“Am I speaking…” Marius paused, realised just whom it was he was conversing with. “Am I speaking with… Scorbus?”
“I am Scorbus.”
He blinked. “Bloody hell.” He turned to Gerd, who raised his hands in amazement.
“Who are you? Why do you prise us from our rest?” The magnificent voice sounded peeved, waspish rather than angry. “Do you know how long it took us to get Thernik to quieten down last time?”
“I, uh, I apologise for that.” Marius said. “We… what’s wrong with him, anyway?”
“Who are you that would know?”
“Ah, oh yes, of course.” Quickly, Marius explained their presence, and the mission they hoped to accomplish. As he finished, an excited babble broke out amongst the dead kings, until Scorbus quietened it with another booming command.
“Enough!” The babble ceased. Marius had the impression of a great head turning towards him, eyes boring into him through the marble wall of the crypt. “You will take me.”
“What?” Several voices cried out in concert.
“I’m sorry?” Marius said simultaneously.
“You will take me.”
A chorus of protest broke out. Each former monarch loudly proclaimed his own right to rescue and to claim the throne that awaited them. Marius laughed, bringing the hubbub to a standstill.
“I’m sorry,” he said, projecting an image of himself wiping tears from his eyes. “But I don’t think any of you are in a position to make demands, do you? I rather think it’s up to me to decide who to free, don’t you all?”
“You will take me.” Scorbus said.
“And if I don’t?”
There was a pause, as if the King was reigning in a great temper and trying to pick the calmest, most reasonable tone with which to address him. Then, in just that reasonable tone of voice, he said, “Because if you don’t, you will lose the favour of so many of those you wish to appease that it will be as if you never delivered them a king at all, and everything you hope to gain from this exercise will be forfeit.”
“What do you mean?”
“It is simple,” the King explained. “I am the first king. All oaths of allegiance belong to me. All those dead of whom you talk. Any who lived in my time will not follow a king who came after me. None will follow a king who came after them, not on the assurance of you, and not once they recite the oath of allegiance. Once they hear the words, and realise who you could have brought them, they will follow none other.”
“Oh, Gods,” Gerd said. “He’s right.”
“What?
“I pledge allegiance to the land of Scorby,” Gerd stood with his hand over his non-beating heart, staring into the darkness, “to its king, to the land created by the first and greatest, Scorbus of Scorby. I pledge my everlasting allegiance and obedience.” He beat his chest three times. “To Scorby, Scorbus, and the King.”
“In that order,” Scorbus said in a soft voice.
“Oh, balls.”
The others lay silent, beaten into submission by the knowledge that, no matter how great they may have been in life, they were no more than subordinates to him that stood at the head of their line.
“I never thought about that,” Marius said softly.
“No,” Scorbus replied, “I imagine that, in this room, you’re not alone.”
“Well.” Marius looked about him: at the walls; at the crypts stretching around into the dark; at Gerd. “I guess that’s that, then.”
The other kings remained silent, except for one, final, clear statement.
“Fuck off, Daddy.”
TWENTY-FIVE
The great hall was silent except for the rustle of clothing as respectful mourners shuffled slowly past the King’s display. Occasionally, someone would break down and be led away, sobbing, or denouncing the Tallian bastards who had done this to the beautiful young King in his coffin, but they were minor disruptions. Given the chance, Scorbans can be as dignified and sombre as the next race, especially if there’s a chance to make some political capital out of it. At this time, when they felt the eyes of the continent upon them, an unprepared visitor to the Bone Cathedral might gag to death on the air of dignity. Still, common folk are common folk, and there was no power on Earth that would have kept them in an orderly queue once the young man in the robe came screaming out from the Hall of Kings, pointing back over his shoulder and gibbering about ghosts and demons and whatnots.
If there’s one thing Scorbans love more than the chance to put on an air of injured decorum, it’s a bloody good spectacle.
Within moments, the line dissolved, and a crowd surrounded the stranger, growing in numbers as those further down the queue pressed forward into the space suddenly left open, only to be captivated by the hubbub in the circle’s centre. The guards, unable to maintain order and drawn into the ruckus by their own Scorban curiosity, pushed through the milling crowd, armoured elbows digging a path with abandon. As they broke into the centre space, the newcomer was drawing the breath to drive his gibbering to an even greater level.
“Right, right!” the elder of the guards announced, puffing his chest out as he caught sight of just how many young women were staring. “What’s all this then?”
“Demons!” Gerd pointed back the way he had come. “Demons in the King’s tomb!” He tore at his hair. “Demons and ghosts and ghouls, oh my!”
A chorus of raspberries sounded within his mind. He ignored the comments upon his acting ability and fell to his knees, wailing hysterically. The guards exchanged glances.
“Come on now, lad,” the senior guard said. “How about you stand up?” He leaned over and placed a gentle, yet heavy, hand upon Gerd’s arm. “Here, Ghaf. Grab his other arm.”
“Right-oh, Yerniq.” The younger guard did as he was bid, and they slowly raised Gerd up. The crowd pushed forward, and Yerniq pushed back. “Hey, hey! A bit of room here, please.” Gerd turned slowly in their grip, and stared back towards the Hall of Kings.
“Voices,” he moaned, in a voice that drew a chorus of “Rubbish” and “get off” from his unseen audience. Those directly in front of him, however, leaned forward. As pious and grief-stricken as they were, this beat a dead King any day. “Voices from the tomb of the King. Haunted!” He fell back into the guards’ arms, scrabbled at Ghaf’s breastplate for purchase, and hauled himself up. “Haunted! Unless…” He stared at the entrance. “No!” he breathed. “It couldn’t be.”
“What?” Yerniq turned him to face the older man’s scowl. “What are you talking about, son? Come on.” He gave Gerd a gentle shake. “You’re interrupting a very important occasion, young man. This had better be good.”
Gerd stared about him like a frightened rabbit. Slowly, slowly, he regained his composure. When he looked at Yerniq again, some of the wildness in his eyes had departed, and his acting was only moderately on the wrong side of ham.
“Voices,” he repeated. “From the tomb of the great Scorbus. I was within the hall, contemplating the death of the young King and the line of great masters that have preceded him…” At that, the raspberries in his head grew even louder, until Scorbus ordered the other Kings quiet, and they settled down. “I was standing before the crypt, head bowed in quiet meditation, when… when…”
He bent his head and wept in his hands. A silent chorus sang “What a load of rubbish”.
“What, lad?”
He looked up, and restrained an errant giggle. Tanspar lay a dozen feet away in full regal state, and not a single eye was upon him. Every face in the room was turned towards the ragged seer. “I heard a voice.”
The crowd waited. Eventually someone at the back said, “What? Is that it?”
He pounced. “A voice,” he cried, “from inside the tomb!”
Yerniq frowned. This was all getting a little repetitive. He was aware of the press of people around him, and the dead King behind, and that his job was supposed to be ensuring the peaceful passage of one before the other,
