Discworld and Member Articles
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Written by TheJackal
Thursday, 01 September 2005 |
What emerged from the inner depths of the reigning Grand Master’s study was not what the onlookers had been expecting. Most had expected Rubeus, or at the very least, an offensive weapon to come hurtling out.
Neither prospect materialised. If you wanted, you could say there was a black silhouette where Rubeus should have been. But that silhouette was surrounded by even more darkness, for he simply was not near the doorway.
Brother Troy was not happy about this. He had rather hoped Master Rubeus would make a final jog for freedom. He definitely wouldn’t be able to make a dash to safety, as there were too many people in the hallway to allow for a speedy getaway.
Even if the Master came out at full speed, he would never reach the end of the hallway alive. The numbers were against him. Rubeus would be assured to snatch out the throat of a few soldiers, but not everyone. Troy stood near the back, so as to assure he would not be one of those few unlucky sods.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, and with no sign of the Brother forthcoming, Troy knew he had to resort to Plan B.
The problem with Plan B was that there was none. Plan A had looked good; why ruin it with pessimistic attitudes before giving it a chance?
Troy was not to fazed by his lack of a backup course of action. He was, after all, a good leader. And what good leaders knew, was, funnily enough, how to lead their men.
The Brother Reverent understood the mentality of his soldiers much more than your average individual. He knew for instance, that it did not matter that he hadn’t, until just now, had a Plan B.
This was okay because his men were not aware of it. The trick was to act like you had a backup Plan the whole time. You just needed to say in a loud voice, oozing with confidence, what your next move and how you intended to do it.
Soldiers followed instructions. Most even followed very bad ones, if those orders were shouted loud enough. You could probably get a man to jump off one hundred feet of the top of a quarry if you shouted at him long enough and said that the ground was bouncy.
Troy was not going to order anyone off a quarry today; today, he told them the Plan. The one of which, so obviously to them, he had long since carefully weighed up the pro and cons.
He wanted a volunteer. That was the Plan. Said volunteer would proceed, with as much caution as possible (very little in this case) into the study. The brave sole stepping forward would take with him a lantern to light the way for the others, should the need arise to assist him.
Troy was rather proud of the wording. Without actually saying it in clearly defined sentences, he had basically asked one of his soldiers to walk into certain death, so that when he fell, the Grand Master’s whereabouts in the study would become apparent to the others. Troy and his remaining men would then, as one, charge at the tyrant.
It was a good Plan. Everyone agreed that it was. As Plans went, it was right up there near the top. It even had a slight flaw, like all good Plans:
Nobody wanted to be the guinea pig.
A sudden fit of wall staring, shoes inspecting, and admiration for the ceiling, had overcome everyone other that the Brother Reverent. One of the soldiers went as far as putting his chainmail over his face to look inconspicuous.
‘All right, all right. I get the hint. No-one wants to volunteer. Honestly, you call yourselves men.’
Appealing to the soldiers’ sense of honour and decency was not going to work. Honour and decency was all well and good, undoubtedly so, but crucially, you couldn’t take it with you to the afterlife, if one existed.
Troy knew this also but it had been worth a shot.
Right so, it was time for Plan C. Troy liked Plan C, the beauty being that it was a classic. You could not go wrong with this one.
‘Okay, ye scum,’ Troy began. It was a fine start; the men could really respond to this type of treatment. It was what they felt comfortable with.
‘Now we are going to pick a volunteer. This volunteer, and let whoever the lucky lad is know that, if he doesn’t bloody well go into that room under the weight of his own two legs, then I’ll personally chop them off, and we’ll throw you in.’
It was indeed a classic, all the men agreed. The command did not just ooze confidence; it was positively dripping all over the place. And now for the method of selection…
…Ah, the captain had really hit the bull’s eye here. A classic threat and a classic selection method. They wondered where he got his inspiration.
Georgre Hinckley, Brother-In-Arms Fourth Class, went to get the straw. This was going to be interesting.
As seen earlier, the unexpected deaths at the execution ceremony had caused quite an uproar. Killing someone with an old fashioned axe was one thing, but arrows flying all over the place was another.
The crowd had quickly dispersed and ran for the exits. Unfortunately, ninety-nine percent made for the main gate out of the courtyard. A clog had developed, the queue some twenty people deep.
You couldn’t blame the huddled masses for the route they took. Every building surrounding the courtyard was the Order’s property, so only a few civilians had every previously stepped foot inside there. It had been one of the thrills of going.
Panic, already high prior to this point, was now rife. Those at the back of the jam did not want to be there; so they pushed and pushed and pushed.
If Nemoy had gone up and asked the pushers why exactly they were doing it, they would probably tell you that it sped things up. It is easy to see the flawed logic here, but some people are, for a lack of a better word, stupid.
Logic can get you into all sorts of problems. In order to illustrate this point, take a man who owns a cow. Many people do own cows so this should be easy to picture. If you do not own a cow, imagine that you do.
Right so. Now stand beside said cow and look at it. Logically, you say to yourself that a cow is mortal. You are not a cow, so you must, logically, be immortal.
If you want to be a smart-ass, you could point out that Nemoy is indeed immortal. But no-one likes a smart-ass, especially when it is a valid point if you remove Nemoy from skewing the equation.
Back in amid the crowds, the weak ones fell, and only if you were very lucky, failed to get trampled on. One such victim of this had been, until just this moment, Harry Froop’s mum. In all likelihood, she would not have minded the way she died. She’d be back with her boy. She had always thought that beneath his hood, massive frame, and considerable bulk, he had always still been her little Harrikins.
Jonah Nemoy had attempted a break for freedom like so many others. This was a possibility as he still had his head attached and in good working order. None was more surprised by that than he, and Nemoy intended to make the most of it.
Right about know, he couldn’t help thinking that he should be stuck in that queue to get out of this Gods awful grounds. Instead, Nemoy was lying on the ground.
He had a tremendously fat lady to thank for this. She would not know the word ‘self-discipline’ if it leapt up and bit her on the bum. Of course, it couldn’t do this, as it is only a word.
Nemoy had been running along nicely, joyously filled to the brim with the newfound gift of freedom, when had come across that horrible lady and proceeded to trip over one of her bulbous, outstretched legs.
The fall itself had not been that bad but his ankle hadn’t taken to it. It looked sprained. Or perhaps twisted. Maybe even fractured. He wasn’t a doctor so could not be sure. Nemoy was almost sure it was not broken as the ankle was not flopping about, which he imagined would happen if it were the case.
The injured area was swelling up nastily. Nemoy just knew it was going to leave a manky, yellow bruise. You never had those cool ones which people got with black eyes.
‘It should be my eye that’s bruised,’ Nemoy said to himself. ‘Then I could wear one of those eye-patches. Always wanted to try out one of those. And maybe a hook…’
He shook his head. ‘Okay, snap out of it. What’s the story? Oh yes, twisted ankle.’
Nemoy tried to stand up. This was not recommended, as indicated by the searing pain rushing through his body, and of which could not be overlooked.
‘Note to self: Do not attempt to stand up.’
Nemoy sat back, trying to make himself comfortable. It could be ages before anyone bothered to find out what he was up to.
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