EL: Refusal

	Standing at the town’s well, around which the low houses and shops sprawled with the usual disorder of spontaneous construction, Knight Vikor tipped a basin of blood-pinked water into the mud and refilled it from the rope-leashed bucket on the stone lip. Some peasant hunter had been lucky or good enough to slip a broadhead into the gap under his left arm during the battle, and now his padded jack and undershirt were soaked red. Staining was no issue, since the fabric of both garments was already adorned with past wounds and sweat. But unlike those and the well-sewn patches, a crust of blood might restrict his off-hand’s movement if allowed to remain.

	So he crouched over the basin again, scrubbing the clothes against each other with a brisk efficiency that showed no hitch or pain from what had been his punctured side. The scratch of rough cloth against itself was nearly loud, seeming to echo from the shuttered buildings to each side, even over the sound of talk and clattering from the tavern his men had appropriated as a mess hall. He was nearly satisfied with his progress when a figure stepped between his perch and the lowering sun, casting a shadow despite the subdued gleam of armor plate at his shoulders.

	“Knight Vikor?” It was an older voice, rough and hoarse from long days eating road dust and years of shouting orders across the field.

	Shading his eyes, Vikor squinted against the glare until an unfamiliar face dusted with grey stubble resolved itself. Getting long in the tooth for a cross-country march, but his weathered skin still had its firmness, and the breastplate fit well across broad shoulders and chest, without giving way over the gut. Fully armored, with a morningstar on his belt, the man was caked from the waist down in the fine red powder which characterized the roads east of the river. Rising to his full height, the younger and very likely junior knight offered a gesture of respect. “You have the advantage of me.”

	“What I have,” the stranger said, stepping to one side and picking up the bucket with one mailed fist on its rim, “is a powerful thirst. Your pardon.” So saying, he tipped back the half-emptied vessel and poured a significant portion of it down his face and front, though enough went into his open mouth to be serviceable. Vikor waited without impatience; he knew as well as any Knight of Tyrnall that just because they could run in harness over long distances, and were sworn to carry it with their own strength, that did not make them immune to heat or exertion.

	 “Ah, better.” Spitting and blowing, the knight accepted Vikor’s offer of a rough cloth and wiped his face. “My apologies, Knight Vikor. I am Girkild, Knight Trebon, formerly of the Riverdocks Parish and now seconded to the Knights-Venturer. My orders are to hold authority over this town once you have determined it to be suitably pacified. The Knight-Commander intends this to be a supply depot for forces in this area, and thought my experience with commerce suited me well to the position.”

	Picking up his sopping clothes, Vikor wrung them to buy time to think, ordering his thoughts. Holding the shirt up in the light, he hung it from the eave of the well’s cover and reached for the padded jack. “We came in with morning’s light, yesterday. They refused submission. We gave them the night to reconsider, and this morning they offered battle.” Clean and proper as the report was, both of them knew what that meant; a brief flurry of bloodshed as Vikor and his armsmen charged a mob of farmers with iron tools, the knight inserting himself into the thickest part of the line where his seven-bladed morningstar would wreak the most havoc. Wishing momentarily for a strong drink, he picked up his spare shirt, warm and dry, from the well’s lip and pulled it on.

	“They broke but did not surrender. We captured some on the field, those are being held in a cattle stockade. Others made for the woods south of here. Most of the women and children had no time to escape and are confined to their homes; they have offered only token resistance so far. I have established a curfew and foot patrols within the town, and mounted patrols for the open ground without.”

	While he spoke, a column of men under the golden sunburst banner rode in at a sedate walk, dismounting their horses and immediately setting about untacking them. Some of Vikor’s own soldiers came out to greet them, giving rise to boisterous laughter and horseplay. Bottles of liquor were in evidence, though the briefest of glances confirmed that none were in the hands of men dressed for duty. Two women were brought out as well, treated roughly with hands and words alike as the tattered remains of their dresses displayed full breasts and shapely hips. They were a pair in a category of many in this town, turned over as spoils to serve and sate the soldiers of Tyrnall. Armsmen were the sons of warriors and tradesmen, not expected to uphold all the strictures applied to men like Vikor and Girkild; and even the laws of Tyrnall relaxed outside the Holdfast, in the lands not yet under authority.

	“Very well,” Girkild said, interjecting into Vikor’s distracted pause as he turned to see what had drawn the younger man’s attention. “My men will take over the patrol schedule at first watch, at which time your company will be able to stand down and take on provisions. I saw the fields had been harvested already.”

	“Fortuitous timing. They were gathering for a festival when we arrived. I think it might have been the advantage of numbers that bolstered their courage.” Leaving his clothes where they hung to dry, Vikor hefted his tightly bundled armor in one hand. With his own strength, a blessing from God. “Your pardon, Knight Trebon. If you plan to take the town in hand in the morning, I would like to avail myself of the privileges of rank.”

	“But of course.” Chuckling, Girkild raised his hands as if in benediction. “Go forth, Knight, and serve Him well. I was young once.”

	“I’ll send a man to you with the schedule, and he will be the one to speak with your adjutant.” With a deep nod, Vikor backed and turned to join the throng around the tavern.