157th Day of Summer, Year 9080 of the Unic Reckoning. Yatha – outskirts, Gidha.

  They called them the Nameless Company because they had never taken an official name. They didn’t need one, just like their Commander never needed a title. Wherever they went, people already knew who they were. Wherever they stopped, there were few fools willing to disturb their peace or deny a polite request.

  When he first heard about them, he thought it was just gossip. The second time, he couldn’t believe their supposed exploits. But by the third time, he was sure — he had to join them. Had to. He needed to see for himself if even a fraction of those legends was true. He was just an ordinary village boy. Not too bright, not too handsome, not too talkative. Average in every way, and quite sure nothing would ever change that. He had a wonderful mother and a father, a habitual drunkard who beat him regularly. Not just him, but all of them — his mother, himself, and his seven siblings. His father was a massive bastard, and no one in the village dared to stand up to him. Everyone was too afraid to do so. This whole story, really, starts with him — the violent, drunken brute, ready to pick another fight. He staggered out of the house, having just struck his crying wife and nearly knocked out another tooth from his youngest daughter. He stepped into the street and blocked the path of a stranger — a woman in unfamiliar armor. She looked at him with utter indifference. He didn’t like that, but it didn’t matter. Moments later, he he was lying dead in a pool of his own blood. She was quick and brutal. Wiping her blade on the dying man’s shirt, she announced, almost bored, that she was recruiting for the Company. Nothing more. No explanations. Nothing. And yet, everyone understood. He did, too. That very same day, despite his mother’s pleading, he enlisted. To escape his mediocrity. That day, he abandoned his name — a name he no longer even remembers. The Company gave him a new one. A better one. One far less… ordinary. He remembers it to this day, and it will stay with him until the very end. When his time comes, it will be carved into his gravestone in bold letters: “Kasel, wrap Bore in your cloak.” But that’s not what this story is about. So, let’s move on.

  The Company was divided into squads, and each squad traveled separately. It was a strange system, but somehow, it worked well enough to be kept for years. The most renowned squad, of course, was the Commander’s own. And Bore had both the honor and misfortune of ending up with that elite group of killers. His mentor? None other than Skin — the very woman who had killed his father. The Commander’s right hand and the quietest person he had ever met. A pleasant contrast to the Black Mage traveling with them.

  “What are you thinking about, Bore?” asked Stake, the squad’s cook.

  “Just… thinking,” Bore began to answer, only to be smacked on the head with a wooden spoon.

  “Yeah, I can fucking see that, you dumbass. But what I don’t see are peeled totties.”

  “Potatoes,” Bore corrected automatically.

  And promptly got smacked again.

  “My mother called them totties, my granny called them totties, and I will too, you damn motherfucker, call them totties. And now get moving and start peeling, you sheep-shagging bastard, that fucking crap or there’ll be no dinner tonight if I don’t get from you a whole large pot… Good day, Commander”

  Bore didn’t even glance around; hearing the change in tone and what the cook said, he immediately threw the knife, the potato, and then sprang to his feet, saluting. The Commander looked at them with indifference, gave a slight nod, and disappeared into his tent.

  “That man sure knows how to kill a conversation,” Stake muttered.

  He scratched his head nervously, and then suddenly remembered something.

  “Did you peel those totties, you damn sisterfucker?!”

  “I’ve never slept with anyone in my family!” Bore protested.

  Another smack from the spoon cut him off. Today wasn’t a good day to argue with the cook. Then again, no day ever was.

  “So why the hell are you two shouting from dawn?” a sleepy voice asked behind them.

  Both men went pale. They exchanged glances, unsure whether to turn around or run for it.

  “I asked you a question, you fucked-up family enthusiasts.”

  As if on command, they turned on their heels and saluted.

  Before them stood a short figure wrapped in layers of black fabric. A deep hood obscured most of her face, just as her clothes concealed everything else. The infamous Black Mage herself. And may all the gods of all the religions have mercy on anyone who dared to refer to her with a feminine title.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “I would like to report that it’s already afternoon” Stake said uncertainly.

  The sickly-sweet scent surrounding the Black Mage was faint but unmistakable. It meant her mind was… unstable. On such days, nothing was certain and no one was safe. Every word spoken, every breath taken — it was one big, sick lottery. Either you survived or you died. Brutally killed. And so, they stood there, stiff with fear, waiting for her response, endlessly — or at least it felt that way. Finally, the Black Mage shrugged and walked away. Only when she vanished into the Commander’s tent did they dare to breathe again.

  “I always knew I wouldn’t die from a knife wound or an arrow. I’ll just drop dead from sheer terror. You’ll find me covered in my own shit, slumping over the pots, clutching my chest.”

  “More like shitting yourself to death after your next kitchen experiment,” Bore shot back, dodging Stake’s spoon just in time.

