EL: Lackland

	Leaning on the rail of river barge as it floated between fields of corn and wheat and beans, a man in the tough leather and brocade of a professional traveler stared back down more than two decades of his past and counted the faces of his dead. Last time he’d seen those fields, they had been ablaze from horizon to horizon in a vision of hell, and the clear rushing snow melt had been discolored with blood. It astonished him how many people he knew who had left their bones on the banks of this river. Forty or fifty, he couldn’t remember. Most of the people who had known him at that age. Even the river was different now, softer and gentler, it’s fury leeched by the complex system of canals and irrigation ditches feeding city and fields before it was allowed to pass on south.

	He kept his eyes on the western bank, not ready to face east. Saw the ripe fields abruptly terminate as they met the cleared ground already harvested and turned under to make ready for spring. Much of this year’s bounty was already held in the sprawl of granaries and stores that marked the edge of what the locals were calling the Holdfast these days. The Holdfast of the Order of Tyrnall, Lord of Battles. It was an armed camp built on the bleached bones of an older city, revitalized by the blood of heroes. Just like their scripture told, the cocksuckers. He’d known a lot of Tyrnallians, and the worst part was they were just what they said they were; true blue knights of justice and honor, the sword of faith and shield of the faithful. And other such-like crap, with a direct line of communication to a god whose domain was all those things; but mostly, his was a house of war.

	From his relative vantage on the upper deck, the red tile roofs of white stone houses spread out before him, each neighborhood clustered around a broad plaza dominated by the miniature fortresses of the local vigilry. Streets lined by food carts and vendors’ stalls bustled as the local populace went about their business, the crowds interspersed with open pockets centered by pairs or squads of patrolling armsmen. Neat and orderly, just how the Order of Tyrnall liked it; quiet, but not in a good way. Not the calm of a library, or sitting by the fire. It was the everything-in-its-place-or-else of a drunken father in the corridor, and laying still so he didn’t get the idea to come in and correct mistakes.

	Sick black rage of some unknown source held the man’s attention, so he  didn’t return the waves and calls of tradesmen and pregnant women pausing at the rails of bridges as the barge passed beneath; the arches so tight to the river he could smell the soap which had been used to scrub them, recently. They called out to bargemen and passengers with familiar faces, not the sun- and pain-scoured visage of a stranger who had last set foot in this country when it was an open battlefield. Recollection and sorrow, a vision in the clear water below him so vidid he could almost believe it had really been summoned for his viewing, held his attention until the craft’s blunt sides bumped a berth on the docks. Keeping his back to the other shore, he shouldered the heavy canvas bag that was his only luggage and made for the gangplank.

	Stepping onto the scrubbed flagstones of the docks close on the heels of a merchant and the big porter-thug at his shoulder, the traveler sidestepped to clear a path for the next passenger in line. Practiced eyes swept the dockyard, but he saw no flash of recognition in the faces he saw, nor the hopeful apprehension of anyone looking for someone fitting his description.

	“Alright, you bastard. Here I am.” Nothing answered his mutter except the usual run of chatter in a place of meetings, and the thump of cargo nets lifted from the barge being set in their place upon land. “Couldn’t send a page to see me through? Post a map?”

	Often regarded as a sign of insanity, he spoke to himself as a habit earned by long months and many miles alone on the road. It was his calling, to wander the world not as scout or pathfinder or companion, but walking his own way; especially in those places where there were no others with the gift of speech.

	“Fine. Fuck you, too. You’re not the only one who can carry a grudge or five.”

	Settling his bag on his shoulder, he stepped into a queue forming a straight line into the shadows of the customs house. Identical to the precinct vigilries it was, a castellated gray stone beast crouching amongst white brick. Each line was tended by spearmen in cheap hauberks, the sunbursts of Tyrnall in scuffed yellow paint on their centers-of-mass. Nothing wrong with their helmets or the shields slung on their backs, though, with sunbursts in polished brass; the forearm-length heads of their spears were conspicuously cared for, and gleamed with sharpness.

	Around the storehouse’s open walls, men with the red smocks and heavy muscles of laborers loaded and unloaded wagons lined up with empty traces; their over-garments were uniform, but each group wore a distinct style or color of cap, probably denoting some kind of team. Judging by the blowing and posturing that entered the work when two groups neared each other, there was some kind of teamsters’ competition to drive productivity. Each team also had two or three toughs in more cheap hauberks, apparently selected for size and ugliness. Instead of spears, they carried long hardwood staves, each end capped in iron and reinforced with the heads of nails.

	Of greatest interest of all were the four soldiers patrolling the dockside, their eyes on the far shore and the water itself. No expense spared there, each man’s chainmail was formed so tightly it rippled like silk, and the celestial icons at brow and breast winked with gold leaf. On their belts were the traditional seven-bladed morningstars of Tyrnallian armsmen, and in their gauntleted hands they held strictly non-traditional crossbows, steel arms bent to the ready and a heavy bolt seated in the groove. He could just imagine it, some gang of horrors exploding from the water to reap the day’s profits on the dockyard; snapshot missiles thinning the herd before war-loving cultists went to work with the looping slash-and-smash blows of cold iron.

