“In pennies!”
She smiled. “I was very bad. Anyway, one day, just after my sixteenth birthday, Papa came home and told me he owed another merchant twenty thousand riner, and if he didn’t pay it by the end of the week he’d be ruined.”
“Father.”
“Your father, yes. So he gave me a case with two thousand riner inside, told me I was married, and that my debt to him was discharged.”
“But… how could you marry him?”
She paused for a very long time, until Marius almost believed he had only thought the question and had forgotten to voice it aloud. Then: “He is my husband. I said the words. I held the cord and stood upon the joined rock. Look around you.” She pointed back up the corridor, towards the rooms inside the cliff. “I believe, Marius. Marriage is a sanctified act in the eyes of God. How can I disobey his rules?”
“How can you…?” Marius fell away from her. He looked into her eyes, saw serenity in her face and a complete disregard for his opinion of her. He saw the complete breaking of whatever bond they had. It had never been about family, or Ygram, or all the ways they had sought to hurt each other. Marius looked into his mother’s eyes, and saw God.
“You’ve got another twenty years of life if you’re lucky,” he said. “If you ever want to see your god after you die you’ll give me everything I ask for. Or you can sit here in your stinking pit and wait for Scorbus to climb down and tell you that this is all you’ll ever have.” He turned his back on her and stalked back through the archway into the corridor. “And I say I want to see your ossuary, now!”
The others were waiting in the main hallway, half of Brys’ tubmen lined up behind them with double-loads of the wooden casks slung over their shoulders. Marius glanced at them as he entered.
“Ready to go?”
“All loaded up.” Brys tilted her head at her crew. “Full of salvation for the masses.”
“Good. Where’s Arnobew?”
The crew glanced at each other, startled by the fierceness of his reaction. “He’s down with the troops, drilling them in… well, something he’s learned from somewhere, anyway.”
“Get him, now.”
“Yes.” Drenthe moved to obey, thought better of it, and sketched a short bow. “Your Majesty.” He left, and Marius stared at the door for long seconds after he shut it behind him.
“He’s right, you know.” Keth was peering at him as if suddenly she didn’t recognise the man she had lain beside for three years. “You’ve accepted it, haven’t you?”
He glowered at her. She didn’t get to be right. Not this time, not now. “No,” he said. “But it seems like everyone else has.” They stared at each other until eventually she dropped her eyes and turned away from him, wrapping her arms around herself as she did so. Halla spared him a glare and moved over to Keth. His mother drew her away from the group, whispering with her in low, murmuring tones. Marius ignored them, keeping his attention on the door until Drenthe returned, Arnobew in his wake.
“Marius!” the cardboard warrior boomed. Arnobew barrelled into the room and enveloped him in a hug that would have expelled the air from his lungs in an instant, if there have been any in them. Marius bore it for a few seconds, then extricated himself. “Is this not a turn-up, lad? They’ve killed the breath right out of me, and given me an army to boot!”
“So you’re happy with it, are you?” Marius looked the bigger man up and down.
“Happy? My boy, I’m exuberantly ecstatic!”
“Yes.” Marius leaned in close and smiled up at him. “Mad Warbone.”
“Yes, my leader? Hey,” Arnobew glanced at Drenthe, then back at Marius, “this decomposing fellow tells me you’re the King of things and we’re all your subjects now.”
“He might be right.”
“Capital!” Arnobew dealt him a clap on the arm that staggered the younger man. “Couldn’t be happier for you. So.” He came to ragged attention and threw an old fashioned Scorban soldier’s salute from his chest to the space an inch above his shoulder. “Yes, Your Majesteh!”
“Mad Warbone.” Marius smiled, and it was a nasty little thing indeed. “How would you like to command a real army?”
TWENTY-FOUR
They marched up the corridor towards the ossuary in regal procession: Marius ahead, Drenthe at his side, Gerd and Arnobew striding behind. Halla and Keth stalked in worried concert at the rear, with only Brys and the tubmen behind them. They stopped a dozen paces from the heavy wooden doors that marked the ossuary entrance. Marius beckoned Gerd forward.
