The Corpse-Rat King

A hundred feet is a long way to fall, long enough for a man to regret his decision to jump. Marius scanned the rapidly approaching ground for any sign of Gerd or Scorbus, and seeing none, closed his eyes. He probably wouldn’t be killed by the fall. Probably. After all, could a dead man be killed? But even if he wasn’t, he could break every bone in his body, and the idea of an eternity spent dragging around a fleshy sack of powdered bones was the least inviting thought he could come up with right at that moment. Not for the first time, he had cause to regret his facility for making plans after he put them into action. Then the ground rushed up and collided with his face.

Marius had expected an impact somewhat akin to a mountain dropping onto his chest. Instead, it was as if warm arms had reached out to grab him. His momentum slowed, gently at first, then with increasing pressure until he drifted lazily downwards through a warm sea of close-pressed dirt, tiny particles scratching against his cheeks with the intimacy of a kitten’s paws. For three minutes he hung, suspended in the earthen solution, his thoughts growing still as a sensation of peace stole over him. Then the dirt receded. His eyes snapped open. He fell a dozen feet through open air to land face-first upon the hardened dirt of a well-trodden floor.

“Ow.”

He sat up after a few moments and stared at the vaulted ceiling above him, stretching his jaw to remove the ache of his landing. No sign of his passage disturbed the ceiling’s surface. He smiled, and stood. It appeared that he had landed in an underground cathedral, a tunnelled compatriot to the giant building above. Fully thirty feet round, and almost as high at its apex, it was impressive not for the sheer size and industry of its manufacture, unlike its above-ground cousin, but for the sheer fact of its existence. Whereas the halls of the dead Marius had experienced previously were rough-hewn things, reminiscent of man-sized mole burrows, this space spoke of care and purpose. The walls were smooth, the ceiling unbroken by root or fissure, and someone had even begun the first rudiments of decoration. Formless carvings ran away in both directions at waist height. Marius followed their path, trying in vain to discern some method or pattern, then stopped, shaking his head. He wasn’t sure, after all, that he wished to understand just what it was the dead might worship. A few feet away, Gerd and Scorbus were hauling themselves to their feet, heads turning to take in their surroundings. As Gerd looked over to him, Marius sketched a bow.

“How in the hell did you do that?” Gerd pointed towards the ceiling. Marius smiled.

“History.”

“What?”

“History. Well, folklore, really. A little nickname I discovered over the years.” He stretched, feeling bones pop. “I’m rather glad it turned out to be true.”

“What are you on about?” Gerd scowled at him in exasperation. Marius indicated the King behind him, standing at ease as if nothing about his situation was unexpected.

“The biggun there. That midden we just jumped into, a lot of the locals have a name for it. Scorbus’ graveyard.” Marius spied an opening at the far end of the space, and made towards it. “This way.”

Gerd and Scorbus followed.

“Well?” Gerd asked as they entered the tunnel.

“Well,” Marius replied. “Rumour has it that our friend Scorbus had a habit of disposing of those who he deemed, shall we say, irritating, Your Majesty?” Scorbus tilted his head in what Marius was sure was an attitude of amused acquiescence. “There are halls below the mountain, old places where political prisoners, or just people the King disliked, were done away with in private. Rumour has it that such people were thrown into the midden like so many cabbages, whether they were dead or not quite so dead. Of course, it was a long time ago, and you know how an historical figure’s deeds are exaggerated. Pains me to say it, but I’m rather glad the rumour was true.”

“But why?”

“Why throw them in the midden, or why was I hoping it was true?”

“Well… both.”

“For the first, you’ll have to ask him.” Marius jerked a thumb at Scorbus, who stared back at it from his impassive skull. “As to the second, haven’t you noticed the routes the dead use to climb back and forth into the real world? They’re always gravesites, or a place where a dead body has lain.” He smiled at Gerd’s look of surprise. “Told you I pay attention. Anyway, I figured if the rumour was true, at least, in the quantities he’s supposed to have gone through, the whole midden was likely one vast entrance. They don’t call him Scorbus the Bloody for nothing, eh?”

“Actually,” the King’s voice seemed to emanate from somewhere slightly in front of him, as if his presence preceded his bones by half a step. Marius failed to control an involuntary jump, then grimaced. He had forgotten that Scorbus was real, not just an animated collection of bones. “I suffered nose bleeds a great deal, growing up. We just used the nickname to, hmm, embellish the truth somewhat. It was rather a difficult time to be King.” A bony hand clapped Marius on the shoulder. “A bloodthirsty reputation helped when dealing with the barbarous Tallians.”

“But…”

“Seems we struck lucky. Bold gambit, dear fellow, bold gambit.” Scorbus laughed, and Marius felt the blood in his face freeze. “Bold gambit indeed.”

“But…”

“Still, perhaps those who followed me perpetuated the myth, hmm? Vellus, Miglaine, Erejan and the like? I know ‘Thernik the Bone Collector' is no exaggeration. Perhaps they were the bloody ones, living up to my myth with their actions? Perhaps you should instead be thanking them for their murderous ways?” Scorbus straightened and walked on in silence, while Marius gaped at him.

“How… how did you come up with that?” he eventually asked. Scorbus tilted his head as if surprised by the stupidity of the question.

“They told me, of course. Seven hundred years trapped in a box, you have to talk about something.”

“Yes. Of course. How dim of me.” He turned away, and shook his head. There was no way, he thought, even if it took him seven hundred years, that he would become used to the ways of the dead. What else would you do but sit in a box for the better part of a millennium, chatting amiably to your neighbours about bloodshed and murder? “Of course they did.”

“Waste of perfectly good subjects.”

“Pardon me?”

“All that murder and torture. I tried to tell them – subjects bring you closer to God. How can they do that when they’re lying underneath a rubbish pile with their throats cut? Take away his subjects, and a King is no better than a merchant.” Scorbus shuddered, his bones rattling in the dark. “No.”

“I had a friend who thought the way you do,” Marius said, pointing at the crown perched haphazardly on Scorbus’ skull. “That was his. Of course, he turned himself into a horse.”

“Really? I once knew a man who gave birth to a two-headed chicken, or so he claimed. I’d like to meet this friend of yours.”

“Bit hard. He got blown apart by a shark.”

Scorbus stared at Marius for long moments, his empty orbs staring into Marius’ eyes until the latter blinked and glanced away. “What a curious fellow you are, young man,” he said. “Curious indeed.”

“Oh yeah,” Marius answered sadly, “I’m just a bundle of surprises.”

Gerd had strayed a couple of feet ahead of the conversing couple. Now he stopped, and raised a hand.

“Shh,” he said. “There’s someone ahead.”

“This way.” Marius grabbed Scorbus’ upper arm and tried to pull him back down the corridor. The King planted his feet and pulled, and Marius stumbled. “Your Majesty–”

“No.” Scorbus straightened, and just for a moment Marius had a vision of the man around the skeleton, the King as he must have been in his pomp: tall, massive in his strength, with a bearing that simply demanded obedience. Scorbus tilted his head backwards, and viewed his companions down the line of a long-missing nose. “Behind me, if you please.”

Marius meekly obeyed, and found Gerd already there. They glanced at each other in mute embarrassment, then stood behind the King and waited silently for the first of his subjects to arrive.

It was all rather simple, in the end. After all, the throne was waiting, and the subjects were willing, and