The Marching Dead

by Lee Battersby

  “It’s the sky I was talking about.” Gerd fumbled for the chair behind him and sank into it. “We’re rather high here, aren’t we?”

  Marius smirked. “Depends on your point of view. We’re below ground, so we’re actually very low.” He leaned over and whispered, “Can’t you just feel all that rock and earth pressing down on you? Doesn’t it make you feel all claustrophobic?”

  “Nobody likes you, you know.”

  Disappointed, Marius slumped into the remaining chair and glanced at the table. A stoneware jug and two tumblers sat upon it. He peered inside.

  “Water,” he muttered in disgust.

  They stared at the death scene across the room in silence.

  “So why are we here?”

  Marius’ attention had been captured by a vignette partway up the bole. Fresher than the others, it looked to have been carved only a few years ago. A merchant, in familiar livery: two circular shields, bisected by paired sword and quill. The crest of the family don Hellespont. The merchant was hanged most fiercely, his neck bent at an angle that would have resulted in decapitation in real life. His head was turned towards the room with a tilt that oozed superiority and an inborn arrogance. His face had been carefully carved, and then just as carefully scratched out. But it was the figure next to him that caught Marius’ attention: a young man, perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old: short compared to many of the others, with hair pulled back into a queue, wearing a distinctive jacket that Marius had not seen since he traded it for a meal and a thrupenny-upright at a southern alehouse almost twenty years ago. The space above the figure’s head was empty. There was still room for a noose, or a laurel, as if the artist was waiting to be told which one to sculpt. The face on that figure was outlined with infinite precision, and it was staring directly at the seat in which Marius sat.

  “Did you enjoy meeting my father?” he asked, gazing into the image’s empty eyes.

  “Ummm, no. Let’s say not.”

  “Well,” Marius smiled grimly as the door next to them began to open. “You’re probably going to want to keep that in mind.”

  A tall, ascetic-looking woman in starched white robes glided into the room. She paused, and turned to look at the two men down the length of a long nose. Her arched eyebrows framed dark eyes that offered no welcome or recognition. Marius tilted his head so that she could not escape the full measure of his face. She stared at his ravaged features for several seconds until, ever so delicately, small white teeth bit down onto her lower lip.

  “Oh, Marius,” Halla don Hellespont said in a cracking voice, “whatever have you done?”

  Marius watched as her self-control deserted her, and quiet sobs began to shiver the length of her body. He leaned back and grinned.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  SEVENTEEN

  The room behind the door was small but richly furnished. Marius stepped past his mother and checked out the wooden bookshelves and overstuffed chairs, depositing himself on a couch by the wall and stretching his legs across it.

  “You’re doing very well for yourself.”

  His mother shuffled in, wiping wet cheeks, and slid behind a desk, leaning forward to rest her head on her hands and look at him.

  “Mother Superior loaned me this room in which to meet you. This is her office. My room is a little more humble.”

  “Only a little, I suspect.”

  Halla said nothing, and simply continued to observe him with such sadness in her eyes that Marius found himself unable to match gazes, contenting himself with leaning back into the couch and turning to look about the room. It was, he was forced to admit, not that well-appointed on second glance. The furniture was clean and old, but now that he was staring at it he could see it was handmade, probably by some past acolyte of the nunnery. Everything was the tiniest bit lopsided, as if the skills to produce it had been learned on the job. Marius was sure that most of the drawers would stick, were he to try them, and the desk probably wobbled if any weight was put on the far corner. Even the couch was unevenly stuffed, and he wriggled to find the most comfortable configuration of lumps for his backside.

  “So,” he said.

  “So.”

  “You wanted to see me, did you?” He leaned back, squirmed his hip between two errant springs. “Like what you see?”

  “Marius–”

  “Let’s not ‘Marius’ me, mother.” He stared up at the rough-hewn ceiling, finding designs in the unfinished scrapings of long-dead chisels.

  “Marius.” This time Halla was firm, more in control of her emotions. “You came to me. Do you really know why you are here?”

  “Is that it?” He swung his face towards her. “Is that all you have to ask? Not ‘How could this happen?’ or ‘Who did this awful thing to you?’”

  “I know who did this to you.”

  He sat up. “You do?”

  She nodded. “It was your father, wasn’t it? He finally did it. He finally… You went to see him, didn’t you, and he did this.”

  Marius closed his eyes, and slumped back. “Oh, for…” He tilted his head back, stared through his eyelids at the grey, dead world around him. “You can’t let each other go, can you? Can’t just decide it was a terrible marriage and leave each other to rot in peace in your separate little holes.”

  “But you did go there.”

  Suddenly, he was sitting forward, staring at her – his mother, upright and regal in her liar’s uniform, daring to look at him as if visiting his father was some sort of crime. Never mind how it had ended. Never mind how great the hatred between his parents has been. What irritated her was nothing more or less than the proximity. It had always been this way. If the three of them had been in a room he could have picked a favourite, and it would have been her every time. But they were alone, just the two of them, and even as he knew it for the conditioned response it was, and hated himself for it, the old don Hellespont traditions took hold. If two were together, they would sting each other to death like scorpions in the sun. The poison couldn’t sit in his throat any longer: he had to spit it out, and she was right in front of him, an unmoving target.

