Robert Adams
Madman’s Army
Prologue
The old, white-haired, newly dead man lay face down upon the floor tiles, the ornate and bejeweled hilt of a dress-dagger jutting up from his back. Beside the body stood the man who had just killed him, a bared saber in one hand.
“It had to be done,” he said, his voice sad, regretful. “There was never a warrior and leader of warriors I respected more, but his stubborn, senile sadism was tearing the army apart at the seams, and with it our Council and our future, as well.”
Of the score or so of other men in that chamber, some nodded in agreement, most just stood, staring in shock of the suddenness of the fatal deed, and one burst out bitterly, “Murderer! Back-stabbing murderer! It’s you deserve to be dead, and if I had a sword …”
The tall, saturnine man with the saber stepped off to one side, waving his hand toward a rack of swords and a table on which lay an assortment of dirks and daggers, saying, “Come up and choose a sword, then, my lord Vikos, and I’ll meet you here and now, or later, ahorse or afoot.”
The shorter, slighter, balding man began to push through the crowd, grim resolution on his shaven face, but near the forefront of the group, he was grabbed by both biceps and shaken mercilessly by a broader, more massive, greying man, who half-shouted, “Now, dammit, Vikos—Vikos! Blast your arse, listen to me! Portos was right, can’t you see that, man? Yes, I know
Strahteegos Pahvlos once spared you, saved your life, but that Pahvlos wasn’t the one we’ve been having to deal with of late. It was a simple choice: the life of an old, stubborn, selfish man or the lives of who can ever know just how many of us, of our people. And he’s dead now, thank God. How can you killing Portos or Portos killing you alter the situation, hey? May God damn you for a stubborn fool!” He shook his prey again, harder, hard enough to cause the witness to unconsciously wince. “Come to your senses, Vikos.”
A man even more massively built than the shaker touched his thick arm with a huge hand, rumbling in a bass voice, “Stop it, Grahvos. Keep it up and you’ll snap his neck or his spine, and we don’t need two deaths here today, do we?”
With a deep sigh, Grahvos nodded. “You’re right, of course, Bahos. I just couldn’t see a duel to add to everything else.”
The bigger man took the released Vikos and eased him into an empty chair off his wobbly legs, where he just sat, breathing hard and dabbing with tremulous hands at his bleeding nose, while using the tip of his sore, bitten tongue to take inventory of the teeth in his jaws.
A younger version of Grahvos said, “My lords, please resume your places at the table. This Council meeting has not yet been adjourned, and now there is even more business to consider, weigh and decide. Lord Portos, that includes you, please; put your saber back on the rack … and the other sword, too.”
“Sweet Christ!” yelped one of the men, “Grand Strahteegos Thoheeks Pahvlos lies knifed and dead by the door and you insist on business as usual, Mahvros? You must have ice water in your veins, not blood, like the rest of us.”
“Not at all, man,” said another. “He’s simply practical rather than as emotional as some I might name here.”
The first man bristled, but before he could do more than open his mouth, the man next to him, another thick, solid specimen, growled, “Enough of this, all of you. You heard our chairman. Take your places, unless you want Lord Grahvos and Lord Bahos and me going around and shaking each of you, in turn.” To the chairman, he said, “Mahvros, you’re bleeding like a stuck pig. It wasn’t enough to get that dirk out of your shoulder, man, it needs at least bandaging. Here, let me, I own some small experience at such tasks. Want to give me a hand, Tomos?”
As soon as Thoheeks Sitheeros and Sub-strahteegos Thoheeks Tomos Gonsalos had completed their work and resumed their places, the chairman—his left arm now in a sling and his shoulder swathed in linen strips torn from his shirt and that of his two benefactors— spoke, saying, “All right, let’s try to make this short and sweet, get as much as possible done in as short as possible a time, lest pain and blood loss pitch me down on the floor, too.
“We stand in need of another field commander, now. I’d recommend Tomos Gonsalos save for two reasons. Number one, of course, is that he is not one of us, but from Karaleenos; number two is that he is doing a superlative job in his current position and, were we to appoint him field commander, I cannot think of any man who could replace him, who could run his present command anywhere nearly as well.
“Therefore, I suggest that Captain Thoheeks Grahvos take on that command either permanently or at least until we weigh out the remaining officers and find a better commander.”
All eyes turned to the greying nobleman seated near the chairman. He shrugged. “I’ll take over, but only if there is a firm understanding that it is purely temporary, and that I will own the authority to groom candidates for the permanent posting. There are two men I can think of right now who would most likely make us excellent strahteegohee.” He did not think it just then politic to mention that one of the prime men he thought of was the very man who just had slain the previous strahteegos, Captain Thoheeks Portos, Sub-strahteegos of Cavalry.
Mahvros nodded. “I thank you, Acting-Strahteegos Grahvos, on behalf of Council and …”
“Wait a minute, now,” yelped one of the younger of the men ranged about the long table. “Council must vote. When do we vote?”
“You don’t, Lord Pennendos,” snapped Mahvros peevishly, gritting his teeth against the pain of his pierced shoulder. “When it comes to a final, permanent appointment, then Council votes. Something like this does not require the votes of the full Council, only a half plus one. Stop trying to start up a controversy. If you have nothing better with which to occupy yourself, you can search out claimants to the now-vacant thoheekseeahn of our recently deceased Thoheeks Pahvlos.”
Thoheeks Sitheeros sighed and shook his head. “I suppose we can’t hope that the word won’t spread that we murdered the old bastard, in here … ?”
“Of course that word will be disseminated,” agreed Grahvos. “There’re just too many big, loud, flapping mouths for it to be otherwise … not a few of them presently in this room, amongst us.”
“And what answer can we give to such calumnies?” demanded Thoheeks Neekos, a man built along the lines of Thoheeks Vikos but about the age of Thoheeks Grahvos.
“The truth,” replied the chairman, Mahvros. “The old fool went out of his head completely, threatened us all with a sword from off the rack, put a dirk into my shoulder and was put down for it—treated the only way you can treat mad dogs or murderously mad men.
Most who’ve had any dealings with him of late will believe it, and that means almost all of the army. Those few who choose to not believe will likely be the born troublemaker types, anyway.”
“Who votes his two proxies, now?” rumbled Thoheeks Bahos. “Someone will have to, and a proxy for his own, too, until we find and confirm another claimant to that thoheekseeahn.”
Mahvros wrinkled up his brows. “Yes, there’s that problem. To the best of my knowledge, his only living relative is Thoheeks Ahramos of Kahlkos … and that’s one of the proxies he was voting.”
“Well, then,” mused Thoheeks Grahvos, “where there are no relatives, then I suppose friends will have to suffice. Let Lord Vikos vote the three proxies. Is that amenable, Vikos?”