“I’m not asking you to summon a trans-dimensional portal, Gabriel. Just stab the fucking thing,” Diomes said, his patience fraying rapidly.

“I’m sure there is a bit more technique to it than that,” Gabriel grumbled, risking a glance from behind the enormous wooden shield he held awkwardly at arm’s length.

“Yes, stab it until it stops moving,” Diomes barked back, an uncanny imitation of the slathering dog chomping at the end of its lead beside him, “It’s quite simple. Bryce lets go. The mutt charges. You greet it with that sword you’re holding like it’s a limp cock.”

Gabriel adjusted his grip on the unfamiliar weapon, “And if it bites me first?”

“Then all the more reason to stab it!”

“Perhaps he should have a few more goes at the practice dummy, sir?” a handsome teenager with snow-white hair offered.

“If I want your opinion, Archimedes, I’ll ask for it,” he switched his reproachful glance from one adolescent to the other, “Everything out there is going to be trying to kill you, Gabriel, so you damn well best get used to killing them first.”

“Does it have to be so… alive? Couldn’t I practice on something with a bit less personality in its eyes?”

The Garan War-hound certainly had personality, but it was decidedly one-track minded. The animal was foaming at the mouth and straining at the chain Bryce held, eager to dig its fangs into its prey.

“We could pitch him against the mind-mapper,” a ginger mage snickered, and received a compliment of accompanying laughs. Gabriel couldn’t remember the young mage’s name, but he had a clear memory of the snide twat dumping slops at his feet while he was sweeping the mess-hall.

The mind-mapper in question seemed not to have heard; he was sitting in front of one of the tents playing with what appeared to be a cricket. Gabriel had thought the man mute when he first met him, until one of the other mercenaries was kicked in the face by a horse, then Gabriel quickly discovered that the dark-skinned man was neither a mute, nor shy about his dark sense of humour.

“Don’t worry, Gabriel! You’ve got this!” Natasha whooped and cheered from the side of the makeshift arena. She was standing with that nice couple she often worked with. They’d only yesterday returned from a job near Sandhurst, hunting boar.

They had been in camp for a week now. Diomes’ philosophy was that any respite longer than half a turn was a training opportunity being squandered, and thus had them set up a practice field beside the campsite. He was a tough captain in many ways, taking a little too much inspiration from his infantry days, but nobody could question his results. In just six short years, Diomes had grown the White Fangs into the fourth largest mercenary company in the Kaden Circle. They were forty in this encampment, with eight camp followers (including Gabriel), but that accounted for only a quarter of the Fangs’ registered manpower.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Gabriel muttered sulkily to himself.

Diomes gave the signal and the hound bounded forward. The chain Bryce had been holding flew behind the dog like a cape.

Gabriel carefully assessed the situation, thought about his available options, studied the weak points on the animal, then got shit scared and dropped his sword. He tucked as much of his lanky body behind the shield as geometry would allow, and braced for impact.

“For aether’s sake, Ga-”

Gabriel didn’t hear the rest of Diomes’ expletive, he was bowled off his feet and planted firmly in the mud. The Garan War-hound’s muzzle appeared over the top of the shield’s rim almost instantly, champing and snarling, trying desperately to remove nose from face.

“Pick up the sword!” Natasha called over the cacophony of carnivorous canine.

The weapon was still within reach. Gabriel looked at it longingly, and even tried to creep his fingers towards the hilt. The dog made a snap at his extended digits and he retracted them with speed he didn’t know he possessed.

“Quickly, boy, grab it!” it was Diomes egging him on this time.

Gabriel looked at the weapon again, weighing up his chances of snatching it before the dog made off with some of his more useful tendons.

“I don’t think I can!”

“It’s do or die, Gabriel! You have to protect yourself! Kill it!”

It dawned on Gabriel then that he didn’t actually really want the sword. If he got hold of it, he wouldn’t know what to do with it. Well, that wasn’t strictly true, he knew what it was for, he just didn’t know if that was for him. The idea of sinking that gleaming iron into the dog’s soft tissue made his stomach turn. Then it would bleed, and whimper, and he’d be left with an animal that, moments before, had been merrily living its life, until some obnoxious teenager had the audacity to stab it.

