“We will know,” the soldier returned. “Now go.”
“Wait!”
“No more.” The soldier stepped back, out of Marius’ circle of vision. “The path to the world above is closing. Unless you want to drown, leave.”
As if summoned by his voice, a spray of fine earth fell on Marius. As he watched, the circle of air below him filled in, the earth rising upwards as if intent upon capturing him. With nowhere else to go, he dug his fingers and toes into the chimney walls and began to climb.
The most wonderful smell in the world is that of fresh air. It hit Marius as his fingers crested the rim of the hole and clawed at handfuls of rough grass. After the heat and fetid air of the underground realms, the swirling breeze felt like an orgasm. Marius closed his eyes and almost lost his grip, until the pressure of earth against the soles of his feet reminded him of the urgency of his mission, and he scrambled over the lip of the closing hole and lay upon undisturbed ground for the first time in an eternity. Marius wasn’t ashamed to weep. Indeed, he had done so many times as the situation warranted it: to escape a bar room beating; to entice a sensitive woman into his bed; at the sight of a gold riner between his fingers when the purse he snatched had weighed for pennies. Now he engaged in a different type of sob – that which comes from unexpected and blessed freedom. He exhausted himself against the warm grass, pressing his face into the ground and letting his tears and snot soak the grass, until an itching sensation against his cheeks and forehead caused him to stop and twitch his head away. The irritation spread to his neck and round to his throat, then down to his chest. Marius frowned, and wiped his hand across his forehead. It came away with passengers – tiny red multi-legged invaders, crawling over every inch of his exposed hand, biting him with every step.
“Shit!”
He pushed himself away, swatting at the angry ants. Their greater numbers prevailed. Marius was forced into a shambling dance, pulling his shirt over his head and using the cloth to beat at torso and legs as he hopped and swung himself about. The ants fought back, moving across his chest and down onto his stomach, heading inexorably south.
“Oh no, no you don’t!” Marius fell to the ground and rolled, crushing untold assailants beneath his weight. He felt a tickle at his waistband.
“No, no, no!” A boot flew in one direction, its twin in the other. His trousers fluttered after them, then his underpants. Naked and angry, Marius rolled and swiped, jumped and danced, cursed and swore and threatened undying enmity, until at last he stood above the anthill, waving a fist at what lay below.
“Funny!” he yelled. “Very fucking funny!”
He may have heard a laugh, or it may have been his imagination. He kicked at the tiny hole in the grass, bending his toe back and uttering a yelp.
“I see you’re as in command as always,” a voice behind him said. Marius stiffened in shock, hands automatically cupping his groin. Slowly, eyes wide, he tilted his head to look back over his shoulder. He felt his rectum tighten, and winced.
“Gerd?”
Gerd stared at him in impassive silence, his big jug-face grey and still. Marius smiled uncertainly, and sidled over to his undergarments. Slowly, he bent at the knees until he could risk snaking a hand out to recapture them. He flicked his wrist, and slipped the underpants over his ankles in one swift movement, then shimmied into them, eyes fixed upon his former charge. Only once his most essential parts lay under cloth did he turn and face the younger man.
“How did you get here? You were–”
“Dead?”
“Well–”
“Being carried away to be posthumously tried for treason and sentenced to cremation and dumping in unhallowed ground?”
“Yes, well, that was what I–”
“Impaled on a sword because of the betrayal of my teacher and supposed friend?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call myself–”
Gerd stepped forward, quicker than he had ever managed in life, and had Marius’ genitals in his hand before the older man could so much as flinch.
“The dead called me, as I lay in the courtyard waiting to be viewed by Lord Bellux. Do you know how difficult it is for a dead man to sneak away undetected? Particularly when you have to come to terms with being dead in the first place?”
“No, I–” Gerd tightened his grip, just enough so that Marius’ breath stayed where it was rather then leave him.
“The only place to hide was in the stables.”
Marius managed a croak. His forehead knotted. Gerd’s fingers tightened again.
“Under the hay.”
“Uhhhh.”
“The horses shit in their hay.”
Marius’ eyes crossed.
“I lay there for two days.”
Marius’ hands made little flapping motions, quite independent of his desire to have them grasp Gerd’s hand and tear it away from the crushed remnants of his genitals. He tried to look down, to at least say goodbye to them, but Gerd squeezed again, and Marius’ legs deserted their post.
“That wasn’t even the worst part. Do you know what the worst part was?”
Marius must have made some sort of movement to indicate that no, he
“Being fucking
“I’m to assist you in your task,” Gerd said, his voice utterly joyless. “So get your arse up and dressed before I decide I’d rather be cremated and drag you back to the castle to join me.”
Marius dragged himself over to the clothes and reached for a boot. He croaked once, and Gerd cocked his head.
“What?”
Marius beckoned him closer. Gerd crouched so that his ear was a few inches from his former master’s trembling lips. When he could focus on his stupid yokel’s face without his eyes crossing, Marius swung the boot as hard as he could against the side of Gerd’s head. The young watchdog fell backwards, and Marius collapsed onto his pile of clothes.
“Get me,” he managed on his third attempt, “some fucking water.”
FIVE
According to some, the castle of the Scorban King was the largest building in the world. It sprawled across the range of hills that marked the highest point of Scorby City, the capital of the Scorban Empire, and therefore, according to those self-same people, the world itself. Scorbans called it the Radican, as if giving it a name might imbue it with its own culture, its own personality, its own existence separate to the whims of those who occupied its dwellings. In truth, it was more like a small, glorious and self-important village – a maze of buildings and compulsively-washed streets that glowed in the sun like a reflection of the King’s magnificence.
Of course, this was its owner’s intent. The light at the heart of the world, some called it, although those who
