TWENTY-SIX
The skeleton stood above the fallen rescuers and surveyed the Hall of Kings. For five seconds nobody moved, then, as if of one mind, the pile of men found their feet, backing away from Scorbus’ gaze until the bony wall pressed into their backs. Scorbus raised one leg and stepped out of his tomb. Marius gazed up at him. The King was huge: six and a half feet if he was an inch, shoulders broad as a bear; the long arms that hung from his shoulder joints spoke of a physical power that had been used, and enjoyed, regularly. The massive skull swung from side to side as he regarded his freedom, and Marius was amazed at just how large the bones were, how thick, how they radiated such a sense of solidity. Add flesh to them, he realised, and the effect would be overpowering. At the wall, Ghaf raised a quavering arm.
“Skellington,” he squeaked. The sound attracted Scorbus’ attention. He leaned forward, peering at the guardsman with his empty sockets.
“Bow down!” Marius boomed. The rescuers yelped, and the smell of fresh urine slowly began to permeate the air. They disobeyed the order. Most of them were clinging to the bony outcroppings for support. Marius sighed. He couldn’t believe it was going to take more than a giant ambulatory skeleton to get this lot moving. He closed his eyes for a moment, deadened his senses, then unfolded from his hiding place and stepped into their circle of vision.
‘Bow down” he yelled again, showing off his dead face. On the other side of the crypt, Gerd threw back his hood and joined him. Marius noted, from the side of his eyes, that he too had deadened himself. He stalked forward until his rotting features were a handful of inches from Ghaf’s sweating face.
“Run,” he said.
Ghaf didn’t need further persuasion. With a whimper, he peeled himself from the wall and made for the exit at a flat sprint. As if he were the plug holding back the flood, the others swept after him in a wailing, screaming torrent, out the exit and into the great hall. Marius watched them go, a satisfied smile on his face.
“Well,” he said as the last back disappeared from view, “that was fun. Welcome, Your Majesty, to the first day of the rest of your death.”
He turned to Scorbus, and sketched out a bow. The King looked at him for long seconds.
“For Gods’ sakes, man,” he replied. “Get some clothes on.”
“Oh, yes.” Marius scurried to the pole behind which he had hidden his clothes and slipped them back on. He returned moments later, and held out a pale gold circlet in his hands.
“You might like this,” he said. “It belonged to… a friend of mine. A king, Majesty, not so majestic and notable as yourself, perhaps, but still…” He bit his lip for a moment, shocked at how much the memory of Nandus upset him. “A King of Scorby nonetheless.”
Scorbus reached down and removed the crown from Marius’ grip. He placed the circlet round his brow. It fit snugly, and Marius realised just how huge this man must have been, fully fleshed.
“Perfect,” he said.
A flurry of voices broke out from the other crypts. Marius blinked. He had forgotten the other Kings in all the excitement. But now they impressed themselves onto the tableau. Demands for information from many, demands for their own freedom from the brighter amongst them, one long litany of “Fuck off” providing a backbeat.
“Majesties..” Marius stared helplessly at Scorbus. “Please…” The onslaught of protest drowned his voice. Scorbus shook his head.
“Enough!” he broadcast, loud enough that Marius and Gerd winced and grabbed at their heads. The hubbub died instantly. “
“But…”
“You will lie here until I see fit to release you.”
“Oh, I say…”
“Enough!”
The room fell into a silence so deep that Marius wondered if the King’s bellow had broken something within him, and he was now deaf to the sounds of the dead. Then Scorbus spoke again, and to his great surprise, Marius was relieved to hear him.
“I will come back,’ he said softly. “I
“Ah, yes.” Marius quickly eyed the door to the main hall. “Down the back here, Your Majesty.” He stepped over to an alcove behind the crypt of Belathon, the thirteenth King of Scorby. “During the reign of the Robber Duchess, when the cathedral was locked to outsiders, several of my… well, let’s call them spiritual ancestors, were sealed up in the walls of this chamber.”
“Why?”
Leave it to Gerd to ask the questions I don’t want to answer, Marius thought as he ran his hands over the alcove wall, fingers seeking out the minute gaps between the bones.
“I assume it was an ironic punishment for attempting to loot our tombs.” Scorbus’ reply was laced with humour.
“Yes, that would be about it.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” Marius frowned in concentration. “Really.”
“Foolish fellows.”
“Yes.”
“Why foolish?” Gerd looked between the two older men. Marius glanced back at him.
“Meet my spiritual ancestors,” he said, indicating the display of bones before him. Gerd stared at them for long seconds.
“Oh.”
“Oh indeed.”
“Then why are we–?”
“The chamber is about three feet wide, but it tilts downwards for about eight feet. Underneath it is the first of a series of storage chambers. Break through the flooring, and we can… Aha!” Marius sunk two fingers into the eye sockets of a skull, and pulled. Slowly, a section of wall swung outwards. “This way, your… what the hell?”
A wall of bricks stood where the secret crypt should be. Painted across it, in white bright enough to be read through the gloom by even living eyes, was the message ‘Secret passage closed due to repair works’. Marius read it, then read it again.
“Oh, shit.”
Gerd and Scorbus saw the sign over his shoulder.
“What now?”
“We could break it down,” Marius replied, looking the bricks over. “I mean, we’re strong, aren’t we?” He tapped the wall experimentally. “Dig down, meet workmen, get crushed under a falling eave… maybe not.” He sighed, and looked back at the entrance to the Main Hall. “Everyone will have run off, surely?”
All three eyed the entrance.
“Unless you have any other options,” the King said, “Then grasp the nettle and make our play.”
“Yes,” Marius slowly slid across the floor and peered around the corner. “Nettle grasping. Sure.” He stared into the corridor. “It seems empty. Come on.”
As one, the little group sidled out of the Hall of Kings and into the corridor. Marius stopped them behind a pillar, in the space before shadows gave way to the expanse of the main hallway. “I can’t hear anything.”
Gerd shook his head. Scorbus waited, his huge skull staring unblinkingly at Marius. Slowly, Marius stuck his head around the pillar and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Empty,” he said. “Come on.”
He scurried out into the open space, Gerd at his heels. Scorbus followed more slowly, head swivelling as he took in the massive splendour of the great hall.
“My word,” he said at each new sight. “My word.”
“You don’t remember this, Your Majesty?”
