allotting command to Yanderman instead of a regular officer …
A session with Granny Jassy to try and stop her filling the men’s minds with nonsense about this being a supernatural vengeance upon the Duke, ending with the threat of scourging despite her sex and age which sent her away tight-lipped and white with fury …
And all the time frantic casting about for a way to avoid the ultimate showdown and the risk of mutiny.
The chance never came.
Or rather Yanderman was unable to make it come.
The rush of the night’s events had left him no time to spare for the process of adjusting emotionally to Duke Paul’s death. That adjustment came in one blinding second, leaving him at the mercy of his own fury and condemning him to provoke the very mutiny he was desperate to avoid.
He was inspecting the funeral guard—the entire army, of course, drawn up in open ranks by companies with arms reversed—when between two of the men he happened to glance at the rank behind, and there saw a soldier: grinning.
The sight was like a trigger to his thermite-hot rage. He stormed between the files and halted in front of the grinning soldier as he tried to compose his face.
“What’s funny, soldier?” he said softly.
The man looked woodenly ahead of him.
“Pleased that your Duke is dead, is that it? Pleased because you think now he’s not here to lead us any longer your lily-white liver will be spared the risk of venturing into the barrenland?”
All around him there were hisses of indrawn breath. Trying to watch without moving their heads, nearby men eaves-dropped.
“Well, you’re wrong!” Yanderman blazed. He spun to the sergeants accompanying him. “Two of you arrest this man! Hold him till after the funeral. We won’t dismiss on pyrelighting—” Deliberately he raised his voice to let the whole army hear. “We’ll continue! A dishonourable dismissal in full form! And a discharge to the barrenland for this coward who welcomed Duke Paul’s death as saving him from it!”
The reaction went through the parade like wind through grass.
After that, there was no backing down.
The pyre was lit at last, pouring greasy-black smoke high into the clear blue sky. With its crackling as a background to his words, Yanderman licked his lips and uttered the first command of the dismissal drill.
Here and there among the soldiers, a man did move. Checked. Looked at his immobile comrades. Went back to his place and stood, like the rest, rock-still.
He repeated the command.
“We’re not sending anyone to the barrenland!” a voice called from a distant corner of the parade, and instantly he was echoed by a stormy chorus. “Right! No! We’ll not send a man to the barrenland—it’s fit only for devils, not for men!”
Head swimming, Yanderman looked at his fellow officers. Not one of them was making any move to counter this insubordination. On most of their faces, indeed, was a look which implied, “Serve him right—he wasn’t fit to inherit the Duke’s authority!”
Only Stadham moved towards him, speaking almost without moving his lips.
“There’s no hope for it now, sir. I’ve seen this sort of thing before. We’ll be lucky to escape with our lives!”
“Esberg!” shrieked the men at the back of the parade who had first voiced the refusal. “Back to Esberg! If they won’t lead us home, we’ll go on our own!”
“Right! Yes!” Again the storm of agreement, and now the men began to break ranks, their noncoms unable to decide what to do.
“But if we go”—a piercing voice carrying above the tumult—”we might carry the green plague with us! Do you want to carry that back to your families?”
“Burn the camp, then!” came the mad howl in answer, and all at once the army was a mob. Some of them hurled their arms down and snatched brands from the Duke’s pyre to wield like torches as they led the rush; others paused long enough to hurl final insults at their officers—Yanderman was prepared for
A session with Granny Jassy to try and stop her filling the men’s minds with nonsense about this being a supernatural vengeance upon the Duke, ending with the threat of scourging despite her sex and age which sent her away tight-lipped and white with fury …
And all the time frantic casting about for a way to avoid the ultimate showdown and the risk of mutiny.
The chance never came.
Or rather Yanderman was unable to make it come.
The rush of the night’s events had left him no time to spare for the process of adjusting emotionally to Duke Paul’s death. That adjustment came in one blinding second, leaving him at the mercy of his own fury and condemning him to provoke the very mutiny he was desperate to avoid.
He was inspecting the funeral guard—the entire army, of course, drawn up in open ranks by companies with arms reversed—when between two of the men he happened to glance at the rank behind, and there saw a soldier: grinning.
The sight was like a trigger to his thermite-hot rage. He stormed between the files and halted in front of the grinning soldier as he tried to compose his face.
“What’s funny, soldier?” he said softly.
The man looked woodenly ahead of him.
“Pleased that your Duke is dead, is that it? Pleased because you think now he’s not here to lead us any longer your lily-white liver will be spared the risk of venturing into the barrenland?”
All around him there were hisses of indrawn breath. Trying to watch without moving their heads, nearby men eaves-dropped.
“Well, you’re wrong!” Yanderman blazed. He spun to the sergeants accompanying him. “Two of you arrest this man! Hold him till after the funeral. We won’t dismiss on pyrelighting—” Deliberately he raised his voice to let the whole army hear. “We’ll continue! A dishonourable dismissal in full form! And a discharge to the barrenland for this coward who welcomed Duke Paul’s death as saving him from it!”
The reaction went through the parade like wind through grass.
After that, there was no backing down.
The pyre was lit at last, pouring greasy-black smoke high into the clear blue sky. With its crackling as a background to his words, Yanderman licked his lips and uttered the first command of the dismissal drill.
Here and there among the soldiers, a man did move. Checked. Looked at his immobile comrades. Went back to his place and stood, like the rest, rock-still.
He repeated the command.
“We’re not sending anyone to the barrenland!” a voice called from a distant corner of the parade, and instantly he was echoed by a stormy chorus. “Right! No! We’ll not send a man to the barrenland—it’s fit only for devils, not for men!”
Head swimming, Yanderman looked at his fellow officers. Not one of them was making any move to counter this insubordination. On most of their faces, indeed, was a look which implied, “Serve him right—he wasn’t fit to inherit the Duke’s authority!”
Only Stadham moved towards him, speaking almost without moving his lips.
“There’s no hope for it now, sir. I’ve seen this sort of thing before. We’ll be lucky to escape with our lives!”
“Esberg!” shrieked the men at the back of the parade who had first voiced the refusal. “Back to Esberg! If they won’t lead us home, we’ll go on our own!”
“Right! Yes!” Again the storm of agreement, and now the men began to break ranks, their noncoms unable to decide what to do.
“But if we go”—a piercing voice carrying above the tumult—”we might carry the green plague with us! Do you want to carry that back to your families?”
“Burn the camp, then!” came the mad howl in answer, and all at once the army was a mob. Some of them hurled their arms down and snatched brands from the Duke’s pyre to wield like torches as they led the rush; others paused long enough to hurl final insults at their officers—Yanderman was prepared for
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