Skin entered the Commander’s tent. He was, as usual, bent over a pile of papers that never seemed to shrink. She stood to his right and didn’t say a word. She waited, looking at the tent flaps.“Anyone interesting?” he asked after a while, setting the papers aside and rubbing his tired eyes.

  She looked at him, then shrugged. He didn’t need see her. He recognized the gesture by the quiet rustling of fabric.

  “Anyone we can recruit?”

  She grimaced slightly. The Commander finally looked at her, then nodded for her to sit down.“So you did find something interesting.”

  He wasn’t asking. He almost never asked. He simply stated a fact, and she nodded. When he looked at her expectantly, she finally said:

  “I met the Bore.”

  The Commander nodded, then looked back at the papers. Suddenly, he looked at Skin again, but this time he seemed to remembered something.

  “He’s aged, hasn’t he?”

  “A lot.”

  “A shame.”

  “He was a good soldier. Not too bright or fast, but... good in his predictability.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, then asked, “Besides him?”

  “His grandson.”

  He raised an eyebrow expectantly.

  “Just like his grandfather when he was young.”

  The Commander nodded, reaching for another document.

  “A shame. Without the Black Mage, he probably won’t last long.”

  Skin nodded, pulling her favourite knife from its sheath and starting to clean her nails with it.

  ***

  20th Day of Summer, Year 9132 the Unic Reckoning. Bloody Meadows, Laref

  Bore had not left his hut all day. He allowed himself to completely sink into his memories and, for a brief moment, forget the drudgery of everyday life. He recalled not only those splendid adventures but also weeks spent lying in mud, wading through swamps, and sizzling under the harsh desert sun. He remembered the terror when the Black Mage became unpredictable—when she once again sought victims for her experiments. He inspected the deep scars on his body, scars known only to his wife—like the one by his left testicle he had earned by ripping off a leech the size of his arm. Damn. He recalled days of hunger, cold, and perpetual colds. The stench of unwashed bodies. Finally, his memory reached even those vile moments he would never confess to his family. For instance, the day he first took a woman by force and then slit her throat—because he knew it was a better fate than being burned alive for losing her purity. Or when he crushed a child’s skull because he could no longer stand its screams… the cries of priests from a burning temple… the squeal of a doomed medic who refused to show them the way to the village… the vacant eyes of a girl whom they raped so long that she died in their arms—and even a little longer thereafter…

  “Father!” a shout tore him from his reverie.

  Bore trembled, overwhelmed by the weight of his own sins. That was exactly why he had left the Company—not because of the cruelty of others, but because of his own. He was no better than them, yet he was beginning to truly relish it, and he knew that one day he would be completely lost in it. Even now, as he recalled these events, some part of him laughed uproariously, caring for nothing.

  “Father!” another cry forced him to look around in the hall.

  Morning light. Was it already morning? Had he spent the entire night here? He tried to move, but his stiff limbs refused to cooperate. Yes—he had certainly sat there all day and all night.

  “Come in!” he bellowed, knowing his daughter-in-law stood behind the door.

  The woman practically burst into the hut. No questions were needed. He sighed heavily.

  “He’s not here! He’s nowhere to be found!”

  He grimaced at her accusatory yell.

  “Don’t shout.”

  “You know where he went, and it’s your fault! You fed him nothing but nonsense! Because of you, he’s gone and…”

  “Shut up!” he roared, slamming his fist onto the table.

  She fell silent. For a moment, she no longer argued with the old man, but with the soldier he once was. She trembled, horrified beyond measure, and immediately recalled her husband’s warnings against riling up his father. She had once laughed at his calm words, but now she understood what he truly meant as he silently showed her the massive scar on his back.

  “Don’t squall” he growled, unable to hide his disgust.

  Was she crying? She wasn’t even aware of it. Quickly, she wiped away her tears and looked at him uncertainly.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  “He’s an adult. If he has taken an oath, there’s nothing you can do about it. What does my son say?”

  She pressed her lips into a thin line. She might be afraid, but she refused to listen to someone claim that she alone was being unreasonable. So what if he was an adult! He was her son, too!

  “Then you see, you’re the only one who doesn’t respect this,” the old man continued angrily. “Stop being so unreasonable. Someday, he had to break free from your wings.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that,” she replied softly, clenching her fists with all her might. “It’s your fault. Go and bring him back.”

  He shook his head, but after a moment, he began to move—finally forcing his old body into obedience. As he passed her by the exit door, she asked in surprise:

  “Are you going after him?”

  “No,” he replied. “I’m going to dig his grave so that we can symbolically bid him farewell.”

  “He’s still alive!” she shrieked, bursting into pure hysteria.

  “But he won’t come back anyway.” She heard those words and her knees buckled beneath her.

  That was the custom—she knew it—but she did not agree with it. She could not accept it. She could not forgive. Quietly, she began to weep. He was her son. Why couldn’t they understand that?

  The Commander emerged from his tent and then looked at the three young men lined up before him. He raised his right eyebrow slightly, but said nothing. Skin was right—none of them were good enough. They stared at him in terror. He passed them without a word, then stopped at the fourth recruit. That young man looked at him with fascination. Bore’s grandson—no one needed to tell him that. That look of adoration was clearly hereditary.