“A thousand years of bones,” he said, gesturing to the door. “Separated, counted, categorised, and laid out in perfect order, just waiting for someone to come along and put them all back together.”
“Like a Bone Cathedral in reverse.”
“Exactly.”
Halla scurried forward and placed herself between Marius and the bones within.
“For the last time,” she said, arms outstretched as if to block passage. “This is a sacred space. These sisters have earned their rest. Let them be.”
“Oh, I have no intention of going in and disturbing them.” Marius replied. Halla sagged in sudden relief, and he turned to Gerd once more. “Do you hear it?”
“I do.”
Drenthe did too, for he stepped up and stood next to Marius. “Helles?”
“No ‘Your Majesty’, Drenthe?”
“What is it, Helles?”
Marius smirked. “Wait.”
Soon it became apparent to them all. From behind the door came a sound like a billion chittering insects, as if thousands upon thousands of bones were being moved.
“What is it?”
Marius could feel the edges of his grin pulling upwards into madness. “Bones.” He laughed, then stopped as he heard how many edges it contained. Because the bones were coming. Clicking, clacking, twisting, pushing, rotating, snapping, dragging, until they came together in a vast, rolling tumult that echoed off the walls and drew the living members of the entourage towards the back of the group in fear, while the dead members moved forward in unconscious sympathy with the deluge of sound.
“You hear it?” Marius shouted. “You hear?”
And they did.
Voices. Hundreds upon hundreds of voices, drawn out of skulls that had been silent too long. Questioning, demanding to know why they had been abandoned for so long, why they had been torn apart and left to find themselves in the dark. Marius planted himself before the door and projected his voice across the uproar.
“Sisters of Tylytene. Warriors. Assassins. Spreaders of lies. I am your King, and I demand your servitude!”
The tubmen fell to one knee. Drenthe joined them, Gerd and Arnobew made to do the same, and were stopped by Marius’ glare.
“Not you two.”
They stayed upright and faced the door. The noise was growing: feet stomping, voices crying out in anger, bony hands crashing into equally bony breasts. Keth was crying his name. Brys backed against the wall, drew her cutlasses and held them out before her. He ignored them, ignored Halla’s cries of “No, no, no,” and her babbled prayers to a god in whom only she believed. The invisible feet came together in a single crashing step. Something heavy and angry hit the door: once, twice, a third time. Marius tilted his head.
“Come on, then,” he projected quietly.
The door crashed back on his hinges. Marius and his companions stared through it into a hundred feet of blackened catacomb. There, skeletal arms linked, and bodies pushed forward with red hate radiating out from them in waves that staggered even the living members of Marius’ entourage. In ranks six wide, a millennia of Tylytene’s most venerated nuns faced the world and let out a single, silent roar.
“Mad Warbone,” Marius said, laughing. “Meet your army.”
They weren’t all warriors, of course. The nunnery had been many things throughout its history, and internment had followed the practices of the time. There were plenty of celebrated healers, and who
res, and the occasional holy woman. But they were all united by one thing: anger, raging anger at the dissolution of their beings – skulls in this alcove, shoulder blades in another, finger and knucklebones in vast piles in yet more alcoves. Every individual component of their bodies had been bleached and venerated and cast into separate rooms along the sprawling catacombs to lie in isolation, without the will to find themselves again until Marius had called them into action. Now he stood at their head and stared them down: a small man in a female holy space; an intruder in their halls, their minds, and their beliefs, armed only with a sense of purpose that found red reflections in their souls. He glared across their ranks, and spoke clearly to them all.
“I am your King, and you will kneel to me.”
A thousand skulls tilted. The first few ranks saw the tubmen, saw Gerd and Arnobew, saw Marius. Slowly, like old trees in the wind, they bent, until a thousand skeletons paid him obeisance. Marius nodded, and turned away.
“Bring the others up from the halls,” he told his companions. “It’s time we went to war.”
