Madman's Army

Chapter VII

Sergeant Tahntos was seated astraddle a contrivance of wood, the sharp edges of two dovetailed boards cutting like a dull knifeblade into his naked crotch. His arms were trussed brutally tight behind his back, elbows to wrists, the hands become a uniform bluish grey from lack of circulation, the muscles of his upper torso looking fit to burst through the skin with the strain. A brace of heavy shields was suspended from each ankle. His eyes were closed, though the lids fluttered from time to time, and save for trickles of blood from each corner of his mouth, his face was pale as fresh curds, his jaws tight-clenched in his agony.

Three spearmen of the Grand Strahteegos’ foot-guards squatted nearby, watching and occasionally taunting the suffering sergeant in a cruel, childish way.

“Hey, big man, has them boards cracked yore balls, yet? Heheheh,” shouted one of them.

“It was one feller, out of Asshole Ahzprinos’ bunch of stump-jumpers, he was,” another put in, “he scrooched him around wrong and the damn boards cut his pecker plumb in two, he bled like a fuckin’ stuck pig, too, died in five minits. Don’t thet beat all? Hey, Sergeant, you hear me?”

“Aw, hell, he ain’t no fun atall,” remarked the third disgustedly. “He ain’t screamed or begged or nuthin’, ain’t made hardly a sound a body could hear lest they was right up there with him. Maybe we oughta ask for to hang another couple of shields on his laigs, I bet you his money that would start him in to screechin’, boys. What you think, you want to do it?”

The nude, tortured man jerked reflexively as a deerfly bit his cheek, and the movement almost made him lose his precarious balance. Righting himself brought a low groan of pure agony from behind his chewed and bloody lips.

“Here he starts, boys, here he starts,” said one of the foot-guards with excitement and evident relish. “Firstest thing you know he gone be a-howlin’ like a dog and a-cryin’ like a baby at the same time.”

“No, he is not.” The cold, hard voice came from behind them, and they all whirled about to see a fully armed lancer officer sitting a fine horse, his helmet and breastplate winking in the sunlight, a bared saber at rest against his spauldron. Behind him were ranged a dozen or more officers and sergeants of lancers, all armed, all with cold menace shining from their eyes, but none of their stares so icy, so intimidating as that of the officer who led them.

Dropping the reins on the pommel-knob of his war-saddle, the officer waved a signal to those behind him, saying, “Get Sergeant Tahntos from off that hellish contraption before it unmans him or he dies of pain. If these sadistic swine make to halt or hinder you in the least, you have my leave to put them up there in his place.”

After removing the shields from the sufferer’s ankles, strong, gentle hands joined to lift his tormented body from off the sharp-edged boards, then the flashing blade of a dagger severed the cords binding his wrists and elbows. While four men carried their comrade back to the horses to lay him facedown across the withers of yet another’s horse, two troopers batted and cuffed the three foot-guards about until they had surrendered all of the clothing and the money and personal effects of Sergeant Tahntos.

Finding a store of cords and other things beneath the contrivance, certain of the troopers and sergeants took time to bind the arms of the foot-guards, hoist them all up on the sharp boards, weight their ankles, and leave them, already shrieking piteously.

“No slightest doubt but that they’ll be coming after me quite shortly, Hymos,” said Bralos.

“They’ll play merry hell getting you, my lord Captain,” averred Senior Lieutenant Hymos firmly. “Not one officer or man in Wolf Squadron but won’t fight to the very death for you. Comes to that, we can hack our way out of camp and …”

“And you’d all be slaughtered, darted out of the saddle by the light infantry or shot full of arrows by the foot-archers, and I could not live with the knowledge that I’d been responsible for that kind of a massacre,” said Bralos just as firmly. “No, what you will do is first send officer-gallopers to the sub-strahteegos, to Portos and to Captain Ehrrikos of Panther Squadron … oh, and to Captain Chief Pawl Vawn, too. Most of the senior officers are my friends, and, too, I have friends on Council. The only way that that old bastard could kill me unopposed would be to do it in private, and that’s not what he wants at all; for some reason, he wants a public execution complete with all the ritual humiliations and tortures and maimings and a well-witnessed death. No, in custody or not, I’ll be safe for the nonce.