  Scar gave a signal, and one by one they recited the simple words of the oath. The Commander received them in silence, saluted them all at the end, and returned to his tent. There was no need to waste time on them—if even one of them survives more than a hundred days, he’d allow himself to be surprised.

  “I don’t think we’ll find anyone better in this area,” Skin said, standing at his side.

  “Neither do I, but that wasn’t why we originally marched here,” he replied, picking up the first document.

  She nodded. Indeed, recruiting in the area was merely an additional aspect of their expedition to the Bloody Meadows. The primary goal was to find someone knowledgeable in healing. Without the Black Mage, mortality in the Company had risen dramatically.

  “The last medic wasn’t so bad,” Skin noted quietly.

  The Commander nodded. Their last Company medic was good. It was a pity he was too old to endure the journey through the swamps.

  “He fought to the very end,” the Commander said after a moment’s thought. “I’ve never seen a man live so long after contracting bloody fever.”

  “I hope the next one will be just as good or even better,” Skin said as she reached for her knife and began cleaning her nails. “We could use a mage.”

  “Atolls won’t send anyone to us for obvious reasons.”

  The woman smiled at the memory of their last visit to the mages’ capital. Yes, Atolls wouldn’t help—they could be sure of that. Still, mages were also found outside the Atols.

  “If luck is on our side…” she began, but then trailed off.

  The Commander smiled under his breath. He never left anything to chance. Never—and she knew that all too well.

  Someone requested to enter the tent—a courier with an urgent message. He was granted permission, entered, handed over an envelope, and immediately left, practically fleeing. The Commander opened the letter, read it carefully, then set it aside on his desk.

  “There’s a medic in the nearby swamps. If not him, then in the Quiet City there’s supposedly a young mage looking for work.”

  “Who?” Skin asked, sliding her knife back into its sheath.

  She wasn’t asking about the mage’s identity but rather the informant’s. The name she heard calmed her.

  “When do we leave?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Tell Scar.”

  She nodded and left the tent.

  Scar approached Skin, waiting for orders. She stared ahead for a moment before announcing, “Tomorrow morning.”

  He nodded and walked away; he needed no further information. The woman almost smiled. Perhaps they didn’t have the Black Mage with them, but at least the veterans knew what was expected from them. They had been through a lot, and the loss of that sense of immortality could work wonders.

  “Am I fucking speaking unclearly or what?! How the fuck do you hold that fucking sword?! That’s not a fucking club, you fucking loser!”

  And so, the first training had already begun. Today it was led by Shriek. Scar had chosen well. Shriek yelled a lot but struck little, and in a squad with no one responsible for mending their broken bones, that was rather important.

  “You! Dreamer! Who the fuck are you staring at?!”

  Skin looked at the red-faced boy with embarrassment. Bore’s grandson. Of course. She could have expected it.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, embarrassed.

  “Don’t say sorry, just swing that fucking piece of wood. Fucking Dreamer.”

  “My name is…” he began.

  “I don’t give a fuck about your name, you cocksucker! From now on, you’re Dreamer, and that’s that!”

  “Dreamer,” Skin repeated in her mind. It suited him.

  “What do you say to me, dog, huh?!”

  “Yes sir!”

  “That’s right, you piece of garbage! Now take up your weapon and fucking get swinging! Your muscles aint’t gonna grow out of your ass unless you plan to work your ass off for food, you fucking lazy bum! Here mommy won’t stick anything under your mouth, won’t wipe your tears if you fuck up your hand from swinging a spoon. Here, no…”

  “Scar!” shouted Bonebreaker. “Some not fucked enough bitch wants to sign up!”

  “I’m not…” began the indignant boy.

  The same one Skin had met earlier in the village, the very one who had beaten Dreamer. Skin smiled to herself, watching the feigned confidence with which he stood before Bonebreaker. A few seconds later, he was no longer standing but lying on the ground—with a broken nose and disbelief painted on his face.

  “Did I ask for your opinion?” Bonebreaker snarled, massaging his right hand.

  It was a good thing that little bastard had a hard head. Otherwise, at best, they’d have sent him home with a concussion, and in the worst case, someone would probably find him tomorrow and bury him.

  Scar reached the would-be recruit. He muttered a question quietly, but apparently did not like the answer. A quick kick corrected the boy’s poor attitude. One more question, and then Bonebreaker hauled him off to the training field. Meanwhile, Scar approached Skin with clear displeasure.

  “One more for the oath.”

  “Let him wait. The Commander is busy,” she replied, watching their newest acquisition.

  Scar nodded, then muttered more to himself than to her:

  “They come here, lured by our legend. They believe they’ll be knights in shining armor. They have no idea what soldier’s life is all about. They’ll need at least a few weeks to learn anything useful.”

  “Order to guard the camp. One does not leave the Company,” she replied curtly.

  He understood. In the morning, only two recruits showed up on the training field. The rest ended up with slit throats and marks on their foreheads symbolizing desertion.