Review: Lazarus #15

Welcome back to our ongoing coverage of Greg Rucka and Michael Lark’s Lazarus. As before, if you’re keen on an insight into the creative process, you can find our interviews with the creators of Lazarus here, here and here.

Although the word “review” is bandied around, this isn’t the place to come for an assessment of whether or not you should buy the book – indeed, if you’re reading this without having read it already, you’re in, at the very least, for some significant spoilers. We aim, instead, to provide an “enhanced” reading experience, touching on details, thematic connections and other areas to read and explore – sometimes with comments from the creators themselves.

As always, spoilers abound for the current issue within! Enough chit-chat! On with the book!

The myth of the blade

We’ve spoken a lot in these reviews about the world of Lazarus (or at least that portion of the world run by the Carlyles) as a neofeudal one, operating under many of feudalism’s assumed norms. We’ve also spoken about the more traditionally brutal and totalitarian the Hock regime appeared to be, inspired more by Nineteen Eighty-Four than the Papal States.

Our first impression on reading issue 15 was that it lays bare the primary distinction between these two approaches: the code duello predates feudalism, but it is still an artifact associated with it, based on the hierarchy that underpins feudalism: that an oath is a means of accountability to God. The argument here is that the feudal system is fundamentally a religious one, even when religion is not explicitly a part of its rhetoric, because it presumes that the right to rule is conferred upon the ruler by birth.

Even at their most “generous” feudal systems make the argument that those of the ruling class bear extra burdens and responsibilities that counterbalance their privileges, the argument implicitly being that the ruling class is, in fact, “no better off” than the ruled class, because every positive has a correlative negative, making the net gain nothing.

You may be familiar with that rhetoric from statements by certain politicians and “job creators”, the suggestion that they should be running things because they are the “most qualified to run things”, forever begging the question as to whether or not the people forced to be dependent on their largesse would in fact swap places (though I think most of us could guess at an answer). An appeal to an “accident” of birth would be monstrous – the underpinning philosophy is fundamentally one of destiny, of being born into a calling, and the idea of destiny necessarily indicates a higher order to events, an order which one might (and the feudal system might) call God. There are reasons that Communist Russia and Revolutionary France both had issues with religion.

This brings us back to duelling, because duelling is an honour metric, and honour metrics tend to be underpinned by the idea that “someone up there is watching” and that the breaking of your word is a breaking of the order of the world. Honour systems work because they cause their participants to internalise this value system, to separate the act of betrayal from its consequences. The archetypal idealised feudal system, the Arthurian Court, is hip-deep in this philosophy, reinforced by supernatural events that reflect the devastation wrought by discarded honour and broken vows.

By this metric, Hock has shown himself without honour. Hock, of course, doesn’t care. He has failed to internalise that system. His worldview has no space for a higher power than Hock, or for rules to prevent him from taking what is within his grasp. He has created a system where imposing his will on his environment, social and physical, is his nature and instinct. The more interesting question is how and why Malcolm and his peers, equally people of power and shapers of the world, accepted it in the first place. We don’t know if Malcolm would have accepted the outcome of the duel if Eve lost, but we also know that he is responsible for a good deal of the feudal philosophy from which the duel was derived. The Maccau Accords, which set the scene for this issue’s epic brawl, stand as the setting’s anti-Magna Carta, the document by which feudalism and capitalism are blended at the expense of our world’s slow and uneven uptick in human rights and dignity. The minds behind the Maccau Accords, the treaty by which the world of Lazarus is governed, presumably belonged to educated people.  While they may not have been secular, it is an open question why they would embrace a system that seemingly relies on supernatural intervention and a natural justice in the world to enforce their claims.

In considering this dilemma, it is suggestive that the above view of feudalism – the view we, as fantasy geeks of the modern day instinctively adopt – has always been a fig leaf, if not a smokescreen, for something else. From its inception, feudalism has made practical accommodations for Roman and Byzantine Emperors risen from the lowest orders and recognised mercenary captains that carved out land for themselves. Amidst their various shibboleths and cultural myths, military force was always fully recognised as sufficient unto itself to make a noble, at least while the reins of power were still within that forceful grasp. The practice of retroenginereed bloodlines was universally popular, tying everyone together in a shared family descending from Brutus, Aeneas, Arthur and Caesar, a Church-endorsed Wold Newton of the day.

Which brings us back around to duelling systems – call it trial by combat or wager of battle, it was always been an oddity, honoured in the breach. In feudal Europe, it was a Germanic intrusion into the broadly respected Roman system of law, facing the skepticism of the Church and limited in its applicability. In England, it had a heyday of barely two centuries, and even then, it was never as popular as the equally awful Trial by Ordeal, and recognised by many as just as arbitrary. Over-represented in the fiction and myth of the time, a range of legal fictions were created for the specific purpose of limiting its use, helping give rise to the legal profession as we know it today, and usually available only after the matter was heard by a judge.

