The War of Houses was everywhere. It was in the smoke on the horizon and in the gallows sprouting faster than trees along the roads.

  We entered the zone of influence of House Rumolt. The Steppe Lords, masters of southern vineyards, and men with short memories for kindness, but very long ones for grudges.

  The field camp of Baron Ewald von Rumolt sprawled across a wide ravine. It smelled of expensive wine, warhorse manure, and burnt meat. We were let inside only because our squad looked like a gang capable of any dirty job. The Hauberks on Dieter and Bodo commanded respect, while Talah's golden armor drew greedy glances from the guards.

  Lord Rumolt sat in his tent, examining a map and picking his teeth with a golden toothpick.

  "Are you those 'Bums'?" he asked without turning around. "Strange name. Sounds like a medical condition."

  "We are a Crisis Management Agency," Gunther said with a bow.

  "Crisis..." the Lord chuckled. "I have a crisis. A House Berengar outpost on the hill. They control the crossroads and interfere with my supply lines. I need you to go there and burn it down. Everyone inside."

  "Price?" Gunther asked.

  "Three thousand crowns. And whatever you find on the corpses."

  Silence hung in the tent.

  Three thousand. It was an opportunity to buy a new life. The Sergeant gripped his sword hilt; Bodo smiled predatory, calculating his share.

  But Gunther was silent. An invisible calculator clicked in his head, assessing risks.

  "Your Grace," he finally said. "That is a generous offer. But we must respectfully decline."

  The Lord turned slowly.

  "You refuse me? Mercenary?"

  "We are not shock infantry, my Lord," Gunther answered firmly. "We have no siege engines. Storming a fort guarantees personnel losses. Furthermore, our trade route lies through Hoiwai, the capital of Berengar lands. If we attack their fort, we'll burn that bridge permanently. Three thousand now will not cover the losses from reputational damage and a closed trade route in the future."

  Ewald von Rumolt looked at him for a long time with the heavy gaze of a reptile.

  "You count coins when I offer you honor?" he asked quietly. "Good. You are cautious. I appreciate that... sometimes."

  The Lord smiled, but his eyes remained icy.

  "Since you don't want to fight... work as couriers. Deliver a package. To the garrison on the Eastern Road. Standard payment. Four hundred crowns. And no questions."

  Gunther exhaled. It seemed the storm had passed.

  "We accept. Four hundred crowns is a fair price for logistics."

  We left the camp with a sense of relief as fake as a charlatan's smile.

  We marched across the steppe. The sun dipped toward sunset, flooding the world blood-red.

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  Three hours later, in a depression by a dry creek, they were waiting for us.

  Twelve of them.

  They wore no Rumolt crests. They wore mismatched armor. Another mercenary company. Competitors.

  The leader, a man in a closed helm with a warhammer, stepped forward.

  "Halt," he said. "Lord Rumolt sends his regards. And regrets that you turned out to be so picky."

  "We are not traitors!" Gunther shouted, hiding behind Dieter's back. "We have a package for the garrison!"

  "There is no garrison," the commander laughed. "And there is no order in the package. The Lord doesn't like being refused. He hired us to teach you a lesson in manners. Nothing personal, colleagues. Just business."

  "TO ARMS!" the Sergeant roared.

  They were confident. They saw a rabble before them. Ragamuffins in furs, some fool with a lute, and a golden peacock. They made the main mistake of professionals — they believed their eyes.

  "Crush this trash!" the leader commanded. "Charge!"

  They moved forward, relaxed, expecting us to scatter.

  But we didn't run. We were "The Bums," and bums fight like cornered rats.

  "Wall!" barked the Sergeant.

  Dieter and Bodo closed ranks. Dieter, in his hauberk and wolf skin, took the blow of two men on his shield. The shield cracked, but the Tank stood firm, snarling back.

  The enemy leader, seeing the center holding, decided to flank where skinny Alf huddled against the cart.

  "Easy pickings!" the mercenary smirked, raising his hammer.

  Mistake.

  "It's mine!" Alf squealed, protecting not himself but his inventory.

  He threw his new, reinforced net.

  His hands shook, but the fear of property loss gave the throw precision. The heavy net covered the mercenary leader head-to-toe. Hooks dug into the armor.

  "What the...?!" he roared, tangling in the ropes.

  At that moment, Ludger struck.

  His heavy crossbow barked. The bolt hit the nearest swordsman in the chest, throwing him back two meters, right under the feet of his advancing comrades. The enemy formation faltered.

  And then Talah stepped forward.

  The mercenaries thought his golden armor was for show. But when Talah's scimitar carved an arc with a terrible whistle, taking the head off the netted leader, they realized their error.

  "I cut!" the Gladiator boomed, hacking into the crowd. "You small! I big!"

  His blows were simple but monstrously strong. He had no soldier's technique, but he had Dementia and Courage.

  Bodo "The Butcher" worked the other flank with his two-handed sword. He exploited the chaos Talah had created. His AoE (Area of Effect) attacks cleaved air and flesh.

  "Take that, competitor!" Bodo yelled. "Dumping prices?!"

  The mercenaries, expecting an easy walk, found themselves in a meat grinder. Their leader lay dead in a net, their formation was broken. A golden giant and a berserk Bodo were chopping them like cabbage.

  Realizing the prey bit back harder than expected, the survivors wavered.

  White flags of retreat went up, and they broke.

  We remained on the road. Breathing heavily, covered in blood — ours and theirs.

  "The package," said the Captain. "Open it."

  Gunther broke the Rumolt wax seal with trembling hands.

  He turned the box over.

  A dead carrier pigeon fell onto the sand. The bird's head had been cut off.

  No letter. No order.

  Only a dead bird — proof that no word of ours, no complaint, would ever reach anyone.

  "It was an execution," Gunther said doomed. "He wanted us found here dead with this pigeon in our hands. A subtle aristocratic joke: 'Mail undelivered.'"

  Bodo wiped his sword on the grass and efficiently began looting the corpses of his former colleagues.

  "At least we got trophies. Their gear is better than ours."

  "We're alive," the Accountant said quietly. "But now House Rumolt wants us dead."

  Gunther looked North, toward Hoiwai.

  "Now we have only one path left. To the Berengars. And pray they don't find out we took Rumolt's coin."

  We moved on.

  In the dust of the road lay the headless pigeon — a small casualty of noble games.

  (End of Chapter 23)