ARC: The Corpse-Rat King by Lee Battersby Page A

learned many things during that time, chief among them being how far into the mountains he needed to run before he was safe from execution. But he also knew that it is not the stomach which is the most important aspect of a soldier’s existence. Any spear carrier with decent enough cunning and a sympathetic sergeant can find a meal. What a soldier truly prizes, and considers the greatest skill to be acquired, is sleep. Not sleep as you and I understand it, in a bed, perhaps even in our own homestead, with a cuddly wife or acrobatic mistress besides us. But sleep in the rain, sleep on a mountain pass with hateful foreigners in the rocks above and a two hundred foot fall below, sleep while the legs still march and the ears still hear orders. Sleep, standing at an open gate with a rich, under-defended city at your back. Sleep, undiscovered.
     
    A sergeant may be sympathetic to many things, but sleeping on duty will never be one of them.
    An hour after Marius left his position on the hillock above the final approach he shuffled the last few steps to the mouth of the city gate.
    “Hello, lads.”
    Twenty minutes amongst sleeping travellers had transformed him. Calfskin gloves covered his hands, and the worn-out shoes he had been wearing since the turn of the year were gone, replaced by a pair of sturdy leather hiking boots that looked as if they had only just embarked upon their first journey. His travel-worn clothes, and more importantly, the nature of his features, lay hidden deep in the folds of a hooded oilskin cape. A thick knobkerrie completed the ensemble, and Marius leant upon it as if it were a cane, surveying the hooded eyes of the guards. He suppressed a smile. Nobody likes being disturbed from dozing, particularly if they’re being disturbed in order to work.
    “Gate’s closed for the evening.”
    “Looks open to me,” Behind the guards, two wooden doors, twice the height of a man, thick and unadorned and of rough construction, stood open. A corridor the thickness of the wall above, perhaps ten feet in all, led into a short square. Marius could see an open hole in the roof of the corridor. Breach the doors, and the pot that undoubtedly stood above them could pour boiling oil directly onto you before you made the open plaza. Nasty stuff, but a city will do whatever it can to protect the dignity of its Gods-fearing mothers and pure virgin daughters, even if nobody can remember having met one. He tilted his head to indicate the open passage, grunting slightly as he did so, and leaned further onto his support, shuffling forward a step in the process.
    “I said it’s closed, old man.” The guards looked at each other over the top of Marius’ head. “That is, unless you can pay the toll.”
    This time, Marius couldn’t help but grin. “Oh, yes. And what that might be?”
    “Well,” the older, heavier guard said, resting his hands on his hips and squaring himself up between Marius and the doorway. “That all depends on what you’ve got, doesn’t it?”
    Some things never fail, Marius thought. The old teach the young all the mistakes they’ve spent years perfecting, the strong never stop to look closely at the weak, and the prepared always vanquish the stupid.
    “Got?” he replied, cheerily. “Oh, lads, I haven’t got a blessed thing.”
    “Oh, dear,” the older guard said. “Oh, dear, oh dear. You hear that Jeltho? Not a thing, he says.”
    “Yeah, Ej, not a thing.” The younger fellow laughed, a thick, hopeful sound.
    “I find that hard to believe, don’t you, Jeltho?”
    “Yeah, Ej, yeah.”
    Big Ej stepped forward, looming over Marius. “I wonder if you’re not trying to hold out on us, old man. I wonder if I’d not be better off searching you for contraband, and see just what you’re hiding.”
    “Is Sergeant Olling still patrol master of these gates?” Marius asked softly. Ej stopped, and glanced at his young offsider. “Only, I remember him being patrol master when I was in the