Gabriel started to think that he was doing alright with the shield. The animal wasn’t that heavy, and it hadn’t got through the wood just yet. Maybe he could just keep this up until it got bored and decided to go back to, well, probably torturous captivity, but at least then it would be a choice it had made.

The dog snapped again, missing, but coming close enough that its jowls left a soggy trail on the side of Gabriel’s face.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t going to get bored. A new plan, then. Perhaps…

“Shoo, shoo,” Gabriel warded from beneath his shield.

It didn’t shoo.

“If you don’t kill that bastard then it will tear you limb from limb. It will devour your flesh and bones as you scream for the pain to stop. It will make a meal of you, and it will not think twice about doing it. It’s a killer, Gabriel, nothing more. Now, be the same!” Diomes shouted one of his more motivational pep talks.

He did have some good points.

Gabriel sucked in a breath; it tasted of wet dog. He gritted his teeth, and lunged for the sword.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it!” he called triumphantly.

“Bloody marvelous. Now stab it!”

Gabriel tucked the sword around the side of the shield, held it ready, and dropped it again.

He couldn’t explain it, the weapon was just suddenly heavy in his hand, and his fingers were clammy with sweat. Plus, the dog was jostling a lot and, well, he just dropped it.

A sharp yelp followed and the weight was lifted from him. He looked to his right and saw that the dog was twitching in the dirt, its eyes already flitting between this life and the next. Gabriel sighed at the sight of the poor creature, and sighed again when he recognized his own relief.

Moving the shield aside, Gabriel expected to see Natasha standing over him, her eyes raw with fury, ever protective of her younger brother. He was surprised to see that it was Archimedes instead, and his eyes only told a story of fear and resignation.

“You stupid fool!” Diomes bellowed, marching towards them at a pace just short of a run.

Diomes struck Archimedes across the face. It was an ignoble blow - a chastising slap, rather than a gentlemanly punch, which is apparently a thing. Archimedes glowed with shame and his cheek glowed in sympathy. He kept his eyes averted, but he did not shy away from the hit.

“What the hell does he learn if you step in and help him the moment things get tough?” Diomes spat.

“Umm, teamwork?” Gabriel suggested from the ground.

Diomes looked at the long-haired youth like he might stomp him into his grave, but he refrained, just about.

“You two, the command tent, now!”

With that, he span on his heel and rampaged for his makeshift quarters. Anything in his way, inanimate or animate, quickly got out of it.

A grizzled old warrior next to the ginger mage started a slow hand-clap, “You’re going to be the pride of The White Fangs, Gabriel.”

The crowd dispersed with sniggers and insults.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get it. It’s just a change of mindset,” Archimedes smiled, one half of his face still aglow. He offered Gabriel a hand up.

“No offence, but that’s not a mindset I think I want,” Gabriel said, staring at the backs of the departing mercenaries.

“Don’t worry, Gabby! You’ve got loads of skills. I’d have you in my team any day,” Natasha said, approaching with her arms folded.

“You have to say that; you’re my sister.”

“But I mean it! There’s more to being a mercenary than just swinging a sword. Any numbskull can do that,” she playfully punched Archimedes on the shoulder.

“I’m actually inclined to agree,” the young man said with a polite bow, “I think my father forgets sometimes that we also need writers, chefs, couriers, medics… all just as much as fighters.”

“Ah, the old man is a soldier’s soldier. Maybe one day you’ll be able to talk some sense into him. For now, you two best be making off. Our venerable captain does not like to be kept waiting.”

Gabriel and Archimedes exchanged a look, and then traipsed after Diomes, only slightly dragging their heels.

The inside of the command tent was utterly Spartan. The interior consisted of two benches, a large table, Diomes’ personal cot, and a total lack of love for aesthetics. The only colour in the place was emanating from the fuming commander of The White Fangs.

“Do you want to be cleaning chamber pots forever?” Diomes said by way of greeting.

“I don’t know. Maybe? I hadn’t really thought about it,” Gabriel answered honestly.

