The Corpse-Rat King

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 logs, 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