“But after you’ve dispatched those gallopers, I want you and all the rest of the squadron to start getting ready for a march of about two weeks. If we ever come back here at all, it won’t be for some time, like as not, so pack up everything. The cooks and the eeahtrohsee have been paid for thirty more days, so bring them and the other specialists along, also. Tell the smith to pack everything that he can squeeze into that traveling forge I bought him, and the cooks are to strip the kitchens and snag any edibles they can beg, borrow or steal from wherever.

“You’d better send over a detail now to cut our horses out of the permanent herd and another detail to the depot to harness teams and hitch them to our wagons, then drive them back here to be loaded. Set my servants to packing my own effects, and if the sub-strahteegos sends over a small, heavy chest, put it in my largest trunk.”

He might have said more, but a pounding of approaching hoofbeats heralded the arrival of Captain-of-squadron Opokomees Ehrrikos, his face streaming salt sweat and twisted by a frown of worry. Flinging himself from the saddle of the heaving horse, he ran up the steps and burst into the room, gasping, “Bralos, the old man is even now on his way to arrest you for inciting to mutiny. One of my boys was on an errand to army headquarters and saw and heard them forming up a strong party of both horse- and foot-guards, plus a company of foot-archers. Chief Pawl was there and was ordered to add a troop of his Horseclansmen to the party, but he politely told them to do their own dirty work, that he was not down here nor his men either to help overweening dotards conduct vendettas against their own officers. My boy says that at that, some of the old man’s own horse-guard officers had to physically keep him from drawing steel and going after Chief Pawl. It’s a crying shame they did it, too; Pawl would’ve minced his lights nicely.

“Well, good God, man, what are you dawdling for, get your arse in a saddle, I’ll delay them for as long as I can …”

“Hymos,” said Bralos calmly, “send out those gallopers, now, to the sub-strahteegos and Senior Captain Thoheeks Portos; you need not now send to the other two, since they obviously have been otherwise apprised. Set all of the other wheels in motion, if you please. I’ll stay here and chat with my comrade until it is necessary for me to go elsewhere.”

Sub-strahteegos Thoheeks Tomos Gonsalos stalked into the army headquarters building, his face fire-red and streaming sweat, his brick-colored beard and moustaches bristling. Just behind him came Captain-of-squadron Chief Pawl Vawn of Vawn and several of his sub-chiefs, Senior Captain-of-brigade Thoheeks Portos, Captain-of-pikes Guhsz Hehluh and Captain-of-foot Ahzprinos. No guardsman still in his right mind would have essayed to try to stop or even to slow such an aggregation of grim-faced senior officers. And none did.

Before their dogged onslaught, members of the headquarters staff scattered like a covey of quail. Before they all could flit away, Portos reached out a big, hard hand and snagged a junior lieutenant by his flabby biceps, terrified him with a look that smacked of a quick, bloody death, then put him to the question.

“Where is Captain-of-squadron Vahrohnos Bralos?”

“In … in … out in the rear court, See … See … Senior C-Captain,” the unfortunate quavered, his voice cracking several times.

“And where is the Grand Strahteegos?” demanded Portos.

“He … he is … he is there, t-too. To oversee the … the first f-flogging, and it p-please your grace.” The man sniffled, and when Portos hurled him into a heap in a corner, he wet his crotch and began to shudder and sob, then, suddenly, retch up his last meal. Sub-chief Myk Vawn, as he passed the wretched officer, wrinkled up his nose, suspecting that the next-to-last meal had found another means of egress from the staff officer.

Before the party had reached the back of the building, they heard the drums begin to roll, and before they all were outside, they heard the regular, whistling cracks of the whip commence. But these last continued only until Portos grabbed the weighted tip of the lash on the backswing and jerked the surprised wielder from off his feet.

The Grand Strahteegos Thoheeks Pahvlos jumped up from his chair, upsetting it, the small table and the bowl of fresh grapes he had been sharing with the boy, Ilios, who himself voiced a shrill shriek, though not leaving the cushioned chair.

“What is this, Mutiny Day, gentlemen?” burst out Pahvlos. “You, Captain Portos, give that man back his whip and let’s get on with the punishment. This will be but the first of many, of course, but I mean to have that pig singing nicely before this day be done. Next week, when everything has been arranged, I mean to see the bastard’s spine and shoulder blades and ribs, before I see his traitorous neck stretched.”