	Looking the armsmen over, he almost -- almost -- looked to the far side of the river. Not yet though, he wasn’t ready for that. Seeing it from the high country, miles away, had been enough. As long as he was just keeping his place in line, shuffling ahead a few steps at a time, it was fine. No one to talk to, no moves to make, nobody had to get hurt. Even with a fist of Tyrnall’s finest between his back and there, it made the skin between his shoulder blades crawl.

	Snaking around one side of the customs house, the queue disappeared into the semi-gloom of crates and livestock. Everything was checked and recorded by white-shirted clerks armed with clipboards, their fingers and ears stained by sticks of charcoal, damp sweat seeping into the stains around their armpits. Even autumn’s gentler sun heated the corrugated steel roof to a low broil that cooked sweat and farts, oil and rotting hay into a familiar, chewy stench.

	Ah, civilization.

	He passed the time waiting on study of an enormous poster declaring, in six languages, those items which it was forbidden for nonSoldiers of Tyrnall to possess or import into the Holdfast. Some were understandable; a variety of implements specifically related to the casting of combat magics, blades of longer than a hand’s breadth. Others were downright strange, drawing a shake of his head in disbelief. Live mealworms? Dryad cuttings? Dragon’s semen, specifically ‘of sufficient concentration for imbibing’?

	Inspectors worked their way around nets and crates and cargo pallets, circlets of what looked like electrum on their brows. From each circlet hung an array of jointed arms, from which each depended a lens in a variety of size and color. When examining a suspect container, the inspector would peer through each in turn. Must be a slow day for contraband, since there was no hew and cry or overturning of luggage while he was present, and the inspectors seemed plenty bored. As did the one inspecting passengers and hand luggage.

	Giving a bland, friendly smile, the traveler stepped up in his turn, he and his bag quickly were swiftly checked over by a sequence of six lenses. All he carried were clothes, sundries, and some coins. He got a frown.

	“You show positive for weapons.”

	“Can’t help it.”

	“Extend your hands, please.”

	He set down his bag against one leg, then laid out his hands, palm up. Open and empty. Switching lenses again, the customs man harrumphed and made notes on his clipboard.

	“Crimson, grade six. Arms, legs... head.” Without the translucent barrier of glass, he squinted at the traveler with a furrowed brow. “Monastic?”

	A helpless shrug. “Used to be.”

	His world restored to order, the inspector nodded. “Very well. Pass along, friar. Be advised that you are considered armed as you stand, and fully subject to the Laws of Engagement.”

	“Yeah, sure.”

	“Be sure to examine the Laws in your visitor’s guide. Beyond grade four, you are considered an Armed Combatant at all times. Unarmed Exemption never applies.”

	“Grade four, eh?”

	“Combat grades are detailed in your visitor’s guide.” A moment’s relent. “Grades beyond four involve the use of magic, or in your case, Esoteric disciplines.”

	“You seem to know a lot about Monastics.”

	“I am a Soldier of Tyrnall. We know more than most about fighting.”

	“Fair enough.”

	Taking up his bag again, the traveler moved along to the stamp clerk’s desk. Proprietor of which didn’t even bother to look up.

	“Name and nation.”

	“Tyl Lackland, says it all.” He produced a sheaf of documents collected over the past years, and several just in the recent months, from a leather pouch on his belt.

	Taking the documents, the clerk opened them but didn’t bother to read them. Instead he glanced to one side, towards a mountainous blond in glittering plate armor stood at parade rest, a visored helm under one arm. The mountain stared, scowling in a habitual way.

	Tyl returned a faint smile. It had been a long span of years since he’d learned to circumvent the truthsense of a Tyrnallian knight of far higher station than a knight-attendant just out of his novitiate; which was exactly the kind who got stuck with shit work like checkpoint verifications.

	Not that it mattered, since as usual he was telling the truth. Tyl was the name he’d gone by in the days before he’d wound up in the light-forsaken mess that was Sothfala, now the Holdfast. Lackland was the appellation given him by the Tyrnallians themselves, being the type of society where only criminals and bastards went by a single name. Which made it appropriate for him to go by just simple Tyl on both counts, but let that go.

	“Welcome to the Holdfast, Freeman Lackland. I see here that you are Armed, grade six. Impressive, for an incommunicant. Monastic?”

	“Retired.”

	“Ah, very well.” More notes made on what seemed to be a rapidly growing profile. “Current occupation?”

	“Nothing particular. Business, traveling.”

	“Uncommon to see an Armed Combatant making a career in sales. What’s your line?”

	“Wholesale weights and measures.” Must be something in the air, making him silly. The air outside. “Beware, lest ye be weighed and found wanting, know what I mean?”

	The knight twitched one eyebrow, just fractionally. The clerk sounded less impressed than the warrior looked. “Duration and purpose of your visit?”

