One more from the archive.
Thursday, March 13th, 2003 12:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
caddymanSuch was the clamour for more, that I have ignored it and posted more anyway.
Apart from which, it's only roitting away on the old hard drive. May as well air it. This is a direct continuation of the previous Mort snippet.
The Sgt Major's dialogue is perhaps a little less forced in this one. Or not.
The Duellist (Part 2)
or
Return of the Son of the Bride of the Duellist.
Sergeant Major d'Anglie winced. Monsieur Malanders, Barber-Surgeon to the 13th Fusiliers advanced toward his charge with a fresh bottle of Friar Balsam's Patented Wound Sterilizer (Contains 100% Après Rasage). His first attempt had ended in failure and the shattered remnants of the bottle lay in the corner of the room, the spilt contents slowly corroding the floorboards. "Who'd have thought that the Major could have landed one on you of all people, Sergeant." He ventured unhelpfully. D'Anglie looked at him through fevered eyes, "Haydn one-two thin cardboard tit. If hewed-oat mind." Malanders smiled in sympathetic incomprehension and applied a double measure of lotion to his patient's wounded chest.
He awoke several hours later, crumpled under the bed, his head throbbing. D'Anglie was no where to be seen.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Mort sat in his garret looking wistfully at the mangled remains of his book harness. Sergeant d'Anglie had assured him that he bore Mort no ill will for the accident last month, but whilst Mort had been stowing his protective jerkin after the lesson, the sergeant major had had a further inexplicable accident involving the harness which was now irreparable. Still, Mort consoled himself; at least he'd managed to get some practice in. The question now was how to build on that start and begin to improve. Mort watched his reflection in the mirror peel a particularly scabrous bandage off its poorly shaved face. "Ow!" He squealed. His reflection looked silently and accusingly back at him.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Sergeant d'Anglie paced up and down in his room for what seemed the millionth time since he'd discharged himself from the surgeon's care. There was something about the Major, which precluded clear and rational thought in a man. The pain in his chest, however, had served to clear d'Anglie's mind: With any other novice, he would have used the wooden practice rapiers on the grass lawn behind the barracks. Why, oh, why hadn't he thought of this before? D'Anglie blushed at his own stupidity and sat down feeling just a smidgen more contented than he had in a while.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Mort picked up the copy of Hackenzlay's book, Pointillism in Three Dimensionnes: A Swordsman's Guide and studied it. If he could memorise the woodcuts in order, perhaps he might yet redeem himself in the eyes of the fearsome and incomprehensible sergeant major. Mort squinted, straightened his spectacles and looked at the first page, Woodcut number one: En Repose, Woodcut number two: En Garde, number three: parry, number four, riposte and so on and on.
Mort sat on the edge of his bed and chanted the sequence like a litany. As he continued, he became aware of an almost hypnotic rhythm developing: "...rest, parry, rest, parry, rest, rest, rest. Lunge, parry, lunge, parry, rest, rest, riposte..." Mort stopped. He looked at the bespectacled and colourful figure watching him uncertainly from his mirror. They grinned at each other and give a little jig of delight. "Eureka!" cried Mort, "That's it!"
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Sergeant Major d'Anglie rubbed his chest absentmindedly. In a few minutes, the Major would be reporting for his second lesson. "It's up to me," he thought, "to ensure that we make enough progress to convince the Major that we don't need to bother with a third session. It's not as if he needs to duel much anyway. I hope."
Lost in his thoughts, d'Anglie picked up the necessary equipment and prepared to walk the few yards to the practice lawn.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
In a much cheerier frame of mind, Mort strode briskly across the courtyard, leaving behind a couple of bemused regimental bandsmen to wonder just how they'd got mixed up in one of the Major's little schemes and which of their misdemeanours the Recording Angel had passed on for retribution. If only they'd been somewhere, anywhere else. It was particularly irksome because if you told anyone you'd met an officer in the barracks outside the campaign season they simply wouldn't believe you.
Mort clapped his hands together in an attempt to keep the blood circulating. As he marched round onto the parade ground, he kicked loose snow into little clouds and practised blowing condensation rings into the icy air. This plan would work; no one, least of all, Mort would get hurt. Even discounting the back-up he'd arranged, this plan involved no cumbrous devices or weighty tomes. It was beautiful: a feat of dexterity and memory only. Sergeant d'Anglie was going to be proud.
The irony of it all was totally lost on him.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
On the practice lawn, Sergeant Major d'Anglie had just finished overseeing a couple of new recruits whose misfortune it had been to clear the snow away. D'Anglie was damned if he was going to let the weather postpone this meeting . He drew his rapier and performed a short, but surprisingly graceful, routine consisting of a few experimental slices, jabs and lunges to help him to warm up.
"Wotcha, Sarge!" a familiar and strangely irritating voice squeaked out across the lawn. The baroque figure of Major d'Arthur approached; coming into full view as he skirted around the low piles of cleared snow. "Good heifer noon, Sah! Aim juiced abbot red-defer Hugh!" d'Anglie came to attention. "Sorry about your chest, Sergeant Major. It was an accident, you know. I hope that we'll be able to get on a bit better this time." Mort ventured, his enthusiasm tempered with not a little trepidation. "Aim fain, Sah! Bud aid knot wish tube-eerie minded a boat it quoit-sew off tensor!" "Quite." Thought Mort to himself.
