Leroy's Writing Space

It was going badly.

As I sat hunched over, in a filthy back alley, I decided to reflect on some of my most recent life decisions. It did not make for happy reading.

I was in the Kingdom of Baulrus. That was a bad start. Stinking, stupid, pointless Baulrus. You didn’t go to Baulrus, you ended up there. Chased out of the civilised world, I had washed up with the desperate and unwanted in a city, inappropriately named Haven.

Haven was enjoying a golden age of inadequacy. Muddy roads. Boarded up windows. Vacant people with vacant stares. There was a hopelessness to everything they did. That was the poor quarter at least. I never saw the rich and they most certainly never saw me. Not back then, at least.

A miserable place for miserable people. They were especially miserable to me.  

“What ya doing showing yer filthy face around here?”

Someone had found my sanctuary. A rather surly someone, who poked my chest with a long shovel. I guessed him to be a labourer of some kind. I got to my feet as he shared some more of his worldly musings.    

“Why don’t ya and all yer lot go straight to hell?”

He prodded me again.

A master in the art of diplomacy, I prepared my response.

“I had it with your wife last night.”

He gave up the chase after a few streets.

A lot of people thought they could mess with me, and they were right. What they underestimated, however, was how fast I could run. Having lost the shovel wielding bandit, I ducked into another alleyway to catch my breath. I had half a moment respite before another well-wisher marched up to me.

“What’s an ugly Feral like you doin’ around here?” he barked. His breath smelled like something had died in it. “Why don’t you go back to where you belong?”

This was a request I got often, which was inconvenient as I wasn’t quite sure I belonged anywhere. Popular opinion seemed to suggest that, wherever I was, I belonged somewhere else.   

“I’m not here to cause any trouble,” I gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. He glared at the offending hand, then at me. I smiled. “Just looking for work, don’t you know?”

My new friend pushed me backwards and spat at my feet. He then turned about and stomped off to brighten up someone else’s day.   

I watched him go.

As you may have guessed, I was a Feral. It wasn’t an easy life. The sharp teeth, hunched back and pale skin had never endeared us to the public conscious. Everyone takes one look at you and gets it in their head that you’re some kind of untrustworthy cutthroat.

It’s an unflattering commentary, and I pondered the injustice of it as I went through the second fellow’s purse. He had a few coins, which I donated to a nearby tavern. The purse was dumped in a gutter for safekeeping.

The nearby tavern, which I patroned, wasn’t particularly clean. They never were, not the ones I used. In my experience, the grubbier the better. The poorer the barkeep, the less picky he is about the cliental. On that basis, this sticky, odorous place, promised to be a multicultural beacon of tolerance.   

It was the middle of the day and there were roughly five other people to share the space. After ignoring me for half an hour, the barkeep finally muttered an offer of commerce.

“Your strongest, thanks,” I answered.  

He nodded, and returned with a mug of water, flavoured by several wayward drops of cheap beer. It occurred to me, as I sipped at my lunch, that I really hated these people. It wasn’t because they were all petty, pathetic, obnoxious jerks, though that certainly didn’t help. It was the double standard that really wrinkled my feelings. Left to their own devices, they wandered through life in a total daze, like puppets, patiently waiting for someone to cut the strings. When they came across someone like me, however, they immediately grew a spine, a set of horns and went about ruining my day.

It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t they bully someone else? 

As I mentioned, the place was almost empty. There was some company though, which included a pair of teenagers. The boy was a sandy blond, the girl a redhead. They were in each other’s arms.  Apparently, they hadn’t gotten the memo about state-imposed misery. They seemed quite content, in fact, whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears and giggling. 

It made me think of my first love. We met in a brothel. I gave her my heart and she gave me a bill. These guys had a better arrangement. The spell wasn’t even broken when they noticed me noticing. I stared bitterly into my mug.

Why couldn’t I have something like that?

I let them be and staggered out into the street. Almost immediately, I ran into an old friends’ fist.

“You bastard!” It was that second fellow from before. He had some mates with him, who generously held me in place, so their friend could knock me down. I felt blood trickle down my chin. “You took my purse, didn’t you!”   

