Second chapter - I'm calling this 'War Games' for now
No duel yet... that will be next chapter.
During the next two weeks, Maladict learned the hard way what it meant to be the romantic rival of a rupert. Von Bazoukin didn’t stoop so low as to demote Maladict to private, but he found plenty of excuses to dock Maladict’s pay - as if anyone was getting paid in anything besides I.O.U.’s - and to give the vampire the most unpleasant tasks to be found in a company on the march. Maladict was constantly digging latrine pits, chopping wood, and worst of all, helping the wounded.
Maladict wouldn’t have minded helping the wounded, if she could have helped them from a safe distance. But von Bazoukin would have none of that. Mal had to change bandages and dress wounds, even hold a man still while his putrefied leg was being sawn off.
Maladict full well appreciated the idea that the wounded soldiers needed to be helped. What she did not appreciate was the blood. Blood stained her hands; blood crusted on her clothes… an eternal temptation for a reformed vampire.
Polly, of course, objected.
“You can’t treat him like this, sir! You have no idea what you’re doing! Do you want to have a bloodthirsty vampire on your hands?” She yelled at von Bazoukin. At this point, Polly’s own sanity was cracking, and she was losing control of her actions.
Von Bazoukin’s eyed glowed with malice. “’He’ should have thought of that when ‘he’ joined the army. How did ‘he’ imagine avoiding blood on a battlefield?”
As she heard the invented commas click into place in a speech pattern oddly reminiscent of Captain Blouse, and yet different in tone, Polly knew her cause was lost. Von Bazoukin knew Maladict was a woman. And in von Bazoukin’s book, losing to a woman was much worse than losing to a vampire.
Polly stormed off towards the infirmary tent.
“Mal?” She whispered in the doorway, knowing a vampire’s hearing would catch the lightest sound.
A figure in a white, bloodstained apron, with something of the butcher about her person, disentangled herself from a surgery table.
“We’ve lost another one. Just tidying up. I told Igor we need to cut, but he said wait another day, and now it’s too late.” The company’s Igor was not a genuine Igor with clan stitching and an ethnic speech impediment, just a common sawbones who’d taken up the name of Igor because it was good for business.
“Mal… how are you coping? I mean, the blood…”
Mal sat down on an empty bed. She took something from her pocket. A little pouch, filled with coffee beans. She raised the pouch to her mouth and poured some beans directly into her mouth, so as to avoid them touching her bloodied hands. Polly watched as Mal chewed them, wondering how many coffee beans a day counted as overdose.
When Mal was done chewing, she shrugged. “It’s… it’s still horrible. I thought I’d get used to it. Last night I came close to turning a dying soldier into a vampire, just to save his life. Or, I told myself I was going to save his life, but maybe it was the blood that called me.”
“But you didn’t do it. You overcame the temptation.”
“Only because he spoke a prayer to Nuggan. I thought to myself, if someone is still foolish enough to believe in that loser of a god, he probably couldn’t cope well with being an undead abomination.”
Polly leaned down and kissed Mal on the lips, softly. Mal’s breath smelled of coffee. Everything else in the tent smelled of blood.
“Come outside with me. Let’s take a walk.”
“I can’t. I’m not due a break until fourth watch. Von Bazoukin’s direct order.”
Maladict’s eyes were silently pleading for help.
“I’ll sort this out.” Polly promised her.
She walked outside, and found von Bazoukin playing Cripple Mr Onion with some of the men from the supply wagons.
“Sir, a word in private, if you please.”
Von Bazoukin looked towards his gambling partners as if to say, ‘see, the woman can’t get enough of me.’ Polly’s stomach felt tight with revulsion.
Von Bazoukin wrapped an arm around Polly’s shoulders as he led her away.
“You’ve come to apologize, have you?” He asked, leering. Polly fought the impulse to shrug off his invading arm.
“I’ve come to explain, sir. Or rather, to get an explanation from you. Why are you punishing Maladict alone? I am equally to blame.”
“I have deliberated on this decision, sergeant. You fill a valuable function in my company. I would rather not have you burdened by unnecessary duties. It is enough that I keep you away from your inappropriate entertainment.”
“Sir… may I speak to you for a moment as a woman, rather than a sergeant?” Polly asked in a sweet, guileless tone.
