It happened in a back alley of Hikmar. The mercenaries' stomachs were rumbling, and Gunther sat on an overturned crate, watching the dog.
Skeleton, a dirty gray wolfhound, lay at the feet of Otto (a new recruit with a shock of gray hair and a mustache), gnawing on a dry bone scavenged from the garbage.
[EMPLOYEE DOSSIER #13: OTTO]
Background: Shepherd.
Previous Employment: Terminated for Gross Negligence.
The Incident: While the subject was engaged in deep analysis of a Latin treatise on stoicism, his entire assigned flock (37 heads) executed an unauthorized vertical exit off a cliff.
Traits: Literate (useless), Guilt-Ridden (manipulatable).
Combat Role: Projectile Delivery (Thrower). Can hit a wolf with a stone, but prefers to hit them with quotes from Cicero.
The Accountant calculated something mentally and snapped his ledger shut.
"Otto," Gunther's voice was soft, like a pillow used for smothering. "Stop fighting the dog for that bone. He won't be needing it anymore."
"What do you mean?" The Thrower-Shepherd tensed. He instinctively covered the dog with the hem of his cloak.
"I mean Food Security," Gunther stood up. "We have zero crowns for food. Supplies are gone. We do, however, possess an edible biological unit that consumes two rations a day and yields no profit."
Gunther nodded toward the wagon.
There, crossing his arms and leaning on a heavy sword, stood Bodo.
He was the other half of our ruin.
When we entered Hikmar with pockets full of smuggler's gold, Gunther had gone into an "Investment Frenzy." First, he bought Talah for 9,500. But then, realizing he had bought a shiny idiot, Gunther panicked and spent the remaining balance to hire Bodo — a grim, professional mercenary with a resume as long as a spear.
"We need insurance for the Investment!" the Accountant had declared, throwing the last bags of gold on the table.
Result: We had two elite fighters, and exactly zero crowns to feed them.
Gunther drew a knife.
"Greta is already stoking the fire. We’ll make a stew. Dog meat is tough, but if you boil it long enough..."
"You won't touch Skeleton!" Otto jumped up. A throwing dart appeared in his hand. "He is a squad member! He... he is my friend!"
"You are destroying corporate spirit! We must unite in hard times and sacrifice our comfort!" Gunther squealed. "Either you cover his running costs, or he goes into the common pot! That is the final entry in this ledger!"
The situation escalated. Otto was ready to throw the dart at his boss. Gunther was ready to order Bodo to slaughter the dog (Bodo would do it; he was a professional who worked for food, even if it was dog meat).
"Ahem..." a raspy voice sounded from the shadows.
We turned around.
By the wall stood a man who looked like a rat standing on its hind legs. He grinned with rotten teeth.
"I hear the gentlemen have financial difficulties? And a spare doggy?"
"What's it to you?" the Sergeant snarled.
"There is an option," the Rat nodded at a basement nearby. "Dog fights. Entry fee — two hundred crowns. If your dog is as good as you are afraid for him... he will bring you dinner, not become it."
Gunther froze. His eyes turned into slits.
"Two hundred crowns..." he muttered. "We have the last two hundred crowns. The Petty Cash, reserved for emergency bribes."
He looked at Otto. Then at Skeleton. Then at the stranger.
"Otto," Gunther said in an icy tone. "You have a choice."
"I won't let him into the pit!" the shepherd shouted in despair. "They kill there!"
"Ultimatum," the Accountant interrupted. "Either we go into that basement right now, and your flea-bitten friend earns our living. Or in five minutes, Greta starts skinning his carcass. And you will hold the basin for the blood. Decide."
Otto looked at Skeleton. The dog wagged his tail, unaware that his life hung by the thread of a balance sheet.
The Shepherd lowered his head.
"Fine," he whispered. "Fine, you soulless ghoul. We will go. But if he dies..."
"If he dies, we save on funeral costs," Gunther finished the thought.
Gunther turned to the mercenary.
"Bodo! Escort the intellectual to the fighting pit. Make sure he doesn't run off with the company cash. And ensure the bet wins."
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"My cut?" Bodo asked in a businesslike tone, finally stopping his polishing of the blade.
"Ten crowns. If we win."
"Deal. Get up, Shepherd. Time to do business."
The path to the Lower City turned out to be longer than Gunther had calculated, and harder than Otto could bear.
Hikmar was built in layers, like a wedding cake left too long in the oven. At the top — white palaces and the coolness of fountains. At the bottom — sewers, heat, and shadow-people.
We descended endless spiral staircases cut into the sandstone. The air grew thick, sticky. It smelled of rotting fruit, unwashed bodies, and despair.
Halfway down, Otto's legs stopped.
It wasn't a decision made by his brain. It was a bodily mutiny. His knees simply locked, refusing to take another step into that abyss.
Skeleton (the dog) sat beside him, pressing his flank against his master’s leg, and whined quietly, sensing the smell of blood rising from below.
"I can't," Otto whispered, gripping the railing until his fingers turned white. "I can't take him there. It’s betrayal. He trusts me. Look into his eyes, Bodo."
Bodo stopped a step lower. He spat chewing tobacco into the void between the stairs.
"I'm looking, Shepherd. I see a dog — a common mongrel. Market price: zero."