Diomes shook his head in disgust, “The men are already starting to question why I keep you around. If it were not for your sister then I wager I wouldn’t. At least one of the pair of you has balls,” he was looking at the tent wall as he spoke, Gabriel was looking at his own crotch, “You’re damn near a man now, and gods know you’re freakishly tall enough to be one. It’s about time you started acting like a soldier. The men, they call you one of the old dears. They think it funny to hand off their dirty knickers to you for the washing.”

“That’s what camp followers are supposed to do,” Gabriel replied.

“You weren’t supposed to be a camp follower, you were supposed to be a mercenary. Don’t you want to be a mercenary?”

Gabriel opened his mouth to speak.

“I swear by Fire and Thunder, Gabriel, if you say something sarcastic, flippant, or ‘smart’, I’m going to carry your head around camp on a bloody lance.”

Gabriel closed his mouth.

Gabriel managed to keep his mouth closed even though it seemed painfully obvious to him that the lance was inevitably going to be ‘bloody’ if it had a decapitated head on it, and therefore the use of the adjective was superfluous. Diomes probably wouldn’t enjoy having this pointed out, though.

“Sir,” a fresh-faced rogue said, popping his head between the tent flaps.

Diomes gave the man a formal nod and returned his attention to the boys. It was immediately obvious that the fire within him was dwindling to embers.

“Do better, Gabriel. Be better. I’m not asking.”

“Yes, sir,” Gabriel mumbled, embarrassment raising his voice several octaves.

“As for you,” Diomes swung his attention to Archimedes, “Insubordination is worse than failure. That applies to everyone in this camp. No exceptions. Half rations for the pair of you until new moon, and stable duty for twice that.”

“I already do stable duty.”

“What was that, Gabriel?”

“I said I will stay on du-” Gabriel bit his tongue, “Yes, sir.”

Diomes glowered, “Dismissed. Tell my lieutenants to be ready outside my tent by the time I’m done with this next meeting.”

“Sir,” the teenagers said together, and made their exit.

When they pulled aside the tent flaps, they ran straight into four men on their way in. They were dignitaries, if Gabriel was any judge. He spotted a chain of embossed golden coins around the lead envoy’s neck. Each coin bore a different emblem. Gabriel guessed he must be a representative of The City of Guilds, Badanis. It looked like The White Fangs were about to get some high-profile work.

Gabriel and Archimedes shared an exchange of eyebrow questioning before saying a quick farewell to one another. Archimedes raced off to do his father’s bidding, and fetch the lieutenants. Gabriel raced equally quickly to ignore those orders entirely, and head to the mess tent; he was famished. Besides, it was a fair bet that he would bump into one or two officers on his way there, and then he will have killed two ogres with one keg of black salt.

The mess hall was about half full when Gabriel got there. That was good; he never enjoyed going elbow to elbow with the mercenaries. He collected a tray and moved to the cauldron, where a Rhoskin, this one with mottled brown fur and a broad muzzle that reminded him eerily of the hound he had (sort of) fought, ladled a paltry serving of soup onto his plate. The soup actually looked and smelled quite good, but the Rhoskin somehow dolloped it in such a way that it was wholly unappetizing. It might have been the bared teeth that did that. There were a few other tasty peripheries behind the chef’s barricade that were apparently not on offer.

“Hey, how did you already know I was on half rations?”

“Oh, on half rations are we?” apparently it was a she, “In which case,” she leant over and scraped about two thirds of the meal onto the floor, “there you go.”

Gabriel looked at the soup spackled toes of his boots, “So what was that before then?”

“Coward portion. That,” she gestured at his tray, “is half a coward’s portion.”

Gabriel sucked in his lips, “Did you know that your kind is especially prone to bowel complications?”

Razor-sharp nails stretched from her paw-hand, “Any other interesting facts you want to share?”

Gabriel thought about it, he really did, but decided one was probably enough for an appetizer.

Moving down the makeshift hall, Gabriel saw a lot of mercenaries shift along their benches to prevent him cursing their table with his presence. This actually wasn’t a new phenomenon, the only difference was that this time they were making a show of doing it. It was a wholly redundant show, mind. Gabriel wasn’t exactly going to sit with any of them anyway.

