ARC: The Corpse-Rat King

by Lee Battersby

  “Your Majesty,” he called. “You dropped your…”

  Nandus turned towards the sound of his voice. He raised his hand in acknowledgement, then froze, just as something long, and dark, and impossibly fast brushed past Marius and swept down the incline towards him. Marius went to ground, the crown slipping from his grasp and rolling down the slope. He landed on his chest, and barely raised his head to shout before the shark was on top of Nandus.

  If Nandus had reacted as a human, he could have thrown himself to the seabed and survived. The shark’s eyes were located towards the top of its wedge-shaped head, and it could not see beneath itself. It had saved them, last time. He had had Marius to think of, then, and the good side of his child-like nature had come to the fore. This time, he was on his own, and no matter his nature, it was the part of him that was Littleboots that reacted faster. He ran, generations of instinct driving him towards flight. Marius heard his terrified whinny, saw him jink and turn as his fear drove him across the open sand. Then the shark struck him at the meeting point of neck and shoulder blades. Four hundred pounds of muscle, travelling at twenty-five miles per hour, it hit him and burst through him in an instant. Nandus exploded in a fountain of bones, and Marius was up and running towards him as quickly as he could through the water, the King’s scream of terror and pain going on and on inside his head. With no thought for his own safety, or the return of the monster, he fell to his knees and scrambled amongst the bones, pinning them together and sobbing as they fell apart. A voice was saying “No, no, no” over and over, and it had to be his, because he could still hear Nandus crying out. Then his hand pulled a bone towards him and it was smooth, and round, and he looked down and it was Nandus’ skull. Marius knelt on the sand, and cradled it in his lap, and it was mad to say it, he knew it was mad, but he could see the King staring up at him in pain and confusion, and all Marius could think to say was “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Marius…”

  “Yes, yes,” not realising that Nandus knew his name, not caring, just holding him, just wishing he could make it all better.

  “My people…”

  “Your people…”

  “Tell them…”

  “Tell them? Tell them what?” And really paying attention now, really listening, because he knew that this was the end, and that Nandus knew, and this was all he could offer, this one moment, to hear his words.

  “Tell them… I died in battle. Tell them I…”

  “Yes? Tell them you what? Tell them you what?”

  But there was no more. Marius was alone inside his head. He stared stupidly at the skull. How could it be dead, properly dead, when it had held Nandus’ thoughts, his essence, for so long under the water? He rocked back on his heels, and cried. Marius had seen men die before, had held comrades in his arms as they breathed their last. But this was different. This was different. This death had required a level of belief. It had happened because not only the victim but Marius himself could not imagine it any differently. Something hard and round swelled up inside Marius’ chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, and opened his mouth to let it out. Water filled his throat, and he panicked. He couldn’t breathe. His hands flew to his throat. He reared to his feet, stumbling backwards, other arm flailing. Nandus’ skull fell to the sand. Marius didn’t notice. He couldn’t breathe. Blackness pressed against the back of his eyes. Blood crowded the edges of his vision. He fell to his knees. He caught sight of Nandus, lying in the sand, blank eye sockets staring up at him.

  And just like that, the panic stopped. The heaviness in his chest dissipated. Marius lowered his hand, and placed it against his chest. Nothing. No heartbeat, no respiration. He was still dead. He stared at the King’s empty eyes, and frowned. He had been about to drown. He knew that without an ounce of doubt. But how, when he was already dead? Over and over, his former life kept breaking through the boundaries of his death, imposing itself upon him when he least expected it. There had to be some reason. Was it just memory? Instinct? Marius could not begin to know. But, he thought, I bet I know someone who does.

  Gerd. Bloody Gerd. Marius leaned down, and began scooping out a hole in the sandy ocean floor. Once he had buried what parts of Nandus and Littlefoot he could gather, he would leave this ocean and find Gerd. And then, he promised, he would have some answers.

  NINETEEN

  The morning sun had crested the horizon, and slowly, the children were moving towards the beach from the nearby village, baskets on their heads. The echoes of the dawn chorus were dying away, and the daily routine of survival was about to begin for the denizens of the swamplands two hundred miles north of Borgho City. Each day, while the women raised whatever crops the dusty ground would allow, and the men stripped and cured hides to send down to the city’s markets, the children travelled down to the beach to comb through the sands for crabs, driftwood, and any other treasure the ocean chose to provide. Life was hard, and often short, and most of the children had seen at least one dead body in their brief lives.

  None of them had ever seen one walking about.

  Marius stood knee-deep in the surf and watched the children run up the beach, screaming. He sighed. Somehow, after everything he’d been through in recent days, this was the most depressing. He couldn’t really think why – if he’d been sitting on the beach and a naked, dead man had wandered up out of the water, he’d probably have reacted in a quite similar way – but there it was. He’d always liked children, at least, in theory. Seeing a group of them racing away from him in terror seemed, he didn’t know, typical, in some way.