“Dunno about that,” I was hauled to my feet. “You probably just dropped it somewhere in the gutter. Maybe you could let me go and I’ll help you look for it?” 

He declined my kind offer by breaking my nose.

“Where is it!?” he roared. He rattled me backwards and forwards. “Where is it!?”

“Where’s what?”

“You bastard!” he punched me in the gut. “Where is it!? Where is it!?”

“Where’s what?”

This intellectual joust continued for a while. It eventually dawned on them that the money was gone and hitting my face, however satisfying, would not grant them the monetary compensation they believed themselves entitled to. 

Accordingly, they gave up and dumped me in a ditch. As I lay there, marinating in my own blood and teeth, it occurred to me that my life wasn’t exactly working out.

To be honest, I didn’t have any plan that extended beyond my next meal, and something to wash it down with, but I’m sure that if I did have a plan, it wouldn’t involve several broken ribs and a ringing sensation in my left ear.

Things needed to change. I needed a new line of work.  

It seemed a pity to leave behind the family business of petty theft. My father had tried his hand at thievery, and while that hand was eventually cut off, it did introduce me to a new and interesting world where I could make a day’s wages from someone else’s pocket.   

“They only have one set of eyes,” my dad would say, “just the one, and the eyes gotta be looking the same way too. Get them looking one place, and they won’t be looking the other.”

It was the first, and last, piece of good advice my father would give me. A lifetime of practice and I had the technique down pat. With great dedication, I hadn’t worked an honest day in my life.

That said, my luck would eventually run out. There were so many beatings a Feral could take. Worse still, if I was less than careful, I might end up like my Uncle Breen. He tried to pull the wedding ring off a council official. The ring was too tight, and all he ended up doing was giving the councilman an awkward handshake.

The next day he was morris dancing at the end of a rope.

A new job, then.

I contemplated what skills I had to offer. This got me nowhere, as I didn’t have any skills. Not for legitimate work, at least. I couldn’t read or write back then. Times, however, were desperate. I’d been in Haven for half a day and had already made two enemies for life. This kind of efficiency was going to get me killed. I went for a stroll in the slum, seeking inspiration. To my own surprise, I actually found it.

In the middle of the muddy street was a scuffle, a rather one sided one at that. A group of peasants were having their heads smashed in by a band of thugs, each dressed in a black tunic, with leather belts and cross straps. They wielded wooden clubs.

Enforcers, the watchdogs of the tyrant Lord Magnus, ruler of Baulrus.

I had heard of these merry fellows. They wandered far and wide, knocking people about. Sometimes they did it because you broke the law. Sometimes they needed to remind you where you stood in the great hierarchy of life. Other times still, they were just bored.    

Whichever the offense, the punishment was always the same.   

“Mercy!” cried one unfortunate. An enforcer was working a pretty decent rhythm on his stomach. “I won’t do it again!”

“I know you won’t,” said the enforcer. This loathsome individual was a Feral. He had the moral constitution of a rat and the face to go with it. By the looks of it, he was the leader of this motley crew. That got my attention. He bared his jagged teeth. “Now sit still.”

The pounding continued.

I watched it continue. I wasn’t the only one. People watched, from behind their curtains and from down the street. They didn’t look pleased, but no one moved to intervene.

It was a peculiar sight, to see a dozen enforcers maim a group about twice their size, while the locals all stood around and watched. None of these wretched people wanted to stick their necks out. At least they were sensible.

I would later discover that during the ‘happy days’ there would be a protest of this nature about once a fortnight. They were usually suppressed by the enforcers trademarked brutality and forced underground. A while later, they would pop up again and the dance would continue. It had been this way for a while.   

Seeing this struggle, between dissenter and authority, something stirred within me. A feeling as I had never felt before. I saw the chance to make a difference, to be part of something greater. I threw caution to the wind. I couldn’t hold back.  

I marched towards the scuffle, with purpose in my stride. The enforcer leader, who had a scrawny youth in a headlock, watched me approach. His eyes narrowed in an unspoken challenge.

I stood my ground, puffed out my chest and in a clear voice called:

“Do you guys have any openings?”

#

They did.

The enforcer leader, in between bouts of violence, directed me towards the enforcer HQ, near the city centre.