Disgustedly, Tomos Gonsalos snatched the whip from Portos and flung it high atop the roof of the building. “You old fool,” he said to Pahvlos. ‘Don’t you know your kind of senseless super-discipline and sadism is well on the way to tearing Council’s army apart at the seams? Do you even care? Or it that really your aim, to dissolve the army first, then the Consolidated Thoheekseeahnee? Would you be king, is that it? Or …” He frowned for a moment, trying to recall just how the High Lord had phrased it in his most recent, most secret letter, then he had it. “Or do you serve other, more sinister interests, my lord? Are they perhaps far-southern interests?”

The Grand Strahteegos continued to stare his indignation and rage at the group, but from out the corner of his eye, Tomos Gonsalos saw the cryptic verbal barb find lodging in the bumboy, Ilios, who started as if touched with a red-hot iron.

But now Portos stalked forward and faced his furious commander, stating flatly, “You had no right to do any more than arrest Captain Vahrohnos Bralos and hold him in custody until he was brought to face the officers’ panel, and you know it full well, my lord Thoheeks. You are, by this heinous act, yourself guilty of criminal activity … and you know that, too, my lord Thoheeks.”

“This man,” declared the Grand Strahteegos, “freed a common sergeant who had tried to cross the perimeter contrary to my promulgated orders, had fought with and grievously injured some of the obedient men who stopped him, and was therefore undergoing punishment on the wooden horse. This man not only freed the malefactor, but he had three of my fine foot-guards beaten severely by his troops, then bound them and placed them, most unjustly, on the punishment horse, leaving them there to scream and writhe in agony until someone decided that no one man alone could make so much noise and came finally to their rescue.”

“I knew you’d bring that up,” said Pawl Vawn, “and I investigated the matter early on. The sergeant’s wife was near death of the fever, and word was sent to him that she was calling for him. What else was a loving husband to do, stupid rules or no stupid rules?”

“My rules are in no way stupid,” declared the old man. “At least, in no way that a civilized, cultured Ehleen gentleman could understand. Of course, you barbarians are a crude, rude, uncultured and often quite obnoxious race at your best. I possibly should not expect men of your limited intellectual capacities to ever comprehend, but I will, nonetheless, try one last time to explain to you.

“Three primary things are the utter ruination of your old-fashioned common soldier. These are unwonted luxuries such as hot baths, too much armor and too little work; an overabundance of drink; and women. I sincerely hope that that insubordinate sergeant’s wife is dead, for he will be the better man and soldier without her.

“Women rob a man of his vitality, and often by sucking the life clear out of him. They …”

“And what, pray tell,” muttered one of the Horseclans sub-chiefs from somewhere within the crowd, “does that overpretty pooeesos of yours suck out of you, lordy boy?”

The old man turned crimson and clapped hand to his swordhilt. He stepped forward and demanded, “What creature of slime said that? Dare you to show your face to me, you ill-bred pig?”

“Enough and more than enough!” snapped Tomos Gonsalos. “We are come to free Captains Bralos and Ehrrikos. They will be held for a hearing, my lord Thoheeks, but until and if the officers’ panel says them guilty of some crime, they are not going to be further punished. Pawl, would you and yours kindly see to Bralos and Ehrrikos? Thank you.”

“Guards, stop them!” the old man half-shouted at the quintet of his foot-guards, who had wisely kept still and silent through it all.

Old Guhsz Hehluh slouched forward, hitching his swordbelt around for quicker, easier access to the weapon, and Captain Ahzprinos was not far to his rear. “Tell me, boys,” asked the captain of mercenary pikemen, in tones of friendly conversation, “is all this here really worth you dying for?”

The Horseclansmen freed Captain Ehrrikos—seized for “aiding and abetting the attempted escape of the notorious malefactor and mutineer who calls himself Bralos of Yohyültönpolis” and promised three dozens of lashes after Bralos had had his share—while others loosened the deep-biting ropes from Bralos’ wrists and ankles, then eased him to the ground and flung his torn shirt over his bloody back and shoulders.

Walking to his friend’s side, Ehrrikos squatted and asked—a bit stupidly, as he later admitted to all and sundry—“Does it hurt much, Bralos?”

Through tight-clenched and bloody teeth, the flogged man gritted, “Only when I laugh, Ehrrikos.”