Gabriel shuffled along the line until he found an empty table. It was covered in slop and crumbs that he knew he would have to clean later, and the bench looked pretty sticky. Regardless, he sat down and set to work chasing a carrot around with his spoon. He was suddenly not as ravenous as he had been. Glumly, he looked dispassionately at his soup and wondered if melancholy had a flavour.

“Budge,” the mind-mapper, Vish, said, despite it being a six-person bench. He sat himself in such a way that he somehow managed to take up all of it.

“Umm, I wouldn’t sit here if I were you; I’m something of a social pariah.”

“Don’t know what that means.”

“Oh, it’s when-”

“And don’t care.”

“O-kay then.”

Silence followed. Well, near silence, Vish’s mouth had some impressive acoustics.

“Half rations?” the mind-mapper said, still chewing.

“A bit less, actually.”

Without a word, Vish leaned over and dumped a lump of bread onto Gabriel’s platter.

“Oh, wow, I don’t know what to say, that’s really-”

Then Vish mopped up the majority of Gabriel’s soup with the other half of his bread, and stuffed it into his mouth.

“What in the name of? What was that?” Gabriel demanded.

Vish thought for a moment as he chewed, “Commerce?”

“That’s not commerce, that’s theft!”

“Pretty sure they’re the same thing.”

Gabriel wasn’t sure if Vish’s culture had any notion of commerce, he also wasn’t entirely sure the older man wasn’t just a dick, but either way he had to concede that a fair point had been made.

Another silence followed, during which Vish made a few more sorties at Gabriel’s plate.

“Is it true that you can read minds?”

“Is it true that you’re a little bitch?”

Gabriel peered darkly from beneath his eyebrows, “You’re not very good with people, are you?”

“Please teach me, oh Social aether god incarnate,” Vish made a half-hearted attempt to kowtow, but he was far too focused on his food to pull it off.

“And yet, you’re here, sitting with me. I guess you must get bored of being an outcast as well,” Gabriel concluded.

Vish frowned, “Actually, no. I love being an outcast. I’m here because you piss off people that piss me off,” Vish waved around a bit of sodden loaf, “and me being here pisses off the people you are pissing off, who are the people that piss me off. It’s symbolic.”

“Symbiotic,” Gabriel corrected.

Vish looked at Gabriel for the first time since he sat down, “That’s not to say that it’s not without sacrifice.”

“I was just,” Gabriel sighed at the sound of his own excuses, “Sorry.”

An almost imperceptible twitch went through every muscle in the mind-mappers face, “Well,” he said, standing up and brushing crumbs from his robe and onto the table, “see you at breakfast.”

Just like that, he was gone.

Gabriel retreated into Natasha’s tent for the evening, as he normally did. His own tent he shared with the other camp followers who were not married, or otherwise involved with a member of the Fangs, and most of those were geriatric, lice-ridden, or both. The old women were also uncommonly nasty, for post-pensioners. By contrast, Natasha’s bunk mates tolerated him, and tended not to give him too much trouble. To be fair, that was largely down to Natasha’s death threats.

This particular evening he was sharing the space with a few of Natasha’s closer friends, including Bryce, a bearded mage named Frans, a former pickpocket called Lucy, and that nice, quiet couple, Hank and Brenna. They paid him no heed. Even Bryce, who had literally unleashed a beast of murder on him earlier that morning, didn’t seem to register Gabriel’s presence. Still, the silent treatment was about the best he could expect.

Gabriel was reading through a purchase order from the armourer, correcting the spelling mistakes before it was sent to the merchant in town. He was often given little odd jobs like these. He didn’t especially love reading or writing, but he was good at them. Well, he was good for a mercenary, anyway. Most of the men and women in camp signed their name with an ‘x’, often painted in somebody else’s blood.

Just as Gabriel was starting to go cross-eyed, Natasha burst into the tent. She’d just come back from the lieutenant’s meeting with Diomes.

“Get your things, we’re leaving,” she said, going straight for the pack that she had only just unbundled this afternoon.

“Work?” Brenna asked.

“Ooh yeah, but not for us. Gabriel and I are getting the hell out of here, and this is an open invite to anyone who wants to join,” Natasha held her hands out at her sides as if making an offering.

“Slow down there, girl,” Bryce grumbled in his boulder-like way, “What’s made you so work shy?”

