’re about three months too late for that,” he said.

  They walked back through the Cathedral in silence, pausing at the entrance to stare out at the families still huddled in the Great Square. More refugees had joined them, fleeing the impending doom outside the walls. The great crowd watched in silence as the King and his companions crossed the square. At the corner of the boulevard, Billinor stopped, and turned.

  “Billinor?”

  He looked up at Marius. “Your Majesty, please.”

  “I… Your Majesty.” Marius bent his head. “What are you doing?”

  Billinor bit his lip. He’s about to do it, Marius realised. He’s talked with his father. He’s reconciled to whatever course of action he’s going to take. Whatever he does now, he’s about to do it himself, alone, for the first time. Billinor straightened, and looked at the older man with eyes suddenly grown cool.

  “Behind me if you please, sir.”

  “Um, yes, of course. Your Majesty.” Marius hurried to stand beside Keth as Billinor turned towards the crowd that faced him in silent expectation.

  “My friends…” His voice cracked softly. He stopped, and started again. “My friends.” This time, there was not a flicker of weakness in it. “I have an announcement to make. I ask you: go into the city, return in a bell with as many as you can find. Tell them… tell them their King has need of them. We have tasks to perform tonight, and not all will agree with us. I leave it to you, my friends, to gather those who will.”

  A cheer broke out: ragged, thin with cold and fear and something just short of understanding. But it was a cheer, and it was Billinor’s. He nodded then, and as lights began to show in windows across the face of the royal apartments, he turned to Marius.

  “We need to get back to my rooms. I must dress properly.” He glanced up at the building. “Through the passage behind the lower library, I should think.”

  Marius grinned. “At your service, Your Majesty.”

  “Yes,” Billinor nodded. “Thank you.”

  They proceeded until the moment they were out of sight of the cheering crowd, then ran like hell for the secret door. Billinor swung it open and glanced up at Marius. “Do you have some really scary and strong dead people who could perhaps stop a whole lot of soldiers and advisors breaking down a door while I made a speech?”

  Marius laughed. “I think I can manage that. How do nuns take your fancy?”

  “I have no idea,” Billinor said as they raced into the hidden maze within the palace. “Are nuns scary?”

  THIRTY-ONE

  The King stood at the top of the hallway and stared down it towards the glass doors at its far end. Beyond lay the balcony overlooking the giant square. Ten thousand troops could line up beneath it, ready to hear their king’s command. Instead, ten thousand peasants, children, labourers and assorted citizenry stood in silence, waiting to see the small boy whose loyalty they longed to reward. The corridor was perhaps twenty feet long, the last twenty feet of privacy the king would have before he stepped outside to change history. To either side of him, short cross corridors ended in thick wooden doors, outside of which stood two dozen of Arnobew’s nuns, and as many of the palace guard as hadn’t learned that a femur upside the head meant that the King really didn’t want to be interrupted. Gerd and Keth stood in front, ready to relay any messages that might need to be passed through. Billinor stood at its junction – four and a half feet tall in his slippered feet – and ignored the panicked yelling of his mother, the advisor Denia, and the rest of his inner sanctum. Instead, he stared up at the glowering portrait that hung upon the wall above him: Scorbus the Great, in his pomp, a monster of a man with hooded gaze and massive, monumental presence.

  “Is that really him?” the young King asked. Marius cast his thoughts back to the last time he had stood here, when the skeletal Scorbus had stared at this image of him and asked an almost-identical question. He grimaced in sympathy.

  “I don’t really know,” he said. “He didn’t look like that.�
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  “I know why it’s here.” The King looked up at Marius, his smooth, unlined face no longer filled with fear of the dead man before him. Now he was considering something that, to him, was more frightening: making a fool of himself in front of strangers, and adults, and the people he trusted. “It’s meant to remind me of what kind of a king I’m supposed to be.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “But…” The King bit his lip. “But if that’s really him out there…” A wave towards the world outside. “And he’s going to kill everyone in the city and kill me and my family and take the crown and make everyone dead…” He stared at the picture, stared and stared until Marius could see the coming question as if it were written in the air itself. “What kind of king am I supposed to be if I’m supposed to be like him?”

  Marius gaped at him. Ten years old. When Marius was ten he could barely button his flies without help, and his greatest fear had been accidentally running into the Fish Alley Gang and getting his arse kicked for being out of his parents’ street. No matter what this kid did, he realised, someone was going to use it as an excuse to act against him. Children have too many enemies. Ten years old was no age to be a king. He smiled.

  “You know something?” he said. “I never liked this portrait.” He reached up and pulled it from the wall. Billinor gasped.

  “You can’t do that!”

  “Why not? Who’s going to stop me? You?”

  Billinor giggled. Marius pointed at the picture.