While the officers were being chosen for the trial panel—they would act as both jury and judges, could find guilt or innocence, set punishments or rewards for anyone connected with the trial, not just the accused officers, and had the power during their tenure to call anyone they wanted to hear, military or civilian, noble or commoner, man or woman, and could demand to peruse any documents save only state secrets—Bralos was cared for in his tightly guarded quarters by his servants, his officers and the senior among his eeahtrohsee. His own bodyguards—save only for the convalescing Sergeant Tahntos, who was being nursed in the settlement beyond the perimeter by his newly dead wife’s sister—took watch-on-watch so that there never were fewer than two of them outside his door. His officers haunted the outer rooms, both by day and by night, and a constant cordon of troopers and sergeants surrounded the headquarters building, brusquely disarming any officer or man not of their own who made to enter, assured that the officers just inside would back them up with authority should anyone try to pull rank on them.

Of a day, Sub-strahteegos Thoheeks Tomos Gonsalos and Senior Captain-of-brigade Thoheeks Portos of Pithahpolis, willingly, smilingly handed over their cutlery to the zealous troopers, then passed in to find Bralos seated in a backless chair, his weals all shiny with unguents, conferring with his senior lieutenant, Hymos.

Drawing up stray chairs, the two visiting officers asked for wine, and Hymos himself went to fetch it, for the two bodyguards still were close to their squadron commander and the two visitors were, after all, unarmed and presumably friendly, besides.

“How is the empanelment going?” asked Bralos.

Portos snorted. “Slowly, thanks to that obtuse old man, thank you. He wants it packed with his toadies, naturally, and we are just as dead set that it will be packed in no such way, but a fair, honest aggregation of honorable gentleman-officers. It helps us mightily that you hold the ranks—civil and military—that you do, for the most of the old man’s proven toadies are untitled and low-ranking young men, and we can all thank also the narrow-arsed Ilios for much of that, for he didn’t like Pahvlos’ old staff, said that they all were aged and ugly and, for all their experience and expertise, not at all the kind of men that should be always around. Of course, the infatuated Pahvlos indulged the whims of the little pooeesos, and now he shortly will be hoist up by his own catapult.

“You see, the panel may consist of any number of officers above the minimum of eight for hearing of a case against any captain-of-squadron or -battalion; however, the panel must be entirely composed of officers of your rank or higher. In order to be even considered, a man of lower than your military rank must be your superior in his civil rank.”

“So the Grand Strahteegos,” put in Tomos Gonsalos, “has found himself to be lodged between a rock and a hard place, to his distress. Almost every officer of your rank or higher has recently come to fear or hate and despise the Grand Strahteegos, and we have stoutly fought off his every attempt to insinuate officers not technically qualified for inclusion. We have received, today, earlier, a tentative roll of the panel. Of the ten, seven are men well known to you: me, to head it; Portos, here; Biszahros and Ahzprinos; Nathos, the elephant-man; Pintos, the senior quartermaster since Pahvlos booted him from off his staff because his looks didn’t please sweet Ilios; and yet another former staff officer, Lahreeos.”

“And the other three?” queried Bralos. “What of them, Tomos?”

Tomos grimaced as if he had just tasted something a bit rotten. “Until three days ago, Captain-of-staff Gaios of Thehsmeeyee was a mere lieutenant, not even a senior lieutenant, he’d not been in the army long enough to have earned a senior lieutenancy; he’s one of Pahvlos’ and no mistaking it … but we may be able to find a way of disqualifying the bugger yet. We can’t be sure of the other two—they could be his, they could be ours, they could be strictly neutral, too, men who’ll make a decision based solely upon testimonies and evidence heard and seen.”

“Why not Guhsz Hehluh, or Pawl Vawn?” asked Bralos. “There’s the captain of the artificiers, too, for that matter; Nikos is a good man.”

Tomos sighed. “Because the first two are not Ehleenohee, and because Pahvlos declares that all three are mercenaries, not his regular troops, and are therefore completely unqualified to sit on the panel and try a regular officer.”

“Now, wait a damned minute,” protested Bralos heatedly. “The last I heard from that old bastard was that I was a mercenary who had had regular foot-guards assaulted by other mercenaries. If you need a witness, just go ask Ehrrikos, he was there.”

Tomos flashed a glance at Portos, and then both nodded. Tomos said to Bralos, “Be that as it may, for the nonce, the Grand Strahteegos has declared and avowed before us both that at no time did he truly consider you and Wolf Squadron to be anything save regular Ehleen light cavalry. He states that it was you and you only he tagged with the name ‘mercenary scoundrel’ and that if that appellation was not properly understood by you and others, he now regrets it.”