  Slowly he trudged out of the water and almost absent-mindedly righted the nearest basket, dropping the few bits of falderal that had spilled out back into its base. He wasn’t familiar with his surroundings, and after that greeting, there wasn’t much of a chance that he’d head over to wherever the children came from and ask directions. Once a man has been attacked by a sixteen-foot long shark, being assaulted by a crowd of angry natives doesn’t have quite the same allure. The beach stretched about thirty feet to either side. To the north, a massive natural abutment stretched out into the water, its sheer face rising several feet above Marius. To the south, the sand reached a grove of stunted, wind-bleached trees and bent around it, disappearing behind the foliage. The level of background noise changed, and Marius looked up towards the path the children had run down – the rumbling of concerned voices had intruded upon the susurration of water and birdsong. Bodies were beating their way through the overhanging branches of trees. Marius had no desire to explain himself, even if the approaching villagers would let him. He had less desire to climb his way to safety, or return to his long, sodden underwater trek. South it was, then. He turned in that direction, and jogged towards the stand of trees.

  A hundred feet past the dog-leg turn, he ran into the scrub that defined the top end of the beach. There were only two options for the villagers. Either they would dismiss the children’s report as the product of an over-imaginative game, or they would come looking for the frightening stranger. In which case, they would quickly make the same decision he had, and follow him south. The sooner he was out of sight, the higher his chances of escape. Fifteen yards behind the scrub he found a path paralleling the beach. He turned away from the village, and began to walk, alert for any sound of pursuit. None came.

  After a hundred yards, the track widened out into a clearing. The sandy floor had been stamped down in a rough circle, hardened by the concerted effort of countless feet. To the east, a small path led back towards the unseen beach. Waves crashing against the shore just beyond the screen of bushes. The birds which had sounded so clearly on the sand were muted here, dulled, as if afraid to disturb the tranquillity. In the centre stood a wooden platform, hewn from trees that could not have stood locally. Marius had not seen a single copse containing wood that straight. Any tree he had sighted on his journey so far had been stunted, wizened, twisted by the wind and the sandy soil into an arthritic cripple. Someone had transported these lo
gs, a massive undertaking for such a tiny, unimportant village. The tower stood eight feet high, and was equally as long. Marius circled it warily. It was four feet wide at either end, and the logs were stacked in such a way that the sides formed ladders. Clearly, people were meant to climb to the top, but for what purpose? Marius set his foot on the lowest rung. If nothing else, he should be able to see the surrounding countryside from the top, perhaps spot any pursuit, and plan the next stage of his journey. He hauled himself upwards. Once his head cleared the top he paused. A body lay in repose upon the log shelf. His eyes were closed, his hands crossed over his chest. He was dressed in what were obviously his best clothes – a simple shirt and trousers, with a dun cloak over one shoulder. Frayed at the edges, worn thin by years of wear, but clean and patched, and beaten smooth so that they lay comfortably over his dead flesh. Marius nodded. Of course. A funeral table. It made sense now. The surrounding land was too sandy to accord a decent burial, and what fertile land there was could not be wasted for the task – the villagers needed it to grow whatever poor crops they could. The body before him would make perfect fertiliser, Marius knew. But he wasn’t about to climb back down and educate the villagers. Exposure as a method of burial, then, and the bones consigned to the nearby sea once they had been picked clean. Which meant the clearing, and the beach beyond, were undoubtedly sacred ground. Marius relaxed. Sacred ground meant taboos, and taboos meant that the villagers, even should they be pursuing him, would not rush into the clearing without some form of permission, or preparation, or prayer. He would have time to work things out. He climbed to the top of the table, and sat on the edge, laying Nandus’ crown down next to him and flexing his fingers. The view was really quite exhilarating. As he surmised, a small, enclosed beach lay to the east, waves crashing with some anger against a steeply rising stone slope. To the west, the scrub rose gently into a series of low-lying hills that Marius recognised as the tail end of the Spinal Ranges. With a grin, he placed the world around him. South must lie Borgho City, and if he followed the mountains a day or two, and turned north, he’d wander into the outer fringes of Vernus. Which meant, he thought, turning his neck to peer to the southwest, the highway from Vernus to Scorby lay in that direction, maybe no more than two or three days’ walk, especially if he had no need to sleep or rest. Which meant he could be in Scorby City itself in little over a week, assuming he could keep himself hidden, and avoid confrontations, and find a way to enter the city without arousing suspicion. Then all he had to do was spirit the King away before his entombment, and get him out of the city without being seen… That part of the plan could wait, he decided. He had plenty of time to consider his options as he walked. Any motion was better than none. He reached down to recover the crown.

  A hand was wrapped around the thin band of gold. Marius stared down at it. The dead man’s hand was gripping the crown. As Marius watched, the corpse raised it so it hung over his expressionless face. His eyes sprung open, focussing first upon the crown and then sliding over so that he gazed directly at Marius. A blackened tongue slid out from between his lips, licked them, and returned. He and Marius stared at each other for long seconds. Then the corpse sat up, and extended his hand.

  “I am Vun,” he said. “Tanning Master of the village of Ebthek.”