	“Few days, maybe a week or so. I’ve come to see my brother.”

	“Ah. Your brother’s name?”

	Might be worth telling the truth again, Tyl figured.

	“Sir Galen of Jarethogan Bluff, Knight-Champion of the Order of Tyrnall, Lord of Battles. Also a bunch of other shit I can’t recall.” The clerk’s charcoal pencil was three parts and dusting of powder between his white knuckles. “And it’s probably ‘Lord-Legendary’, now, rather’n Champion. Cocksucker could never hold a job.”

	His scowl having vanished into blank astonishment, the knight shifted his weight with the metallic rustle of well-tended armor. Reaching for a new pencil, the clerk swept charcoal dust from his papers, smearing them. “Oh, very funny.”

	“You say so.”

	“Your brother’s name?”

	“Ask the big ‘un.”

	Turning, mouth opening, the clerk froze when he saw the knight’s expression. Which had moved on from amazement to naked, hostile suspicion. “Our Lord hears no lie.”

	Still agape, the clerk turned back to Tyl. “Your brother is the Champion?”

	“That a problem?” Another helpless shrug. He was making a lot of those today. “Other’n for our mother?”

	“I, ah, don’t know...”

	That mountain was getting awful close for Tyl’s comfort, edging forward like a glacier with ice-blue eyes. Or maybe it was his imagination. “You claim to be the brother of Tyrnall’s Champion?”

	“I ain’t in the habit of repeating myself.”

	“The Champion has no brother.” Half-turning away, the knight raised one steel-clad hand with finger extended, summoning a liveried page. They spoke in tones too low for Tyl to hear in the hubbub of the customs house, and reading lips was tough in the gloom. The page left the customs house with the overquick stride and tilt-forward posture of someone about to break into a sprint once out of sight.

	Tyl pushed a sigh through his teeth. “So alright, let’s go.”

	Mouth flapping a bit, the clerk looked blank. “I’m sorry?”

	“There some law against family visits? Some damned tax to pay? Do I need a dispensation from the friggin’ Justiciar?”

	“Well, um, no-”

	“Then stamp my fuckin’ papers, huh? It stinks in here.”

	“Freeman Lackland.” That mountain of Tyrnallian meat and steel loomed over his shoulder. “Soldiers of Tyrnall are treated with courtesy. And respect.”

	“Oh, that so?” Like the ghost of twenty five years possessed him, Tyl showed his teeth to eyes as empty as a midwinter sky. “Sorry. Please stamp my fuckin’ papers.”

	“Freeman Lackland,” the knight’s voice, failing to contain the growl of threat, quiet enough that Tyl could hear the grate of articulated gauntlets as fists were clenched. “You are armed as you stand, and your behavior constitutes a lawful challenge. Must I answer?”

	Leaking back into him like cold through stone, the second half of Tyl’s life reasserted itself. “No. I apologize. To both of you.” He said it to the floor, even at his age unable to back down from a fight while holding the other man’s gaze.

	In his peripheral vision, the knight glowered as he awaited for some further explanation or excuse. “You apologize.”

	“Yeah.” With love and kisses, his younger self snarled, but Tyl kept his gaze below the level of the knight’s chin.

	Drawing in a breath, the knight held it. Then released. “Accepted.”

	“May I go now?”

	Raising his hand again, the knight summoned another page. “Take the freeman’s belongings into custody.”

	“Hey-”

	“Freeman Lackland.” Opening his hand, the knight directed Tyl’s gaze to a nearby iron door, standing ajar. Beyond it, more iron doors, all closed, each with a head high judas gate. “Wait within. The page will direct you.”

	“My papers-”

	“You will not need them.”

	“I said I was sorry-”

	“And your apology was accepted. Wait within.”

	“Am I under arrest?”

	With an inclination of his very young, very blond head, “If it pleases you.”

	“For what?”

	“Because it is my prerogative to declare you so, freeman.” His face could have been carved from the same stone as the wall against which he had earlier stood. “As an armed combatant, it is your right under the Laws of Engagement to offer challenge to my authority. Should you wish to make such a challenge, a sanctified arena awaits through yonder archway.”

	“Are you fu-? Uh, you’re not.”

	“The matter can also be settled here and now. You need only strike.”

	“Strike.” Tyl narrowed his eyes. That was something new indeed.

	Stretching his features minutely, the knight’s bland smile never rose to the temperate zone south of his arctic eyes. “If I have overstepped, Tyrnall will favor your cause. Our Lord of Battles is also Lord of Justice.”

	“Well. It’s a swell theory.”

	The cell was just as immaculate as the rest of the city. A well oiled iron door, built-out brick benches with comfortable pillows. A wide, barred window that let in some noise of street traffic and a cool autumn breeze. In one corner, a polished brass chamberpot, and opposite that a table with cups and beaker of water, as well as a plate of dried fruit, nuts, and a selection of cheeses.

	“Nicest place I ever been locked up.”