not babysitting strangers of no fixed stability who were just as easily marched down to St Tred’s Hospital and thrown into the nuttery. But the fool was speaking again, and Yerniq leaned in once more.
“Help me, it said. Help me.” Gerd sobbed once. “I leaned my ear against the cold stone…” He demonstrated on Yerniq’ breastplate. “Hello?” He knocked on the guard’s metal chest. “Hello? Who’s there?” He pulled back and stared around at the crowd. “Help me. Please, oh please. Get me out. Get me out.”
Again he pressed up against Yerniq’s broad stomach, and this time, he could see the crowd lean forward, as if expecting an answer. “Hello?”
The mob stilled, as if everyone around him was holding their breath at once. Gerd closed his eyes, and held still so long that the guard began to wonder if he had fallen asleep against his gut. Suddenly, the young man jumped up straight, and Yerniq let out a little yelp of shock. He was thankful to realise that he was not alone – several peeps came from the surrounding crowd.
“The King!” Gerd yelled. “The King!”
“What? Where?”
“Inside the crypt! Trapped inside, the ghost of Scorbus is calling! Quickly!”
He grabbed Yerniq and Ghaf and dragged them forward. The crowd parted, and closed in behind. Yerniq wanted to stop, to dig his feet in and bring order to bear. This was a nonsense story, surely, delivered by a nutcase who needed more than a meal or two to bring him to his senses. But something had gripped the mob, and they, in turn, seemed to have the soldiers in their grasp. They surged forward, Gerd at their head, until suddenly they were in the Hall of Kings , and Yerniq stood at the foot of Scorbus’ crypt, staring down at the cold marble.
“Right then,” he said, swallowing and looking up at the madman. “Why don’t you just show us…?”
“Sssh!” Gerd commanded. Despite himself, Yerniq quietened. Gerd leaned forward, and placed his head against the top of the crypt. The crowd, silent to a man, leaned forward.
“Hello?” he asked, in a high, wavering voice. “Hello?”
Nothing. The crowd stayed still, collective breath held, but still there was no answer. Eventually, Yerniq straightened. He blinked, and as his eyes opened his entire countenance changed. The soldier took over: his lips curled, his eyebrows rose, his eyes fixed upon Gerd with knowing cynicism. Somehow, without knowing it, his arms had risen to his chest. Now he lowered them, and placed his fists on his hips.
“Well, now,” he began…
“Hellllp meee…”
Whatever air had been in the room left. Yerniq’s eyes bugged. His arms fell. He leaned forward, jaw dropping as he stared at the lid of the crypt. Around him, nearly fifty bodies copied his movements.
“The King!” Gerd pronounced. “Hear the voice of the true King of Scorby!”
Three feet away, curled naked against the bas relief figures of the next crypt, Marius frowned. “Don’t over- cook it,” he projected, even as he swallowed and once more threw a “Help me” towards the crowd. Ten years of practice had gone into his ventriloquism act, and he’d only ever performed in public once – a disastrous night in front of an aging duke and his nymphomaniac underage foreign wife. It had been enough to learn that, no matter how skilled he may be, no woman is going to sleep with a novelty act when there are pages in the room. What’s more, he had to concentrate to maintain his dead state, to keep his grey flesh blending closely enough with the granite to avoid casual notice, especially with everyone’s attention firmly fixed upon his neighbour’s tomb. Gerd’s response to his order was to send back a mental giggle.
“I can see your peepee,” his young offside mocked. “I’d complain to the sculptor, if I was you.”
“The stone’s cold, okay?” Even Marius had to stifle a laugh at his injured tone of voice. “Just don’t lose them now, okay?”
“Don’t worry,” Gerd fell across the lid of the tomb, his fingers scrabbling at non-existent seams, “They’re going nowhere.” He raised his head, and howled at the crowd. “Get him out! We must release the King!”
“Now, wait a minute…” Yerniq began, but whatever note of caution he wished to sound was obliterated as a surge of bodies stepped forward to grip the edge of the massive stone vault. “Ghaf!”
The young guardsman looked at his superior from his point at the vault’s far end. “You want to be responsible if it’s him and we
Yerniq pondered the question for several moments, then carefully spat on his hands and took up position between two visitors.
“Right,” he said, sweeping his gaze across the company. “If we’re going to do this, we do it properly. On three, lift and slide towards the bottom. Ready?”
He paused. “Three!”
As one, those around the lid leaned into the job, grunting with effort. Gerd cavorted around them, urging them on. Marius’ thrown voice pleaded with them to hurry. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Yerniq felt the stone shift.
“Harder!”
He threw his weight against the stone with renewed zeal. The lid resisted for long seconds, then with a grinding noise loud enough to wake the already-waiting dead King, slipped forward. Men moved from the sides to the top, adding their weight to the line of momentum. The stone slid further forward. A line of black space opened up as the crypt was exposed. It grew wider as each shove from the company opened up more of the hole. Ghaf let go, slipped between two of the workers, and plunged his arm into the gap.
“I can feel him!” he yelled, then. “No, wait. No.” He looked up at Yerniq, a puzzled expression flitting across his broad face. “No, that’s a skellington. But it’s… yaaah!” He tried to pull his arm out, but it was stuck fast. He pulled again, and again, growing more frantic as his efforts continued to yield no result. “He’s got me! Yerniq! He’s got me!”
“What?” Yerniq stared at the young guard thrashing about at the other end of the vault. “What are you playing at?”
“Help!” Ghaf pulled and pulled to no avail. The hole grew wider. “Let me go. Let go, you bastard.” He reached down with his other hand, panicking all the harder when that, too, refused to come back.
“What is it?”
The gap was more than a foot wide. Men stopped pushing at the stone. Several of them moved towards Ghaf, grabbing him about the waist and adding their strength to his frenzied efforts.
“The skellington!” he yowled. “The skellington’s got me!”
Slowly, the combined efforts of the rescuers began to have an effect. Ghaf’s arms emerged from the vault. As his left elbow emerged, Yerniq gasped.
“What the hell?”
A bony hand grasped the young guard’s arm just below the joint. Several of the rescuers noticed, and let go in shock. He shot forward, and they quickly grabbed him once more and pulled. Gerd danced in the shadows, laughing in his high-pitched voice.
“The King! The King comes!”
“Help me!” Marius’ voice deepened, became more commanding. Men leaped to obey, overcome by the moment. Soon, a dozen were pulling at each other in a chain, Ghaf’s body at its head. His arms re-emerged. As his elbow passed out of the crypt, the skeletal hand that gripped it let go. Fingers wrapped around the stone edge of the crypt wall. Only one arm remained. Yerniq ran round to the side and reached down into the hole to grip Ghaf’s arm. His fingers brushed bones.
“Pull, men!”
“The King! The King comes!”
“Free me! Release me!”
“Yerniq! Make him let me go!”
“The King!”
Ghaf’s arm finally emerged. The bony hand that gripped it let go to join its brother on the crypt wall. Suddenly released, the chain of straining men fell backwards into a heap. Marius peeked at them from his cramped perch.
“All right, Your Majesty,’ he broadcast. “Time to arise.”
As the pile of rescuers sorted themselves out, Scorbus, first and greatest king of Scorby, rose from his tomb.