  “Marius Helles,” Marius took his hand and shook it. Vun looked about himself.

  “Ah,” he said, taking in his perch. “It appears one of us is dead. Or perhaps,” he looked himself over, and Marius, “both of us. Are you to be my guide?”

  “Uh, no. No, I’m afraid not. I’m just passing through, actually.” Marius indicated the circlet. “I have a… task, I have to complete.”

  “I see.” Vun sat up fully, and swung his legs over the edge of the platform. “So I am dead, yes, but not yet in the land of the dead. How is this so?”

  Marius shrugged. “I wish I knew. I’m in a similar position. It’s… confusing, to say the least.”

  “Confusing? What is to be confused about? We are dead. It is a simple enough thing.”

  “I wish I had your confidence.”

  Vun indicated their surroundings. “Life is simple, friend Marius. Death more so. No need to complicate matters. Here,” he handed the crown back. “Complete your task, and good luck to you. Then meet me in the land of the dead.” He swung his feet back up and lay down again. “I will look for you.”

  “But… don’t you know what’s going to happen to you?”

  “It already has, friend.”

  “No, I mean…” Marius pointed to the sky. “You’re out here for the birds. They’re going to peck at you until you’re nothing but bones. And then your villagers are going to climb up here and throw those bones in the ocean. There’s no land of the dead for you in that.”

  Vun laughed. If there was one sound he was never going to get used to, Marius decided, it was a dead man’s laugh. “Have you no faith, friend? Do you not follow the Truthful Way?”

  Marius sighed. When some people talked, you could just hear the capitals. “No.”

  “The body is a jar of clay, my friend, a vessel for the soul. The bird is a messenger from Heaven. He breaks the jar and sets the soul free. I shall walk through the Kingdom of the Dead as a transformed being. Higher, purer, more worthy of God. And I shall look for you, and hope to find you there.” He closed his eyes, and Marius realised why there was no expression on his face. He was at peace. Marius sighed again.

  “I envy you your faith,” he said, and realised with a start that, just at this moment, he did. He looked up at the birdless sky. “But…”

  “Yes?”

  He glanced at Vun, then at his own nakedness., and shuddered. This, he thought, is about as low as I could possibly fall.

  “If you’re waiting for the birds to release your soul,” he said carefully, “Surely those clothes you’re wearing are going to get in the way?”

  TWENTY

  Marius climbed down the final step and jumped onto the clearing floor. Above him, Vun peered over the edge and offered him a wave.

  “Safe journey, my friend.”

  “And you,” Marius waved back. “I hope the birds come soon.”

  He turned his back on the tower and made his way towards the track. He’d learned a lot from Vun as they sat atop the tower. The track led down to a major roadway a mile to the west. Every three months or so, men from the village carried cured hides down to the road where they were met by a trader from Borgho, who paid them a small price for each hide they delivered. The trader took the hides back to Borgho, for what purpose, Vun could not say. He had been born in the village, and had never left. Village men rarely did, and those who left never came back. Marius was not surprised. Faced with a lifetime of rummaging around in the skins of dead animals, he wouldn’t turn his back on the fleshpots of Borgho either. But Vun was made of sterner stuff: he’d grown up at the tanning tables, and had died underneath one when a rotten leg had given away and crushed his back as he was reaching for a fallen rabbit pelt. If Vun’s timing was right, the Borghan trader would be along in a day or so to pick up the quarterly payload. Marius pulled at the seam of Vun’s simple cotton shirt. If he could find something to cover his face, if he could find some method of payment, if the trader agreed to give him space on the cart, he could avoid a long and tedious walk to the outskirts of Borgho.

  If not… Marius gazed south, towards the rise that heralded the beginning of the Spinal Ranges If not, he would cut along the trade route that ran parallel to the range, swinging across the plains east of Borgho in a giant loop to eventually arrive at Scorby City. It would be a long journey, and it had already been almost a month since he had seen Tanspar dead on the battlefield at Jezel. Traditionally, the King lay in state for a full season, three months of the year, so that all his mourning citizens could file past in tribute. Then he was interred in the crypt of the great Bone Cathedral, beneath a single stone of more than a ton in weight, carved with scenes depicting his greatest triumphs. Liberating him
from that would be a severe test of Marius’ skills to say the least. To say the most, it would be impossible. Far better to spirit him away whilst he lay in the open. All Marius would have to contend with under those circumstances were the thousands of loyal citizens shuffling through the viewing area each day, plus the tense and wary honour guard, and the citizens of Scorby, and the militia, not to mention dragging a heavy and rather recognisable corpse across who knew how many miles of open countryside before finding a way to bring him down to the land of the dead.

  He quickly changed the subject. Things were not quite that bleak. He knew how to contact the dead – his conversations with Nandus and Vun had shown him that – and any motion was better than none. And right now, motion meant getting his dead backside to the main road to intercept the trader. He increased his pace. Do the job in front of you – another of his father’s aphorisms, but one that held water in his present circumstance.