Where duels did take off were in sorting out feuds between nobles, regardless of whether they were legal or extra-legal matters. In this capacity, duelling rose to prominence and lasted well into the 19th century, far beyond any jurisprudential role in the legal codes. In other words, there is a strong case to be made that despite any and all rhetoric, duels have always functioned less as a vehicle for God’s will and more as a mechanism for men of violence to end disputes violently.

We speculate that this is where we find the heart of the ‘trial by combat’ provisions of the Macau Accords. These were people who by definition were inclined to shirk social contracts and traditions of governance, else they would not have attended. Selection bias prohibited reliance on a traditional judicial authority or even trial by peers. Instead, the attendees were those who may not have believed in God or divine right, but they believed in themselves – insofar as they believed in destiny for themselves and their families, they may well have assumed that it arose from their will, their capacity for ‘necessary’ violence and their technological and financial accomplishments. The pillar of their system of dispute resolution is not justice, but show of implied force. The Family’s Lazarus reflects their most advanced prototype weapon, the pinnacle of the military, biological and cybernetic industries on which their power rests. Battle between champions has much in common with a showroom floor or a proof of concept demonstration, as it shows not that they are in the right but that, if war happened, who would win.

This system, like all realpolitik systems used to prevent total war, is a stopgap, the logic we propose underlying the Accords lasting only as long as the parties were willing to participate in the limiting systems. A way of conserving the damage done by feuds (as duelling has theoretically always been), but only functional to the extent that people are willing to abide by the result. Hock does not play even by these pragmatic rules adopted by his peers. He does not show his hand by developing the most potent champion he can, nor is he chastened by the show of Carlyle force represented by Eve. He will take his chances. Choosing to represent this divide in a duel, the Lazarus team both capture the nature of the world the Macau Accords have created, and encompass what promises to be the nature of its destruction, or at the least its transformation.

This is all well and good, and we can certainly speak to the judicial history and the theory, but whilst it felt compelling to us, much of this issue was taken up with the intricacies of swordplay, an arena in which our expertise is only second-hand and easily taken in. It would be wrong to position ourselves as qualified to comment on its intricacies.

Fortunately, what we lack in personal knowledge, we can make up in contacting. We invited our fellow NerdSpan contributor, 20 year veteran fencer, maintainer of his own “Have Sword, Will Travel” blog and point stabby metal thing (and comics) enthusiast, Joshua Conrad, to talk a little bit about s-words:

“Why use a sword?”

It’s a question that must be asked in any science-fiction setting with a recognised advanced level of technology. Some settings sell it better than others as part of that setting, some simply use it for the aesthetic: warriors with swords of any variant make for compelling imagery.

In Lazarus, we have a compelling reason which Johanna outlines in Issue #3 – despite advanced technology and projectile weaponry amongst the Ruling Families, it’s still the best way to kill a Lazarus in a one-on-one situation, taking into account that probably the only person who can kill a Lazarus is another Lazarus.

More than this, however, Issue #15 of Lazarus is a good showcase of why swordfights are added to settings where they don’t necessarily logically fit: it is only in recent years that artists and filmmakers have managed to make gunfights as visually compelling and dramatic as a swordfight, and a good swordfight, well executed with drama, will always be more arresting.

And the swordfight that forms the core of Issue #15 has drama in *spades*.

Combat between characters in any visual medium works best when the combat itself is merely a reflection of the narrative conflict between the characters. Why are the fight scenes in the Original Star Wars Trilogy (to take an example), despite being arguably less well choreographed, seen as more dramatic and more effective than the fight scenes in the Prequel Trilogy? Because the relationship exemplified in the fight, the conflict that it represents, is more compelling to the audience.

Here in this issue of Lazarus, we have the very real issues of the burgeoning yet complex relationship between Forever and Sonja at the core of some very intense politicking by their respective Families and their Allies. This fight seems on all levels justified from a narrative and dramatic sense, but engaging swordfights are primarily defined by motion and it is motion that lifts the inevitable conflict to something that is exciting to take in.

Sword battles in comics are hard to make work; the sense of motion can be difficult for the artist to capture. But given this was not the first fight we had seen Michael Lark draw for the series, and my knowing his previous work regardless, I was confident we would have a visually appealing and easy to follow fight scene.

What I also suspected: Sonja was always going to lose this fight. This is not due (or not just due) to any plot armour Forever may or may not carry; the world of Lazarus is a harsh one, and I expect things to go much worse for the Carlyle Family before they get remotely better. I can see this creative team drafting a perfectly compelling narrative where Eve loses and loses badly (though how long can you put down the unkillable girl?). No, I felt confident in respect of Carlyle victory due to asking another question similar to the original:

“Why use that sword?”