“Is it then so?” said Bralos. “Then, pray tell me why the old bugger has not paid this squadron’s wages in going on six months? I and Wolf Squadron seem to be and have been mercenary troops when it pleases this lying, conniving Grand Strahteegos, but regular Ehleen troops when it does not so please him.”

“Well,” put in Portos, “there’s precious little we can do about that matter at this juncture. But who knows what the futures of any of us may hold? Rest well and long and recover quickly as you can, son Bralos, for by this time next week, we just may have agreed upon an officers’ panel to settle everything … I hope and pray.”

Tomos shrugged. “Hopes and prayers are all well and good, my friends, but judging only upon what has happened, and not happened, recently, I must be pessimistic and conclude that the firm choice of a full panel may take longer than merely one more week.”

However, before any panel of officers could be formally invested, the most displeased Grand Strahteegos played one of his hole cards, ordering almost all of Council’s army on the road to Sahvahnahspolis, far and far to the east of the Consolidated Thoheekseeahnee. It was a march that no single officer or man in his command was at all anxious to undertake, calling as it did for some two or three days and nights of marching through and camping in swamps and salt fens which happened to be the territory of huge, scaly, predaceous monsters, deadly snakes, strange and hideous fevers, bottomless concealed pits of quicksand and, by far the worst of all the terrors awaiting them, the barbarian swamp-dwellers or fen-men.

Not a few of the officers and soldiers were terrified at thoughts of even entering that dim, damp, death-crawling realm of the sinister fen-men, who were seldom seen and who killed from a distance with blowgun darts steeped in poisons—estimates of the actual distance, accuracy and lethality of the poisons varied greatly, dependent mostly upon just how close was the individual speaker to fear-induced hysteria at the time of the telling.

But it was cold, hard, incontestable fact that entire companies and battalions of well-armed and -led troops had marched into those fens that bordered most of the eastern and southern coasts and never returned, their bodies not even being found, nor any traces of their weapons and equipment. Such incidents as this had most recently occurred during the infamous “March of Royal Conquest” of the late, unlamented and last king of the Kingdom of the Southern Ehleenohee, which land was now metamorphosed into the Consolidated Thoheekseeahnee of Southern Ehleenohee. Leading his vast host of hundreds of thousands, High King Zastros I had marched into the southernmost lands of the Kingdom of Karaleenos on an ill-starred, poorly planned military operation that had ended in disaster and the deaths of him and his queen on the banks of the Lumbuh River.[1]

On the march north, however, when harassed on his right flank by fen-men, he had sent units into the swamps after the raiders. Smaller units had been lost entirely; of larger ones, ten to fifteen percent of the original units had returned, stumbling from out the swamps all bearded and filthy and starved, afflicted with strange fevers, skin diseases never before seen by the eeahtrohsee, bloody dysentery and degrees of madness that bred sleeping and waking nightmares. When he once had debriefed a few of the officer-survivors of the largest unit to come out of the swamps more or less alive, High King Zastros had never again sent troops into the deadly swamps and had, indeed, seen that the march-route of his columns was narrowed so as to be well to the westward of the peripheries of the salt fens and the barbarians who dwelt therein, for all that it slowed the progress of his horde considerably.

That the Grand Strahteegos Thoheeks Pahvlos was now clearly intent on forcing his entire army into another patch of these brooding places of death was, in the eyes of his already more or less disaffected men, but more evidence that their once-revered commander had changed, drastically and for the worse, and now meant them all no slightest good. Even so, they had taken their oaths, sacred oaths, and so they all, perforce, felt that they must obey … all, that is, save for the individuals who found or made the time and the opportunity to take hopefully-permanent leave of their insane commander, the army and all.

The traditional Ehleen punishment for apprehended deserters was simply death—by hanging or decapitation, usually. But despite his well-earned reputation as an army traditionalist, there was nothing traditional about the manners in which the Grand Strahteegos dealt with deserters or with any other common soldiers who chanced to break one of his new plethora of rules and edicts—which seemed to ever expand in quantity, even as the earlier ones became ever stricter.

In the little cleared space behind army headquarters, wherein he and Ilios, his catamite, lived in a suite of ground-floor rooms, he had had erected two whipping-frames of heavy lumber, a rack and a massive table fitted with straps and manacles. There, shaded by an awning, he and Ilios would sit and drink cooled wine and nibble at fruits and bits of cheese or crisp biscuits while men were slowly whipped to death or permanently crippled on the rack or blinded with sharp stakes or otherwise mutilated while chained and strapped to the bloodstained table. And the men used so atrociously for his enjoyment were not deserters, but mere troopers who had tried to visit women beyond the perimeters of the sprawling camp, had been caught bringing women into the camp, had been apprehended with unwatered wine or any other potable than wine, had been caught with pipes, tobacco or hemp in their possession or had transgressed in any way against the hordes of near-senseless rules and regulations that his brain continued to invent and his staff continued to churn out for distribution to his command.