  “It wasn’t him that brought me to this,” he hissed. “Not alone.” He stood and leaned over the desk, a pointed finger aimed at her eye like a dart. “All he ever did was hate me. It was you.” A jab of the finger. “You, and this imaginary bullshit, running out any time it all got too much for your delicate sensibilities–”

  “I did what I had to.”

  “But you never took me!” Marius almost stopped, surprised by the hurt in his voice, by the need. “Only when it suited you. If it was that bad, how could you justify it to yourself, leaving me behind when it was so bad?”

  She lowered her gaze for a moment. “It was never you he wanted to hurt.”

  “He still did!” The finger became a fist, banging against the desk with each word like a judge’s gavel, pronouncing sentence. “Did you ever stop to think, did you ever take a moment to work it out? Hurting me hurt you. Basic fucking logic, mother.”

  The world fell silent. Marius could feel his words being soaked up by the stone walls, reflecting back only the essence of his hurt and anger, absorbing the meaning. He pushed away from the table in disgust.

  “I’m here for as long as it takes to get what I need, and then I’m going.”

  “The book.”

  He stared at her for long moments. “What?”

  “You want the book.”

  “How did you know?”

  She raised her head to look at him, and he saw in her eyes a flash of the mother he once knew, the quiet pride he had watched slowly erode and fall away. “You went to see him.”

  “Yes.”

  “First.”

  “What?”

  “You went to see him before me.” She reached into a desk drawer, tugging at it as it stuck. She pulled a book out and laid in on the table between them. “Whatever you say, Marius, whatever you feel, just remember that.” She pushed it across, and
watched as he picked it up. “When you needed something, you went to him first.”

  Marius took the book and stood without a further word. Without looking at his mother he slid the chair back against the table with exaggerated courtesy, exited the room, and closed the door quietly behind him. Gerd was sitting on the couch, lost in contemplation of the carved walls. As Marius entered he looked up.

  “Hey, have you seen that guy?” Gerd pointed at the carvings. “He looks just like… What’s wrong?”

  Marius ignored him. He crossed the room to the chair at the far side of the foyer and settled into it. Drawing his legs up under him, as he had done when he was a child and had snuck into his father’s study to read forbidden books while Ygram was away, he began to read.

  EIGHTEEN

  So it was that the usurper Scorbus of Kefundy led his forces from their encampments under the hills of Tinmer and arrayed them at the northern edge of the fields that bordered the City of Jollis, wherein sat Mellik, rightful king of the plains peoples. Twenty thousand Kefundian invaders stood at Scorbus’ back, alongside Tallian mercenaries and flesh-eating Northerners who he paid in the bodies of villagers they slaughtered as they made their ruinous way across the plains.

  Thus they came upon the walls of Jollis and made their camp beneath them. But Scorbus, having come so far and caused such misery as if it were his right, was gripped by fear, and neither attacked the walls nor attempted a siege. Instead, he sat indolent and fearful, and lit fires by day as well as night, and sought parlay with the rightful king. And King Mellik made reply that Scorbus had no claim to any throne of man, as was known by all who had no favour of his purse, and that only a sharpened blade would sit upon his brow unless he made recompense with sorrow and withdrew beyond the plains.

  And Scorbus sent no emissary, but sat silent, so that N’Nosi, who led the Northerners, was disgusted, and took a force of Kefundians to the city gates to beat upon them and force shame and action upon him.

  Thus the King came upon the Kefundians by surprise, catching them hard against the wooden walls of the city with the majority of their forces unprepared, and there was a deathly fight for possession of the ground. There was killed the Princes Sonnig and Knert; and the Kefundians who remained were put to flight and variously killed, so that what survivors crawled back to their leader were condemned to death for being too weak to fight further. And thus did Mellik claim possession of the place of death.

  But the usurper was not found wanting of tricks, and so he devised an attack by traitors amongst the King’s own kind, who had been promised lands to either side of the city itself where fields were lush and much desired. And they came upon the King as two rivers of men from within his own city on the ground he had won so hard-fought and recent, and they came upon him before he had call to marshal his own soldiery.

  But the King, being well-supported and righteous in his claim, made hard battle against his traitors, and there was great slaughter done to both armies. His men he drew into a ring around his standard. As the traitors charged, his brother Prince Vaddcoldamadi, who bore the name of the old King in the speech of his ancestors, and who led the traitors in defence of his own unfounded claim to the throne, was thrown from his horse at his master’s feet. And Mellik, being so noble of spirit and owning of the righteousness of battle, raised him to his feet, saying “I will not fight a brother that has fallen. Rather he slays me than I take such a victory over him.” Whereupon Vaddcoldamadi rose with words of thanks upon his lips, and did kill the King by means of a knife hidden upon his person.

