“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.
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. “I am the King, the original and greatest King.”
“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 will free you.” He stepped forward, and laid a hand gently upon the lid of Thernik’s crypt. “When the time is right, I will free you all.” He turned away and faced Marius. “But for now you need stay a while longer, my friends, whilst we make good our exit. Young man?”
“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.