For deserters and those guilty of crimes of a truly capital nature, the old commander had had the official army execution site adjacent to the drill field enlarged to include four permanent poles for crosses, two double gallows, and a raised platform fitted for either a whipping-frame or an impalement stake; another platform held the frame of a rack and a table that was the mate of the one behind his headquarters building. Beneath each of the platforms were low sheds wherein were kept the smaller but necessary implements— braziers, whips, pincers, branding-irons, manacles, straps, ropes, prepared oaken impalement stakes, an assortment of sharp knives of various sizes and shapes, hand-bellows for making coals burn hotter, iron bars for breaking bones, mauls for pulping hands or feet, differing sizes of pliers for drawing or breaking off teeth or for tearing out tongues.

Now the common soldiers drilled beneath the shadows of wheeling buzzards and of flocks of black carrion crows winging swiftly to the grisly feast which awaited them, dangling from gallows-beams or roped to crosses, pretenderized by floggings and savage tortures.

At two meetings of senior officers of the army with their Grand Strahteegos, old Pahvlos had blamed the increasingly high incidences of sell-back of rank among officers and desertions of common soldiers on a general breakdown in discipline engendered by excessive coddling of the troops. A prime and flagrant example of this distressing trend was, he noted, that of the thief and mutineer Captain Vahrohnos Bralos, onetime commander of the lancers of the Wolf Squadron. He had then harangued his captive audience for almost an hour, each time, on the deadly dangers to discipline and order of treating the common soldier like more than the dumb, unfeeling, seldom thinking brute that he actually was. Such dangerous and larcenous officers as Vahrohnos Bralos, he noted, who frittered away ill-gotten monies on such things as expensive clothing, extra—and completely unauthorized by traditional practices—items of armor, food as good as some junior officer messes, better wines than the army could afford and even tobacco, were underminers of morale among the unindulged soldiers and the very bane of an overall commander’s existence.

The senior officers heard him out—what else could they do?—but the few who took his diatribes to heart had been of his personal clique before he had begun. Most of the officers recognized just what he was trying to accomplish and knew full well just why he was trying to accomplish it. Unimpressed by him, they all knew exactly why their soldiers were deserting or trying to desert or purposefully injuring themselves; they were doing so for the same reasons that so many junior officers were either trying to sell back their ranks or just resigning and riding off to their homes the poorer. The combination of old Pahvlos’ dogged determination to convert the entire army to total abstinence from women, unwatered wine, and the use of either hemp or tobacco if he had to flog, maim, mutilate or kill half of them to do it would have been enough, but with a useless, senseless march into the swamps and salt fens looming in the near futures of them all, it did not take an intellectual giant to perceive that Council’s army, now commanded by an obvious madman, was become a distinctly unhealthy place in which to remain longer. Indeed, not a few of the senior officers were thinking seriously of early and quick retirement to their lands or cities, had the old man but known.

Far-flung expeditionary forces had been summoned to return to the base camp under the walls of Mehseepolis, and as these smaller units trickled in to be confronted with the hosts of new rules and list of now-forbidden activities—each one, to the minds of the average man, more nonsensical and stupid than the one preceding it—and the halved pay and the frenetic activity in preparation for an extremely dangerous expedition that, were truth known, no one but him responsible for its inception really anticipated with any emotions save fear and horror, whole bodies of not only common soldiers but sergeants and specialists began to desert. They went over the perimeter by dark of night, or they did not come back from errands or details outside the heavily guarded military enclave. Members of units sent out in pursuit of deserters took to not returning, and it was found that punishing the officers in charge of these units did nothing but to increase the rate at which junior officers departed the army.

At length, the mess had begun to stink so foully that Council was moved to calling as full an assembly as possible and hearing a move to force the retirement of its Grand Strahteegos. But old Pahvlos owned vehement supporters on the Council and, as a thoheeks in civil life, was himself a member. He had, of course, hotly defended his methods of discipline and punishment, refusing to retire, regardless of his age, which was approaching eighty years, and his supporters on Council had spoken so forcefully in his defense that Council Guardsmen had had to be summoned three times to break up brawls between noblemen. Several duels and at least one attempted assassination had been the eventual and only result of the session, and the disgusted chairman, Thoheeks Grahvos, had ended by dismissing everyone with nothing in the way of business settled.