They reassembled in the dinner hall, the dead watching the living eat warm gruel; except for Granny, who tucked away three bowls before the others had finished tearing their bread apart, and was only prevented from going back for fourths by the fact that the pot was empty. Once they were all seated, Marius took his place at the head of the table and ran his eyes over them all.
“It’s still not enough,” he said. The others kept silent. Arnobew made as if to say something, then thought better of it. Marius tapped his front teeth with a finger, smiled to himself, and looked at Gerd. “I know where to get more, though.”
Gerd thought about if for several moments. “No.”
“Yes.”
The swineherd glanced at Keth. “Are you sure about this?”
Marius saw the look, decided to ignore it in the interests of cowardice. “We need bodies,” he said. “Armed, organised, and committed to the fight. There are three thousand there, in exactly the shape we want them. We just need to persuade them to fight for our side.”
“Persuade her, you mean.”
“Her who?” Keth leaned forward, frowning. Granny moaned.
“Och, no,” she said. “Not the bloody whore.”
“Marius?”
Marius aimed a thought of pure poison at Granny, received a mental image of two raised fingers in return. He turned to Keth. “Mistress Fellipan, from Mish. She’s recruited three thousand bodies to Scorbus’ cause, but we persuaded her to hold them at Cistrion, at least for a while.”
“Persuaded.”
“Yes.” Marius kept his face as still as he dared. “We persuaded.”
“I see.”
Granny snorted, then glared at Gerd and reached down to rub at her shin. Gerd smiled a bland little smile at Marius and received a mental thank you. Marius turned to him.
“Go to her through the tunnels. Explain everything, and request her assistance.”
“Everything?”
Marius risked a quick glance at Keth. As still as his face had been, hers was a statue. “Everything,” he said. “Emphasise the bit about me being the real King.”
“Just what we need,” Granny muttered. “A power-hungry whore and her giant…” Her hands formed two cups. “Distractions.”
“Take Granny if you like,” Marius told him. “No need to bring her back.”
Gerd stood. “That’s all right,” he said with a smile. “I’ll make do without her.”
Marius turned his attention to his remaining companions. “Brys, off to the north, as we discussed. Drenthe, to V’Ellos. Get back with those weapons, get them downstairs with the V’Ellosians. Drill them hard. I want them turning as a unit, moving as one body, no matter where I send them. They’re going to be our central core, so I want arm-length discipline at all times.”
They nodded in unison.
“Arnobew–”
“Warbone, sah!”
He sighed. “Warbone.”
“Sah!”
“Your nuns…”
“Fine ladies, sah! Best in the land, sah! Worth a fighting unit to a man… I mean, lady, sah!”
“I’m sure they are.” Marius waggled a finger in his ear, as if that might help to clear the echoes out of it. “They’ll need to be. They’re going to be our shock troops.”
“Yes, sah!” Arnobew leaped to his feet. “Kill ’em all and let the god of your choice sort ’em out, sah!”
“No.” Marius shook his head. “No on two counts. We’re not fighting for any god, and we won’t be setting them up to kill.”
“Oh,” Arnobew looked crestfallen. “The girls won’t like that, lad. I believe they’re rather in the mood to kill people.”
“They’ll have to reconcile themselves to my plan instead.”
“And what would that be, begging your pardon?”
“Salvation, Warbone.” He spread his hands wide, like a carnival barker. “We’re going to spread some salvation.”
“Oh,” Arnobew looked doubtful. “I don’t think the nuns will be too happy about that, either.”
Keth and Granny sat stony-faced at the end. Marius hooked a thumb at the old woman.
“I want as many indulgences as the nuns can crank out. Fill the tubs, find more if you need them, don’t stop until I tell you.”
“Why me? Why not your Mummy?”
“Because I want a vicious unlikeable old crone in charge. Is that okay by you?”
She shrugged. “Fair enough.”
“Good. Keth.”