Luckily for me, the enforcers were suffering from severe recruitment shortages. Seven enforcers had mysteriously disappeared the previous month. These conditions were ideal for short, gangly fellows like myself to serve in the military as something other than a broom.  

With buoyed spirits, I made my way through town. It was unusual, feeling this good. I couldn’t help it. The prestige of a job I didn’t have yet had taken hold, consumed me.

I was now almost one with the state.

This meant, of course, I could never be part of the common herd again. To throw your lot in with Magnus, to become an enforcer, was to be branded for life, so I heard. It meant I would never again be able to walk amongst my fellow man.

I thought hard on this matter. Should I go to the enforcer HQ by Baker Street and sell my soul, or should I go the long way around by Lillian’s Way? I went with Baker Street in the end. More direct. If you’re going to burn bridges, you might as well do it efficiently. 

I knew almost all the streets of Haven. The first thing I do in a new town is familiarise myself with the streets. Chances are that I’m going to be running up and down half of them, it’s best to know where they lead.

In no time at all, I arrived at the HQ and explained my intentions to a bored sentry. He listened for several moments before letting me in with a casual wave of his hand. The HQ doors creaked open, and I stepped inside. What I saw astonished me.

The place was bustling with inactivity. Feet were on desks. Eyes were shut. Nails were being leisurely filed. A gaggle of enforcers were playing a game of dice in a corner. A card game was next to them. They gave me a half-hearted glance, then went back to their gambling. The corruption hung heavy in the air. I felt tears well up in my eye.

I was home at last.

            #

“Name,” drawled the recruitment sergeant.

 “Devlin,” I said, “Devlin Chester.”

The sergeant studied me, then shook his head.

“That’ll do me,” he mumbled. He scribbled something on his page. “So why ya joining then?”

“Good honest job for a good honest guy,” I grinned. He didn’t grin back.

“’ere’s the rules,” he handed me a single sheet of tatty paper. “Study them well.”

I carefully glanced at the paper, then gave it back.

“Anything else, sarge?”

“Just a quick search,” he reluctantly rose to his feet, “take yer kit off.”

“No thanks, sarge.”

The sergeant’s expression, already unfriendly, hardened into hostility. He wasn’t used to being disobeyed. He leaned across his desk, right up to my face. His nostrils bristled with indignation. “You what?”

“Nothing wrong with that kind of thing,” I said, “I just see us more as friends.”

The room burst into laughter. Evidently, everyone had been listening in on our little exchange. Enforcers doubled over with delight. Even the sergeant joined in.

“Heh, heh! Yer a funny one!” he said, sinking his fist into my gut. “I think yer gonna fit right in!” he added, chopping the back of my neck. He watched as I struggled back to my feet. “Now that we’re all friends,” he said, playfully backhanding me, “I can let you in on a little secret: I want to see you starkers about as much as I want to be audited by the Axion goon squad. All the same, I has to know whose joining, so do as yer damn well told.”

Not wanting to cause a fuss, I took off my tunic. The sergeant looked me up and down. He stung me with his disappointment.

“No tat’s eh?” he said, “never been part of any gang?”

“Nope.”

“Highwaymen?”

“Nope.”

“Bandits?”

“Nope.”

“Mercenary?”

“Nope.”

“Pirate?”

“Nope.”

The sergeant shook his head. “They’ll just let anyone join these days,” he muttered, “alright, cover up, before the windows crack.”

You may wonder what the point of this exercise was. They made me strip, sized me up, declared me lacking then gave me the job anyway. This was my first insight into enforcer way of doing things.

I redressed. While that was happening, another enforcer brought the sergeant a bundle. It smelled terrible. 

“This is yours now,” said the sergeant.

The bundle was dropped into my hands. It consisted of a black tunic that was too big, a pair of boots that were too small and a leather shoulder belt that fit perfectly, though not on me. I was also given a wooden club. It was stained with dry blood. 

“Welcome to the team,” mumbled the sergeant.

Ill equipped and with no training whatsoever, I was the latest member of the Lord Magnus fighting machine. As we shall find out together, I could not have picked a worse time, place, or outfit to serve with, but being ignorant of this, I was rather pleased.

            An honest man at last.

To be continued…