The kind of sword Forever wields makes a certain sense. Whilst she is a devastatingly powerful warrior, she seems to have been trained in a primarily Eastern fashion. She is a modern equivalent of the ninja; an infiltrator, as we see in her various night-raids and escapades. As such, a modern variation of the ninja-to (as the sword appears to be) also makes sense; its small enough to carry without encumbrance, it can kill silently, and it can allow defence against similarly armed and trained opponents like other Lazari.

I have some aesthetic issues with Forever’s choice of blade; it is fashioned more like a knife bayonet than a sword, particularly with the serrated edge typically used for sawing rather than cutting. But again, this reflects character – in this case that Forever is the leader of her army; she is first and foremost a soldier, whatever her training specialisations.

The sword that Sonja uses, by contrast, makes less practical sense for the setting, or for what is my understanding of the conflicts fought in Bittner Family history. It does, however, make sense for Sonja in that a heavy blade, and her full-plate armour (worn to effect in her introduction in Issue #11) cuts an imposing figure, and it goes more towards the idea that Lazari are also a tool to keep the people within a Family’s dominion in line. Those arms and armour also make some sense given Sonja’s “Lazarus Build”. I have to assume she is receiving pharmaceutical benefits from the Hock Family; their allies. Essentially; she’s a juicer. Raw power over speed. Hence the heavy armour and heavier sword, compared to Forever.

Still, absent some very extreme pharmaceutical changes, the heavy sword is impractical. And favouring strength over speed in a swordfight is one of many, many ways to get yourself killed.

But to the duel itself.

The opening stances imply Sonja’s brawn (her arms compared to Forever’s, good lord) and Forever’s grace. Here, we see a parallel to Highlander, a single edge Eastern influenced blade against a Western influenced longsword. That’s always an interesting mix, and Eastern weaponry has filtered out into Western geek culture for that reason (among others).

As they exchange opening regrets before beginning in earnest, I have to remark; their footwork is off. At different points, both fighters are leading with the wrong foot forward. Both fighters are drawn as right-handed, both drawn holding their swords right hand dominant, which means the right foot should lead in the classical Western approach. Regardless, Forever is trained in Eastern swordplay; regardless of the dominant hand the right foot is always forward there. How they hold their weapons looks cool but is also practically problematic. At first, Sonja’s left arm is too bent at the wrist. In the next panel, Forever’s over the shoulder position seems somewhat ambitious against Sonja’s full high guard.

It should be noted that balancing the aesthetic of the depiction with the practical consideration is a problem even film sword fights using actual people have (sometimes even moreso); keeping both fighters stances and movements open or mirrored to one another so the audience can fully see what is going on. It’s not a big problem here, which is to their credit, but when I’m talking about fighting techniques here, that balance between illusion and practicality is something to keep in mind.

I’m also happy to note that both fighters are using their pommels, fists, elbows and knees in the fight. They are not just focusing on their blades; their whole body is a weapon, but Sonja’s letting Eve set the terms of combat ultimately seems to prove her downfall.

Sonja lets Forever get too close to her. She has the longer weapon and therefore has reach, but she doesn’t use it to her best advantage. To be fair, an effective sword fighter can simply parry at reach and then get in close. At that point, Sonja should be using her sword’s cross guard to greater effect to trap Forever’s sword and then start wailing on her with her fist. Instead, they keep aiming for cuts that Sonja is too close to make fully effective.

During some close quarters fighting Sonja gets in some very good hits, even caviling with her getting that close, it has to stand to her credit. It is Sonja that surprisingly goes for Forever’s blade, though Forever counters with her own disarm move, leading to a John Woo-esque swapping of weapons.

Given the substantial difference in swords, this could cause our combatants some problems. Forever may not be strong enough to fully wield Sonja’s weapon but Sonja’s finds Forever’s weapon too light and therefore difficult to control.

Forever’s training seems to have encouraged her to use the whole sword more effectively than Sonja could. She gets in close, uses the cross guard as intended to pin Sonja, and even holds the sword by the blade to bludgeon Sonja with the hilt, swinging the blade around to catch the handle and impale Sonja, effectively ending the duel.

Given what is on display, it feels natural and right that things play out as they do, the reversals and counters don’t feel as if they are artificially introduced to create tension so much as genuinely reflect how a battle between these two should go down. There is no contrivance here, just the very real brutality of fighting. However, I wonder what would have happened if Sonja had been allowed time to don her armour before entering the duel…

There you have it. The narrative tension in the rise and fall matches up with the facts, and speaks to a kind of practical expertise we lack, though we suspect the creators have, given the way they talk about weapons. We often speak about how Lazarus matches authentic seeming detail to the drama of sci-fi dynastic warring, and it’s nice to see that this holds true even where we can’t identify it logically, and only recognise it instinctively.