Sergeant d'Anglie donned his protective jerkin and helped Mort into his. Having satisfied himself that even the most freakish of accidents couldn't possibly prove fatal, d'Anglie drew his rapier and stood back, "Rate, Sah! Lest rye one's moor, shell we? Hen Guard!" he dropped easily into his fighting stance like the seasoned veteran he was. "Ewer tack," he said, "Aisled effendi gains chew."
Mort drew his own rapier, "En Garde, yourself, Sergeant!" He stooped into what he fancied was a close imitation of Sergeant d'Anglie's posture. More accurately, however, he looked like someone who'd put his britches on backwards and discovered the house keys in the back pocket.
Mort closed his eyes, "Rest, parry, rest, parry, rest, rest, rest. Lunge, parry, lunge, parry, rest, rest, thrust." It was d'Anglie's turn to boggle. In an almost trance-like state, Mort continued, "Rest, parry, rest, parry, rest, rest, rest. Lunge, parry, lunge, parry, rest, rest, thrust." It was almost hypnotic and d'Anglie fancied that he could hear drums: 'Rat-tat-a-rat-tat-a-rat-tat-tat. Lunge, parry, lunge, parry, rest, rest, thrust.' For all his movement, the major hadn't got a single step closer and was still no where near touching his instructor. D'Anglie stuck his rapier in the ground, took out his tobacco pouch and lit his pipe. 'Rat-tat-a-rat-tat-a-rat-tat-tat. Lunge, parry, lunge, parry, rest, rest, thrust.' The noise got louder as the sergeant got more perplexed. Mort was now in full flow, eyes tight shut, chanting his absurd doggerel and jerking around like a possessed Egyptian sand dancer.
"Wot the 'ell's 'e doin'?" a voice came from behind; Sergeant d'Anglie spun round. There stood two bemused bandsmen beating out the rhythm that he'd fancied was in his imagination. Mort continued to cavort and was slowly wandering some distance across the field.
It was too much. Something in d'Anglie snapped. "That sit! Ache wit!" He punted his pipe over the guardhouse and stormed off. The drummers stopped. Mort opened his eyes. "Did I win?" he ventured hopefully.
The two bandsmen looked at each other then at Mort. They turned to look at the retreating figure of the Sergeant Major and finally looked at each other again. "Now there's something you don't see every day."
Apart from which, it's only roitting away on the old hard drive. May as well air it. This is a direct continuation of the previous Mort snippet.
The Sgt Major's dialogue is perhaps a little less forced in this one. Or not.
The Duellist (Part 2)
or
Return of the Son of the Bride of the Duellist.
Sergeant Major d'Anglie winced. Monsieur Malanders, Barber-Surgeon to the 13th Fusiliers advanced toward his charge with a fresh bottle of Friar Balsam's Patented Wound Sterilizer (Contains 100% Après Rasage). His first attempt had ended in failure and the shattered remnants of the bottle lay in the corner of the room, the spilt contents slowly corroding the floorboards. "Who'd have thought that the Major could have landed one on you of all people, Sergeant." He ventured unhelpfully. D'Anglie looked at him through fevered eyes, "Haydn one-two thin cardboard tit. If hewed-oat mind." Malanders smiled in sympathetic incomprehension and applied a double measure of lotion to his patient's wounded chest.
He awoke several hours later, crumpled under the bed, his head throbbing. D'Anglie was no where to be seen.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Mort sat in his garret looking wistfully at the mangled remains of his book harness. Sergeant d'Anglie had assured him that he bore Mort no ill will for the accident last month, but whilst Mort had been stowing his protective jerkin after the lesson, the sergeant major had had a further inexplicable accident involving the harness which was now irreparable. Still, Mort consoled himself; at least he'd managed to get some practice in. The question now was how to build on that start and begin to improve. Mort watched his reflection in the mirror peel a particularly scabrous bandage off its poorly shaved face. "Ow!" He squealed. His reflection looked silently and accusingly back at him.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Sergeant d'Anglie paced up and down in his room for what seemed the millionth time since he'd discharged himself from the surgeon's care. There was something about the Major, which precluded clear and rational thought in a man. The pain in his chest, however, had served to clear d'Anglie's mind: With any other novice, he would have used the wooden practice rapiers on the grass lawn behind the barracks. Why, oh, why hadn't he thought of this before? D'Anglie blushed at his own stupidity and sat down feeling just a smidgen more contented than he had in a while.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Mort picked up the copy of Hackenzlay's book, Pointillism in Three Dimensionnes: A Swordsman's Guide and studied it. If he could memorise the woodcuts in order, perhaps he might yet redeem himself in the eyes of the fearsome and incomprehensible sergeant major. Mort squinted, straightened his spectacles and looked at the first page, Woodcut number one: En Repose, Woodcut number two: En Garde, number three: parry, number four, riposte and so on and on.