  That was the last time Bore ever spoke with Stake. It wasn’t fear that killed the cook. The dumb kitchen grunt got it wrong. He died when a cow — or rather, the scorched remains of one — fell from the sky. The poor bastard didn’t have much luck. He clung to life for three more hours before Skin put him out of his misery. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

  In the morning, right after their daily exercises, everyone was to gather in front of the Commander's tent. A week had passed since their last job. Long enough for boredom to start creeping in, but not so long that they missed getting their hands dirty. That’s why the air wasn’t filled this time with that peculiar form of sick excitement. There were no whispered bets, no attempts to guess what kind of task they’d be sent on this time.

  Minutes ticked by. Usually, the Commander didn’t keep them waiting this long. Murmurs of unease began to surface, but before they could take hold, the tent’s flaps parted, and the resonant voice of the Black Mage greeted them in her characteristic manner:

  “Good morning, ladies!”

  They saluted in silence. If the Black Magician called you a lady, then you were a fucking lady—end of story. That’s what every new recruit was told, because it wasn’t about the words. It was about life or death. That’s why all the filthy, bearded, unwashed ladies stood tall and proud without saying a word.

  “I see none of you are brave enough to correct me today, either?” she sneered, locking eyes with each of them in turn.

  Well, if they weren’t brave enough, they weren’t—simple as that. So they kept quiet. Bored, the woman eventually shrugged.

  “Pity. I have a theory to test and was hoping for a forced volunteer.”

  They nodded politely. The last one who tried to explain to the Black Magician that there’s no such thing as a “forced volunteer” ended up becoming one, and his screams echoed all the way to a nearby village, a good half-hour’s march away. No one ever found out what the Black Magician had tested that day, but it clearly hadn’t gone well.

  “You’re Stumpborn, I see. Never mind. I’ll find someone eventually—perhaps after the job. As you know, you weren’t summoned here to bask in your own stench. We had a visitor yesterday, and that visitor brought a pouch heavy enough to pique our interest. Something happened that I call the Three Point Rule: we listened, we negotiated, we signed a contract. The job doesn’t seem particularly hard, but it reeks from a mile away. Even an idiot would realize it’s a trap. And what do we do with traps?”

  She pointed at one of the recently recruited boys, whose name had already faded from Bore’s memory.

  “We ignore them?” the poor fool ventured, uncertain.

  The Black Magician grinned broadly, her white teeth flashing beneath her hood. The boy wet himself on the spot.

  “Well, well, well. Looks like I have my first candidate for a forced volunteer. Screw up on the job, kid, and you’ll get the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  With that, she clapped her hands together and announced louder:

  “We disarm traps, you dimwitted mama’s boys!”

  “You always walk right into them,” croaked the magician’s familiar from a nearby tree.

  The hulking creature looked as though someone had catapulted a flock of ravens into a wall, scraped off the remains, and given it a name. The poor bastard was immortal as long as his mistress lived, which meant he’d bear the burden of his grotesque form for quite a while yet.

  “I don’t walk into traps; I ram through them. They pose no threat to me, and it’s faster than wasting time neutralizing something so crude.”

  “That’s what I’d say, too, if I walked into all of them.”

  The magician’s smile dimmed slightly. The familiar cawed, then shook his head.

  “I’ll shut my beak now.”

  “I thought so.” She turned her attention back to the soldiers. “We’re splitting into three groups. Kapi will lead the first, Lousy the second, and Mustang the third. Divide yourselves evenly and sensibly. The lucky chosen ones will report to the tent for details on our top-secret mission to thwart our enemies’ plans.”

  The soldiers nodded eagerly. Moments later, the Black Magician disappeared into her tent. Bore, without much deliberation, joined Mustang’s group. As he approached the man, he overheard Mustang speaking to Hammer:

  “This is serious.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  “They let some steam out of her head. It must be bad if the Commander needs her fully functional.”

  Ah, yes. Bore hadn’t noticed, but that distinctive, sickly-sweet scent had vanished. It always disappeared when the Magician was required to be at her mental best. They called it “letting off steam,” though no one knew exactly what it entailed. Every now and then, the Magician would check in with the Commander and emerge completely different. Some had theories involving certain body parts of hers and the Commander’s, but few believed them. No one was foolish enough to want the Black Mage in their bed. Not because of her temper—but because of what lay beneath her robes. Fragments of other people’s bodies, which she regularly dug up and called her “spare parts.”

  “Maybe it’s just precautionary…?”

  “Maybe you should stick your dick in an anthill.”

  “No need to be so…”

  The conversation was cut short. The tent’s flaps opened again, and out stepped Skin. That was a signal no one needed explained. The chosen three immediately headed for the tent to report.