It’s not all the flash of blades this issue though. For all that the impressive showiness of swordfighting dominates the space of the issue, there’s other forms of attack and work, and how they are used and contrasted say a lot about the world we’re looking at.

“Envenomed too!—Then, venom, to thy work!”

It would be remiss of us to avoid mentioning the presence of poison in the issue, in the form of Jakob Hock’s Reptile-style acid spit. Poison has a traditional role in the feudal/honour code environment, usually presented as a pernicious method of cheating. The above quotation is taken from Hamlet in which another famous duel’s outcome is disrupted by poison: the treacherous Claudius allies with Hamlet’s combatant Laertes, who poisons his blade (and in seeking to poison Hamlet with wine accidentally poisons the Queen). Poison is presented there as the manifestation of ultimate wickedness – the very use of “venom” echoes the Biblical serpent and the entry of evil into an otherwise “just” world. The understanding that makes duelling function is that the parties are willing to hazard the risk and trust their skill: poison undermines that by rendering an outcome certain as result of deception – a safe drink or a simple scratch rendered “unfairly” deadly. The killing is not the issue, the treachery is.

This particular use then strengthens the disruption of the duellist’s world that Hock’s refusal of the verdict might otherwise impose, the taboo is stronger than if one of Hock’s guards just stabbed Malcolm. The Lazarus team has elegantly wedded the poisoner’s deceit to Jakob’s “big pharma” methods – the symbol of the pill is married to that of the poison capsule for a resonant effect. At the same time, though, a fundamental irony is revealed: Jakob is using the weapon of the “deceiver” for what he perceives as “honesty”, the peeling back of the (false) feudal manners and norms to reveal the beating heart of the feud beneath. By the same token, for all the implied outrage of the “honest” party (recall Malcolm’s false outrage at the close of last issue), the Carlyles in general (and Malcolm in particular) are just as dangerous and deceptive as any other monster at the top of the pile. Hock is dangerous, says Lazarus, but in no way should Eve’s victory lead the reader to believe that the Carlyle neofeudalism is founded on anything but hypocrisy.

There is a final level of referentiality to the prevalence of swords and poisons, and that is the gendered one. Poison, from Shakespeare to Sherlock Holmes, is the provenance of women. There are historical reasons for this, at least in theory. The legend runs that men had training in the arts of combat, whereas women were forced to “resort” to poison as the great equaliser, correcting for their “deficiencies” in strength and experience, allowing them to commit a murder as readily as a man. This idea was also compounded with the myth of the “innate deceptiveness” of women (sometimes positively spun as “mystique”), again going back as far as the Biblical Eve and further, an idea arising from antique patriarchy that women were more capable of deceiving men and leading them astray, making poison an ideal choice. This was counterbalanced with swords, which, despite the presence of many historical female warriors, were seen as traditionally a man’s provenance, from reasons from phallic imagery on down.

These were not isolated ideas, the idea of the death by sword as an “honourable” death (present in all kinds of reconstructions of ancient cultures and the great bulk of fantasy literature) is fundamentally a gendered one when these factors are considered – to die by a man’s hand is heroic, to die by a woman’s, merely tragic. Women cannot achieve, nor can they bestow, under this system they can only destroy.

One might expect Greg Rucka, (fellow) card-carrying feminist to turn this system on its head and tear it apart, and, of course, he does so. It is no coincidence that the honourable fighters of a sword-duel, trapped at loggerheads despite their friendship and bound to deal with each other honourably are women, the traitors and the poisoners are the great patriarchs and father-kings of great enterprises. The book doesn’t make a big issue of this female competence or decency, but it doesn’t need to, it’s the result of good characterisation married to a superlative understanding of its setting and themes.

The brutality of the swordfight in this respect is also telling – Joshua has broken down some of its constituent elements, but the length and detail presented is one of the most brutal, detailed duels in all of Western comics. There are no empty Errol Flynn flourishes here, only blood, batterings and pain. The feudal lie of the sword of honour is broken, there is nothing pretty or glorious in what the Lazari do, only a dirty job that today needs doing. They are better than the ideal knights of yore, because they are true.

This was a big issue. While it is obvious that the art and fight choreography take pride of place, the silence of the swordfight belies the intensity and rapidity by which the various building blocks set in place in previous issues come together and come crashing down.  Malcolm has emerged from the Conclave the technical winner, gaining by law and cunning nearly everything he could want… except peace, a loyal ‘daughter’ or potentially his own life. Is this, perhaps, a higher power’s judgement for a man who put his worth to the test?