“Yeah, this isn’t like you, Natasha,” Brenna agreed.

“Envoy from Badanis came,” Natasha was struggling to catch her breath, though she can’t have run all that far, “The White Fangs have indeed been given work. Diomes is to mobilise the whole company and join the Guilds’ conscript and mercenary armies on the Northern border,” she let that sink in for a moment, “They’re marching on Gara. It’s war.”

“War?” the bearded mage parroted.

“I don’t understand,” Lucy was looking around, “Why don’t they send their own army?”

“Badanis doesn’t have one,” Hank answered, “No Guild is allowed to have a standing force anymore, lest it threaten the balance of the oligarchy. They always use mercs, have done for decades,” he nodded to himself.

“And Gara,” Brenna added, “that explains the hound this morning. I thought that was peculiar. Diomes must have known trouble was brewing,” she looked through Gabriel as she spoke.

There were a few murmurs of agreement.

“So? What does it matter? We’re mercenaries,” Bryce grunted, “Sometimes the job is picking carrots, sometimes it’s hunting beasts, and sometimes it’s fighting other people’s wars for them. A job’s a job.”

“Still, The White Fangs haven’t fought under another’s banner since…” Hank caught sight of Natasha and trailed off awkwardly.

“Exactly. Since,” the redhead finished for him, “Now, I’ve fought faithfully for Diomes for years. I’ve stuck my neck out a hundred times so that man’s ego and treasury can bloat, but I am not going to go out on a battlefield and slaughter men and women who are guilty of nothing more than trying to defend their homeland. That’s not me. That will never be me,” her chest was heaving, she had to consciously still herself as she asked, “Is that you?”

There were a number of measuring expressions, but nobody piped up. That is, nobody piped up until Gabriel did.

“No?” the teenager hazarded.

Oh yeah, that did it.

“To the aether with it,” Brenna huffed, after a wordless conversation with her partner, “We’re with you, Natasha.”

Natasha smiled ruefully, “Make sure you’re sure. I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t be devastated if you changed your mind, though,” she let out a little laugh, but there were real tears in her eyes.

Hank squeezed Brenna’s hand and looked up at their redheaded friend, “We’re sure, Natasha.”

Natasha wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, “Thank you. Anyone else?”

The mage hung his head in shame, “I’m sorry, Natasha, but I can’t abandon Diomes like that. I wish you the best of luck, though, all of you,” he yanked at his fingers anxiously, “I’ll wait as long as I can before saying anything. You know, to give you a head start.”

“Thank you, Frans, but make sure not to endanger yourself,” Natasha somehow gave him an ocular hug before moving on, “Lucy?”

The pickpocket bit her lip, “Sorry, Natasha, I’m out.”

“I understand,” she moved down the line, the hope on her face fading, “Bryce?”

Bryce tapped his knees with his knuckles, “War has a pretty shit pay to risk ratio. Besides, if I’d wanted to be a soldier, I’d have signed up way back. Fuck it, I’m in.”

“That’s the selfish bastard I know,” Natasha said, somehow good-naturedly, “Alright, guys, grab you’re stuff; we’re off out for the last time.”

“Wait a second,” Gabriel called, receiving a lot of reproachful glares for his trouble.

“We don’t have time for this, Gabby.”

“But what about him?”

Gabriel pointed to a dark corner, where Vish was teaching a cricket to jump hurdles.

“Vish?” Natasha near screamed, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“This is my tent!” the mind-mapper shot back defensively.

Natasha watched as the certainty slid from the mind-mappers face.

“Isn’t it?” Vish asked, genuinely.

“I guess it doesn’t matter now,” Natasha rolled her eyes, “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Well, are you coming with us?”

“Why?”

Natasha threw her arms in the air, “Gods, Vish. So you don’t have to kill and die in somebody else’s bleeding war!”

“Oh,” Vish said.

The mind-mapper sat up.

He looked around at the pack of deserters, half frozen on their way out of the tent, clearly petrified that he would sound the alarm.

Beads of sweat trickled down Natasha’s temples.

The defectors held their collective breath.

Vish picked up his cricket.

“Yeah, alright then.”