In a room full of dead people, Keth appeared the least lively, the most given-in to a withdrawal of the soul. She had not moved since sitting, and now stared at Marius through flat eyes. He felt something twist inside him, and spoke more gently to her than he had since arriving at the nunnery.
“I want you to go with Gerd–”
Her stare intensified. “You want me to meet this woman you… persuaded.”
Marius shook his head and leaned forward to let her gaze more fully capture him.
“After you were taken we went to the village. It was destroyed, Keth. Smashed to the ground, everyone gone. I thought Drenthe was responsible, but I don’t think so now. I think…” He frowned. “I’m not sure. Just that I want them found, and Fellipan was in the next town, killing recruits for her army.” Keth pursed her lips; and Marius tried to read the emotions flashing across her face, but failed. “Keth, you know these people. Even if she’s lying, if they’re there, you can find them. Please.”
She blew her cheeks out, pushed herself back from the table in a sudden spasm of movement. “And if they’re not there?”
Marius matched her stare. “Then they’re with Scorbus. And I’ll have another job for you when we reach him.”
“You’re that confident I’ll still be here.”
He blinked. “Well… yes.”
She raised a single eyebrow and took her place next to Gerd.
“You’d better be in a talkative mood,” she said to the young swineherd. He looked helplessly towards Marius, and he nodded in resigned acceptance.
“Get going, all of you,” he said. “I want everyone back here within a fortnight.”
TWENTY-FIVE
In the end, it took three weeks. Brys returned from the north with four dozen of the nastiest corpses she could find, and a stream of apologies for not being able to find more. Marius took one look at those she had assembled and dismissed her regret out of hand. He knew at least ten of the dead she brought him, and if the others were equivalent he would rather she hadn’t collected them all up in one place at all. He put them to work in one of the lower halls, practising those skills of thuggery and murder that had grown rusty during years at the bottom of waterways, and tried to keep them separated from the rest of the nunnery. Dead and waterlogged they might be, but a building full of women in nun’s outfits was more temptation than they needed. For a moment he considered letting them see Arnobew’s warriors, then decided a
gainst it. They might consider it a challenge; and Arnobew, having worked his charges for a week without need for sleep, might just welcome it. He billeted them as far apart as possible, and set Brys to keep them busy.
She only had to throw one from the balcony before they started doing what they were told. Marius was impressed: he’d banked on at least three.
Gerd and Keth arrived the following morning. Marius met them in the dining hall.
“So?” he said as they entered. Gerd sat down heavily on the bench. Keth ignored them both, went straight to the adjoining kitchens and began to rattle around. Marius stared at Gerd. The younger man kept his gaze averted until Keth returned with a platter full of fruit and a pitcher of water. She thudded down at the opposite end of the table and began to stuff herself, unreadable eyes fixed upon Marius. He waited patiently, matching her stare, while projecting through Gerd’s feeble attempt to block him.
“You told her.”
The skin at the corner of Gerd’s eyes tightened slightly but he made no move to acknowledge Marius’ statement. Marius tried again, and again received nothing. Finally, as Keth was swallowing the last of the water in the pitcher, Gerd answered.
“No,” he said, his voice as quiet inside Marius’ mind as his had been strident. “I didn’t have to. She’d already worked it out, not that it was exactly difficult, and it was pretty fucking obvious once they actually met. Thank you so much for putting me in between them.”
“And? Did she agree to come?”
“She’s outside. Says she wants to talk to you before she commits to ‘our little venture’.”
Marius snorted. “She’s travelled all this way. She’s already committed.”
“Do you think so?”
Marius decided the higher path involved ignoring Gerd’s pathetic sarcasm. He was the bigger man. He would focus on the greater import of the conversation, rather than dragging himself into a tit-for-tat game of snarky comments which would get them nowhere. Marius wouldn’t recognise the higher path if a landslide brought it crashing down on his head. He sent Gerd an image that made the younger man choke as if he’d tried to swallow a hedgehog whole, and looked down the table at Keth.
The Marching Dead Page 22