With the captains of both lancer squadrons under arrest, confined to their respective quarters and awaiting hearings by a not yet formed board of officers, the Grand Strahteegos dispatched orders to Senior Captain and Commander of the Cavalry Brigade Thoheeks Portos to appoint the senior lieutenant of each squadron acting-captain-of-squadron and have them take over command during the campaign, wherein the lancers would as usual ride point, flanks and rearguard, back up the scouts whenever necessary and, themselves, scout out from the perimeters of nightly camps. This order resulted in both senior lieutenants immediately selling back their ranks and in one departing the camp soon thereafter. Nor would any of the troop-lieutenants deign to take over their function even when offered them at no cost.

That had been when the Grand Strahteegos had decided to merge the seven troops of lancers into a new “great squadron” and place it under the command of one of his favorite staff officers, Captain Gaios of Thehsmeeyee. This signal honor the tall, willowy officer sought to decline, first pointing out that he was more than fulfilled in his present function, then mentioning at some length his unworthiness for such an honor and his patent inexperience in command of combat troops. These points being all poopooed by old Pahvlos, the staff officer had first offered to sell back his rank, then begged the army commander to allow him to forfeit his investment and revert to lower rank. He was brusquely refused and ordered to pack his gear, mount his horse and ride over to the heavy cavalry enclave, present himself to the commander of the brigade of cavalry and tell him that he was to henceforth be captain of the great squadron of lancers.

Seemingly dutifully, Captain Gaios mounted his horse and rode off, leaving his servants to pack his effects, but he did not ride into the cavalry enclave; rather was he last seen headed west on the main trade road, having left a hastily scrawled letter of resignation on his writing desk.

The Grand Strahteegos still was fulminating against the cowardly and backbiting Captain Gaios when Captain-of-brigade Thoheeks Portos—outwardly grave, but secretly gleeful—dropped the next bit of bad news.

“My lord Strahteegos, Captain Chief Pawl Vawn of Vawn says that no one of his Horseclansmen or prairiecats will be on the Sahvahnahspolis operation; rather are they all preparing to return to Kehnooryos Ehlahs, saying that they have been absent long enough from their wives and families. Before they go, Captain Chief Pawl demands that he be paid the seven months’ pay now due them. He adds that he must have the full amount agreed upon in his original contract with Council, not the half-pay that now is being given other units.”

The old man’s face darkened perceptibly and veins began to bulge ominously in his forehead, but before he could commence an outburst, Captain Thoheeks Portos, with skillful cunning, dropped the other shoe.

“Moreover, my lord Strahteegos, Captain Guhsz Hehluh refuses to go anywhere for any purpose until the month’s pay owed his pikemen is paid along with six more months in advance, their beer ration is restored to replace the watered wine, they are given back the right to come and go as they wish, on and off the campgrounds, on their off-duty hours and are no longer hindered or harassed in their bringing back, possessing and enjoying hwiskee, brandy, winter wine, honey wine, double beer, ales, hemp and tobacco. Captain Hehluh states that if your paymaster does not pay him all that he wants in full and to the last half-copper, then he will march his full unit into Mehseepolis under arms and demand the money of Council.”

“He wouldn’t dare!” hissed Pahvlos. “Like all barbarians, he is only moving his lips and tongue to hear himself talk.”

“My lord should not be so certain that Captain Hehluh will not do just what he threatens,” cautioned Portos solemnly. “Remember, he and his men were proven veterans of formal warfare long before they came down to serve the Consolidated Thoheekseeahnee. They terribly resent the unaccustomed strictures put upon their lives by my lord’s modes of army discipline, and the reduction of their pay by half and the delays in giving them even that have infuriated them.”

“Well,” snarled Pahvlos, “if the unwashed swine of barbarian, alien sows don’t care to serve me in a strictly organized army, let them just march back to their sties and thus remove their hateful stink from under the noses of decent, cultured Ehleenohee!”

“They probably will do just that, in the end, does my lord not indulge them,” said Portos. “But they want all monies now due them, and my lord can be assured that they can be expected to take whatever steps they feel necessary to receive it, no matter how drastic or embarrassing to my lord.”