"He’s a living soul! He has a personality!" Otto’s voice cracked into a squeal. "How can you be so... dead inside?"
Bodo slowly walked back up. He didn't hit Otto. He simply loomed over him, smelling of old iron and sweat.
"Want a story?" the mercenary asked in a calm, mundane tone. "About love for animals?"
Otto was silent, trembling.
"I had a dog. Named Hans," Bodo began, staring somewhere through the dirty walls of Hikmar. "A big wolfhound. I bought him with my first pay in the 'Northern Wolves' company. I fed him better than myself. Scratched behind his ears. Talked to him when the boys were asleep. I loved him, Shepherd. More than my own mother."
Hope flared in Otto's eyes.
"And? Did you save him?"
"No," Bodo smiled crookedly. "We got ambushed near Weissenburg. Goblins. There were many, and they were fast. I slipped in the mud. Fell. A goblin raider already had his spear raised to pierce my throat. I saw his rotten teeth."
Bodo paused, letting the image develop.
"And do you know what Hans did? He jumped. He latched onto the goblin's arm. The spear went wide and pierced Hans's side. Clean through."
Otto covered his mouth with his hand.
"God..."
"Hans was squealing. Goblins were hacking him with cleavers. Three of them. They were turning my dog into mincemeat," Bodo’s voice remained steady as a sword edge. "And me? I leveraged the tactical advantage. I stood up. I drew my sword. And I killed those three while they were busy with the dog."
"Did... did you avenge him?" Otto asked hopefully.
"I survived," Bodo corrected. "I received payment for the contract — 300 crowns. And then I bought myself a new helmet. A good, closed sallet. Do you know why?"
Bodo leaned close to Otto’s face.
"Because Hans wasn't a 'friend'. Hans was a 'Living Shield'. I bought him for 100 crowns, and he saved my hide, which is worth thousands. It was a profitable investment, Shepherd. He did his job. He died so I could buy beer and live on."
Otto looked at the mercenary with horror.
"You are a monster."
"I am a Professional," Bodo grabbed Otto roughly by the elbow and jerked him downward, forcing his legs to move. "And your Skeleton is also a professional. He just doesn't know it yet. Don't insult him with pity. Let him do what he was born for: buy you dinner with the price of his hide."
Otto resisted no more. He walked down, moving his legs mechanically like a doll. Skeleton trotted alongside, wagging his tail, unaware that he had already been counted, amortized, and written off.
The cellar reeked of blood and gambling. In the corner lay a pile of dead dogs. Otto looked at them, but Bodo held his shoulder tight, acting as a corset for a broken spine.
"Pay the fee," the mercenary hissed. "And remember Hans."
"He’s like a brother to me..."
"You have cheap relatives, kid. Pay."
Opposite them stood the opponent. A vile man holding a mutant wolf without a lower lip on a chain.
"It's going to be an ugly fight," Otto whispered, removing the collar. "Skeleton... forgive me. Kill him. Quickly."
The referee waved his hand.
It was a slaughter. The mutant charged like a battering ram. Skeleton, using his skinniness and speed, darted to the side.
Otto didn't watch. He turned to the wall.
But Bodo watched. He watched attentively, appraisingly, like a butcher looks at a carcass being dressed.
"Work it!" the mercenary yelled at the dog. "Not the leg! Go for the neck! There's an artery! Come on, flea-bag, I put my own money on you!"
Yelp. Growl. Crunch.
"Done!" the referee shouted.
Otto turned around. The mutant was dead. Skeleton stood over him, breathing heavily. Our dog had a torn ear, blood dripping onto the sand.
Otto fell to his knees, hugging the dog.
"Alive..."
Bodo calmly walked to the bookie, took the heavy pouch, and counted the coins. No emotion. Only mathematics.
"500 crowns. Excellent."
He walked up to Otto, clapped him on the shoulder, and shoved a couple of coins into his hand.
"Here. Buy yourself some... dates and water, Shepherd. Your dog is a killer. That is a compliment. Weaklings don't survive in our line of work."
We returned to camp.
Bodo threw the purse to Gunther.
"Deficit covered. We are in the plus. The mutt performed."
Gunther weighed the gold and smiled.
"We can buy food for three days. And pay Talah for one day of downtime."
"Skeleton is wounded," Otto said dully. "He needs medicine. The ear needs stitching."
Gunther looked at the dog. Then at the purse.
"Bandages cost fifteen crowns. Herbs — fifty."
He paused.
"Fine. Allocate 20 crowns for treatment. Let Vain stitch him up. This Asset has proven its profitability. And... rename him."
"To what?"
"To 'Warg'. 'Skeleton' sounds illiquid. But 'Warg' sounds like an investment in violence."
Otto led the dog into the shadows. "He is not a Warg," the Shepherd muttered. That evening, he read poetry in Latin to the dog.
And Bodo sat by the fire, sipping something from a flask wrapped in rags (clearly not water) and counting his share. For him, it was just a Tuesday. A good, profitable Tuesday.
(End of Chapter 19, Part 1)
?? GUNTHER'S BETTING POOL
Attention: This story is based on a recorded run, so the outcome is already set in stone (and blood).
However, I want to test your Risk Assessment skills.
Gunther allocated budget for 3 slots in the Arena. Guess, who goes into the grinder? (Select exactly 3)