“If you must.”
“Do you ever really listen to that pompous horseshit you spout at every occasion?” Polly shrugged off his arm and finally felt like she could breathe free.
“I beg your pardon?” Von Bazoukin looked aghast.
“You heard me. You heard me just fine, on account of you being a werewolf. You try so hard to be a human being, an officer, even a gentleman, that you fail to take into account the most basic things. Army regulations are not the answer to every conceivable situation. You have to think outside the rules sometimes. You specifically requested to have me in your company. Well, I didn’t get famous by obeying every comma in the regulations. How about you listen to me for a chance, instead of ogle at me all the time? I don’t have the right shape of body to be ogled at, nor the right shape of mind.”
Von Bazoukin appeared, for a moment, to be choking on his own tongue. Then he roared - with laughter. He bent over double, laughing so hard it sounded painful. He finally straightened, and looked Polly in the eyes. “You’re a strange girl, Polly Perks. A strange girl indeed. Why aren’t you afraid of me?”
“Because you’re afraid of yourself, Charles von Bazoukin.”
He pulled her close, and attempted to kiss her.
Polly kneed him in the most painful part of his anatomy.
“Well?” Maladict was washing surgical implements in a bowl of water. The water was red. Polly was fairly sure surgery tools ought to be boiled. She made a mental note to mention this to Igor.
“It didn’t go well.” She told Mal what had happened.
Mal laughed aloud. “I should have liked to see that!”
Polly managed a wry grin. “He’ll be even worse now.”
Mal just grinned. “I don’t care anymore. Next time he gives me an order, I’ll tell him to stuff it where the sun doesn’t shine!”
“That place in Lancre? Kind of a long way to go…”
“Polly, I love your youthful innocence.”
“Oh… you meant like… oh gods. Is that wise?”
“No, but neither is this!” Mal raised something from the murky water. It was a saw. “I can’t take much longer on infirmary duty. I have to get out of here, somehow. I’m getting desperate.”
“I brought you some coffee.” Polly raised the cup.
“Lifesaver, blessed angel, light of my dark soul… gimme that coffee now!” Maladict reached for the cup and drained it in one go.
During the next two weeks, Maladict learned the hard way what it meant to be the romantic rival of a rupert. Von Bazoukin didn’t stoop so low as to demote Maladict to private, but he found plenty of excuses to dock Maladict’s pay - as if anyone was getting paid in anything besides I.O.U.’s - and to give the vampire the most unpleasant tasks to be found in a company on the march. Maladict was constantly digging latrine pits, chopping wood, and worst of all, helping the wounded.
Maladict wouldn’t have minded helping the wounded, if she could have helped them from a safe distance. But von Bazoukin would have none of that. Mal had to change bandages and dress wounds, even hold a man still while his putrefied leg was being sawn off.
Maladict full well appreciated the idea that the wounded soldiers needed to be helped. What she did not appreciate was the blood. Blood stained her hands; blood crusted on her clothes… an eternal temptation for a reformed vampire.
Polly, of course, objected.
“You can’t treat him like this, sir! You have no idea what you’re doing! Do you want to have a bloodthirsty vampire on your hands?” She yelled at von Bazoukin. At this point, Polly’s own sanity was cracking, and she was losing control of her actions.
Von Bazoukin’s eyed glowed with malice. “’He’ should have thought of that when ‘he’ joined the army. How did ‘he’ imagine avoiding blood on a battlefield?”
As she heard the invented commas click into place in a speech pattern oddly reminiscent of Captain Blouse, and yet different in tone, Polly knew her cause was lost. Von Bazoukin knew Maladict was a woman. And in von Bazoukin’s book, losing to a woman was much worse than losing to a vampire.
Polly stormed off towards the infirmary tent.
“Mal?” She whispered in the doorway, knowing a vampire’s hearing would catch the lightest sound.
A figure in a white, bloodstained apron, with something of the butcher about her person, disentangled herself from a surgery table.
“We’ve lost another one. Just tidying up. I told Igor we need to cut, but he said wait another day, and now it’s too late.” The company’s Igor was not a genuine Igor with clan stitching and an ethnic speech impediment, just a common sawbones who’d taken up the name of Igor because it was good for business.
