Madman's Army

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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.”

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