Mort sat on the edge of his bed and chanted the sequence like a litany. As he continued, he became aware of an almost hypnotic rhythm developing: "...rest, parry, rest, parry, rest, rest, rest. Lunge, parry, lunge, parry, rest, rest, riposte..." Mort stopped. He looked at the bespectacled and colourful figure watching him uncertainly from his mirror. They grinned at each other and give a little jig of delight. "Eureka!" cried Mort, "That's it!"
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Sergeant Major d'Anglie rubbed his chest absentmindedly. In a few minutes, the Major would be reporting for his second lesson. "It's up to me," he thought, "to ensure that we make enough progress to convince the Major that we don't need to bother with a third session. It's not as if he needs to duel much anyway. I hope."
Lost in his thoughts, d'Anglie picked up the necessary equipment and prepared to walk the few yards to the practice lawn.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
In a much cheerier frame of mind, Mort strode briskly across the courtyard, leaving behind a couple of bemused regimental bandsmen to wonder just how they'd got mixed up in one of the Major's little schemes and which of their misdemeanours the Recording Angel had passed on for retribution. If only they'd been somewhere, anywhere else. It was particularly irksome because if you told anyone you'd met an officer in the barracks outside the campaign season they simply wouldn't believe you.
Mort clapped his hands together in an attempt to keep the blood circulating. As he marched round onto the parade ground, he kicked loose snow into little clouds and practised blowing condensation rings into the icy air. This plan would work; no one, least of all, Mort would get hurt. Even discounting the back-up he'd arranged, this plan involved no cumbrous devices or weighty tomes. It was beautiful: a feat of dexterity and memory only. Sergeant d'Anglie was going to be proud.
The irony of it all was totally lost on him.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
On the practice lawn, Sergeant Major d'Anglie had just finished overseeing a couple of new recruits whose misfortune it had been to clear the snow away. D'Anglie was damned if he was going to let the weather postpone this meeting . He drew his rapier and performed a short, but surprisingly graceful, routine consisting of a few experimental slices, jabs and lunges to help him to warm up.
"Wotcha, Sarge!" a familiar and strangely irritating voice squeaked out across the lawn. The baroque figure of Major d'Arthur approached; coming into full view as he skirted around the low piles of cleared snow. "Good heifer noon, Sah! Aim juiced abbot red-defer Hugh!" d'Anglie came to attention. "Sorry about your chest, Sergeant Major. It was an accident, you know. I hope that we'll be able to get on a bit better this time." Mort ventured, his enthusiasm tempered with not a little trepidation. "Aim fain, Sah! Bud aid knot wish tube-eerie minded a boat it quoit-sew off tensor!" "Quite." Thought Mort to himself.
Sergeant d'Anglie donned his protective jerkin and helped Mort into his. Having satisfied himself that even the most freakish of accidents couldn't possibly prove fatal, d'Anglie drew his rapier and stood back, "Rate, Sah! Lest rye one's moor, shell we? Hen Guard!" he dropped easily into his fighting stance like the seasoned veteran he was. "Ewer tack," he said, "Aisled effendi gains chew."
Mort drew his own rapier, "En Garde, yourself, Sergeant!" He stooped into what he fancied was a close imitation of Sergeant d'Anglie's posture. More accurately, however, he looked like someone who'd put his britches on backwards and discovered the house keys in the back pocket.
Mort closed his eyes, "Rest, parry, rest, parry, rest, rest, rest. Lunge, parry, lunge, parry, rest, rest, thrust." It was d'Anglie's turn to boggle. In an almost trance-like state, Mort continued, "Rest, parry, rest, parry, rest, rest, rest. Lunge, parry, lunge, parry, rest, rest, thrust." It was almost hypnotic and d'Anglie fancied that he could hear drums: 'Rat-tat-a-rat-tat-a-rat-tat-tat. Lunge, parry, lunge, parry, rest, rest, thrust.' For all his movement, the major hadn't got a single step closer and was still no where near touching his instructor. D'Anglie stuck his rapier in the ground, took out his tobacco pouch and lit his pipe. 'Rat-tat-a-rat-tat-a-rat-tat-tat. Lunge, parry, lunge, parry, rest, rest, thrust.' The noise got louder as the sergeant got more perplexed. Mort was now in full flow, eyes tight shut, chanting his absurd doggerel and jerking around like a possessed Egyptian sand dancer.
"Wot the 'ell's 'e doin'?" a voice came from behind; Sergeant d'Anglie spun round. There stood two bemused bandsmen beating out the rhythm that he'd fancied was in his imagination. Mort continued to cavort and was slowly wandering some distance across the field.
It was too much. Something in d'Anglie snapped. "That sit! Ache wit!" He punted his pipe over the guardhouse and stormed off. The drummers stopped. Mort opened his eyes. "Did I win?" he ventured hopefully.
The two bandsmen looked at each other then at Mort. They turned to look at the retreating figure of the Sergeant Major and finally looked at each other again. "Now there's something you don't see every day."
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