  At this, those troops loyal to the city were overwhelmed, and the mangled bodies of the most noble and virtuous troops were broken open by the hooves of the traitor’s horses, while the usurper waited with his invaders and let the city’s men fall upon each other. And the traitor Vaddcoldamadi was possessed of the crown, and did cross the field before his remaining victorious troops, whereupon he presented it to the usurper and proclaimed Scorbus King of Jollis, in return for the lands to the west of the city walls and the promise of succession over the dead King’s sons, who had been put to the sword.

  And all the traitors around him shouted their assent without hesitation, and were joined by the heathen Northerners and the money-fed Tallians, so that all within the walls heard a multitude of demon’s voices and knew that the old, honoured ways were lost and that the time of usurpation was upon them.

  And Scorbus rode into the City as if it were his by right of conquest, and the men of Jollis were rounded up, aye, and slaughtered, along with those traitors who had fought for Vaddcoldamadi, and the traitor prince himself. With nobody left to oppose him, Scorbus was anointed first King of the place now called Scorby after him, and set about to make himself the master of the world. And all sons of the city were fathered by the bastards he brought with him, and the woman subjugated and afeared, and all who opposed him were fed to the dungeons and forgotten.

  NINETEEN

  Marius closed the book slowly and sat staring at the sky through the balistraria for a very long time, his hands folded across the book’s dry leather cover. Finally, with deliberate care, he placed it gently on the side table and stood. He took one deep, unnecessary breath, nodded to himself, and walked to the door.

  His mother was waiting in her room. Marius stood in the doorway and matched her stare for several seconds.

  “So,” he said. “Where did you get that book?”

  “It’s been in the family for years,” she replied. “You know how your father likes to collect valuable things.”

  “I’ve read that book a dozen times. I’ve never read that book.”

  Halla smiled. “Everybody has read the book in your father’s library. That book is authorised. The one you’ve just read…” She shrugged. “There were only thirty made, hand-copied by monks in an obscure monastery at the base of Mount Terrun. After Scorbus found out about it, there were no copies. Or a monastery, or monks to remember it.”

  “No copies, and yet…”

  “That is not a copy.”

  “The original.”

  “Written by the Venerable Gifgy in the year of the Long Fire, and sent to the nuns of this nunnery a year before Scorbus learned of its existence. Once Scorbus found out, he had Gifgy tortured and broken until he revealed the location of all of them. He told him where they all were, except his original. It’s been here ever since, hidden, secret, safe. Until today there seemed little need to bring it back into the light.”

  “But…” Marius frowned. “The version at Father’s house… he said you took it with you.”

  “I did. It’s in my library.” She pointed to a small bookshelf against the far wall of the room.

  “Then this one?”

  “He wanted you to find it. He said you had to read it for yourself, that you had to understand.”

  “Father said that?”

  “No. Not your father.” Halla looked sideways, towards the door. “Someone else.”

  “Oh, no.” Realisation took Marius, just as he heard the handle lower. He swung as the door opened, his fist raised, ready to launch himself at the ruined visage he knew was about to enter…

  “Keth!”

  She stood in the doorway like a sudden beam of light in a dark room, her long hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, her slim figure hidden beneath the folds of a simple white dress that was too broad across the shoulder, too big in the bust, so that it hung off her like a shroud. She held her long, thin hands across her chest, fingers knitted together as she stared at him in complete shock for long seconds, her white face seeming more white than Marius remembered. Then he was upon her. He buried his face in her shoulder, breathed deep, drowning himself in her smell. His arms enveloped her, pulling her into him so that every hair on his body reached out to touch her.

  “Marius. Marius.”

  He pulled her back, stared at her, then threw his arms around her again.

  “I thought you were lost. I thought… I thought you were…”


  “Dead?” Slowly, she disentangled herself from him and placed hands on either side of his face. “Would that have been so bad?”

  “I…” He placed his hands over hers. “I thought I’d lost you. I thought he’d…”

  “Kept her safe.” A figure stepped out of the shadows behind Keth: a familiar broken shape. “While you travelled dangerous roads.”

  “You!” This time Marius did launch himself forward. His forearms struck Drenthe in the upper chest, knocking him back against the wall. His hands slid upwards and dug deep into the loose skin of his throat. Drenthe raised his eyebrows at the fury on Marius’ face.

  “If you’re trying to choke me,” he said with perfect clarity, so the whole room could hear. “we could be here for quite some time.”

  “Marius, please.” Keth was tugging at his arm, trying to pull him away. “You have to listen to him. Please.”

  “What?” Marius glanced at her, then back at his nemesis. “What have you done to her?”

  “Nothing. He didn’t do anything.”

  “Marius.” Halla stood in the doorway. “Mr Drenthe delivered Keth here ten days ago, and asked me to look after her while you embarked on your journey. She’s been here ever since, Marius.”

  “You’ve got a fucking funny way of keeping people safe.”

  “Would you have let me take her if I’d knocked on your door and politely asked?”

  Marius held his stare for long seconds, then slowly eased backwards. “How are you doing that?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Speaking. Out loud.” He pointed at Drenthe’s unmoving jaw. “You’ve never done that before.”

  “I do it all the time.” The jaw stayed still. The voice came from somewhere just behind it. “Just not with you.”