“Mal… how are you coping? I mean, the blood…”
Mal sat down on an empty bed. She took something from her pocket. A little pouch, filled with coffee beans. She raised the pouch to her mouth and poured some beans directly into her mouth, so as to avoid them touching her bloodied hands. Polly watched as Mal chewed them, wondering how many coffee beans a day counted as overdose.
When Mal was done chewing, she shrugged. “It’s… it’s still horrible. I thought I’d get used to it. Last night I came close to turning a dying soldier into a vampire, just to save his life. Or, I told myself I was going to save his life, but maybe it was the blood that called me.”
“But you didn’t do it. You overcame the temptation.”
“Only because he spoke a prayer to Nuggan. I thought to myself, if someone is still foolish enough to believe in that loser of a god, he probably couldn’t cope well with being an undead abomination.”
Polly leaned down and kissed Mal on the lips, softly. Mal’s breath smelled of coffee. Everything else in the tent smelled of blood.
“Come outside with me. Let’s take a walk.”
“I can’t. I’m not due a break until fourth watch. Von Bazoukin’s direct order.”
Maladict’s eyes were silently pleading for help.
“I’ll sort this out.” Polly promised her.
She walked outside, and found von Bazoukin playing Cripple Mr Onion with some of the men from the supply wagons.
“Sir, a word in private, if you please.”
Von Bazoukin looked towards his gambling partners as if to say, ‘see, the woman can’t get enough of me.’ Polly’s stomach felt tight with revulsion.
Von Bazoukin wrapped an arm around Polly’s shoulders as he led her away.
“You’ve come to apologize, have you?” He asked, leering. Polly fought the impulse to shrug off his invading arm.
“I’ve come to explain, sir. Or rather, to get an explanation from you. Why are you punishing Maladict alone? I am equally to blame.”
“I have deliberated on this decision, sergeant. You fill a valuable function in my company. I would rather not have you burdened by unnecessary duties. It is enough that I keep you away from your inappropriate entertainment.”
“Sir… may I speak to you for a moment as a woman, rather than a sergeant?” Polly asked in a sweet, guileless tone.
“If you must.”
“Do you ever really listen to that pompous horseshit you spout at every occasion?” Polly shrugged off his arm and finally felt like she could breathe free.
“I beg your pardon?” Von Bazoukin looked aghast.
“You heard me. You heard me just fine, on account of you being a werewolf. You try so hard to be a human being, an officer, even a gentleman, that you fail to take into account the most basic things. Army regulations are not the answer to every conceivable situation. You have to think outside the rules sometimes. You specifically requested to have me in your company. Well, I didn’t get famous by obeying every comma in the regulations. How about you listen to me for a chance, instead of ogle at me all the time? I don’t have the right shape of body to be ogled at, nor the right shape of mind.”
Von Bazoukin appeared, for a moment, to be choking on his own tongue. Then he roared - with laughter. He bent over double, laughing so hard it sounded painful. He finally straightened, and looked Polly in the eyes. “You’re a strange girl, Polly Perks. A strange girl indeed. Why aren’t you afraid of me?”
“Because you’re afraid of yourself, Charles von Bazoukin.”
He pulled her close, and attempted to kiss her.
Polly kneed him in the most painful part of his anatomy.
“Well?” Maladict was washing surgical implements in a bowl of water. The water was red. Polly was fairly sure surgery tools ought to be boiled. She made a mental note to mention this to Igor.
“It didn’t go well.” She told Mal what had happened.
Mal laughed aloud. “I should have liked to see that!”
Polly managed a wry grin. “He’ll be even worse now.”
Mal just grinned. “I don’t care anymore. Next time he gives me an order, I’ll tell him to stuff it where the sun doesn’t shine!”
“That place in Lancre? Kind of a long way to go…”
“Polly, I love your youthful innocence.”
“Oh… you meant like… oh gods. Is that wise?”
“No, but neither is this!” Mal raised something from the murky water. It was a saw. “I can’t take much longer on infirmary duty. I have to get out of here, somehow. I’m getting desperate.”
“I brought you some coffee.” Polly raised the cup.
“Lifesaver, blessed angel, light of my dark soul… gimme that coffee now!” Maladict reached for the cup and drained it in one go.