We spent a week licking our wounds in the city of Hoiwai after the humiliation on the field of the Great Battle. But while the fighters scrubbed blood from their gambesons, Gunther did not rest. He prowled the taverns, listening to the whispers of drunken caravan guards, watching the prices of holy water and garlic.

  "The market is feverish," he announced at the morning meeting, spreading charts drawn with charcoal on a scrap of tablecloth. "Rumors of the dead in the North and East. Necromancers are emerging from their secret lairs. Panic will start soon."

  "So what?" the Sergeant asked, greasing his armor with lard. "What's it to us?"

  "So the cost of hiring a soldier will triple!" the Accountant barked. "If a mercenary costs five hundred crowns now, tomorrow, when the dead start knocking on the gates, he will cost fifteen hundred. We cannot sustain such a budget."

  Gunther slapped his palm on the table, raising a puff of dust.

  "I declare an Emergency Recruitment Drive. Budget: minimal. Criteria: presence of a pulse and limbs. We are not looking for heroes. Heroes are expensive. We are looking for Refuse. Those with nowhere to go. Fugitives, debtors, deviants."

  "Discounts?" Jem clarified, tuning his lute.

  "Total Clearance," Gunther nodded. "Scour the bottom. Brothels, ditches, prisons. Fill my roster. We need mass to crush the undead with numbers when quality fails."

  Thus began Operation "Meat on Sale".

  The Sergeant sat in the corner of "The Limping Goblin" tavern, gloomily picking at the table with a knife.

  A shadow fell across the table.

  "You've aged," said a quiet, calm voice. "And you shout less."

  The Sergeant looked up. Before him stood a man who looked as if he had been erased with an eraser. Gray clothes, gray eyes, a longbow on his back.

  [EMPLOYEE DOSSIER: GUNT]

  Background: Hunter.

  Quirk: Sociopath. Prefers the company of trees to the company of people.

  Skill: Can shoot a squirrel in the eye from 70 paces.

  "Gunt," the Sergeant exhaled. "I thought they hanged you in Altdorf for poaching."

  "The rope broke," Gunt sat down opposite, without asking permission. "I heard you're running a circus."

  "We are a PMC," the Sergeant snapped. "We need a sniper."

  "I have a bow, and I have a condition: I stand so far from the front line that I can't even smell the sweat of these slaves. I don't like loud noises, and I don't like it when people approach me with knives."

  "Agreed. No advance. Share of the trophies."

  Gunther, watching from a distance, made a note: "Asset Class: 'Veteran Sniper'. Risk: panic attacks in melee. Recommendation: keep in deep rear."

  We needed people with nothing to lose. Jem suggested looking in "The Place Where Men Seek Oblivion." The "Red Lantern" brothel-inn.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  We entered not as clients, but as HR Inspection.

  The first room was pure chaos. A half-naked man was trying to climb out the window while an enraged man with a club was breaking down the door.

  "Catch him!" Jem shouted.

  We stunned the brawler (who turned out to be a cuckolded husband) and pulled the guy back in, saving him from falling.

  "I didn't pay!" he screamed, covering himself with a pillow. "It was pure love!"

  "Who are you?" Gunther asked, appraising his calves.

  "Vol. Messenger. Former."

  "Run fast?" Gunther evaluated his attempt to jump out the window. "Reflexes are good."

  "I'm a pacifist!" Vol lied.

  "You are a 'Hybrid'," Gunther corrected. "We need squirmy ones like you. You will stand in the second row with throwing weapons. If someone gets pinned — you swap places (Rotation) and take the hit with a shield. You're used to moving quickly in case of danger, right?"

  "All my life," Vol sighed.

  "We shall call him Casanova," Jem smirked. "Where do we send the alimony checks?"

  "To the general fund," Gunther cut in. "Protection from husbands is included in the benefits package."

  We moved on. Strange sounds came from the basement. Sharp cracks and cries.

  The Sergeant kicked the door open, expecting to see torture.

  In the center of the room, chained to a post, stood a Eunuch. And looming over him was a fat client with a whip.

  But the strange thing was that the Eunuch... was instructing.

  "Wrong!" he hissed with contempt. "Use your wrist, idiot! You hit like a washerwoman! You have to snap the tip so it tears the skin, not pets it! Give it here!"

  The Eunuch, twisting with incredible agility, snatched the whip from the client and gave a master class.

  CRACK!

  The whip snapped a centimeter from the client's nose, knocking his hat off from a decent striking distance. Perfect.

  Gunther froze.

  "That skill... A weapon with range. And control."

  "His name is Djamil," the Madam said, appearing in the doorway. "He is for... specific clients. But he is too aggressive. Take him for two hundred. He scared away all my sadists with his perfectionism."

  "I take him," Gunther said. "With the whip."

  Djamil looked at us with the empty, dead eyes of a man who had everything cut out except his anger.

  "I can knock a sword out of a knight's hand," he said quietly. "Or I can knock out a soul. What do you need?"

  "Swords," said the Sergeant. "We have no need for souls; Gunther doesn't accept them on the balance sheet."

  Dieter waited for us at the exit. Our Tank in the wolf skin was holding a skinny, twitchy kid by the scruff of his neck.

  "This is Huner," Dieter boomed. "My... countryman. From the same caravan. He survived by hiding in a herring barrel."

  "He looks flimsy," the Sergeant noted.

  "He can hit a rat in the dark," Dieter argued. "I will stand in front of him like a wall. He will throw from over my shoulder. I vouch for him."

  "Tandem?" Gunther clarified. "If he hits you in the back — you pay for your own treatment. Hired."

  And in the shadow of the cart, trying to blend in with the trash, a short man had settled. He was sober (for now), but he smelled as if he washed in beer.

  "And who are you?" Jem asked.

  "I am Edmun. I am small. I am hard to hit."

  "Is that it?"

  "And I know how to find booze in a desert."

  Gunther looked at him. Edmun's height made him an awkward target. Enemies would miss.

  "Latent talent," the Accountant nodded. "Trait: 'Tiny'. +5 Defense bonus, -15% damage penalty. You will be a 'Dodge-Tank'. Cheap to maintain, eats little (due to size). Hired. But if you get drunk on watch... The Sergeant will show you his whip treatment methodology."

  In the evening, Gunther lined up the reinforcements.

  The sociopath sniper. The fugitive lover. The sadist eunuch with a whip. The barrel-cured thrower. And the drunkard shorty.

  He closed the ledger with a clap.

  "Total hiring cost: 400 crowns. For five. That is less than 100 crowns per soul. This is an absolute record of budget optimization."

  "They look like rabble," the Sergeant noted, spitting.

  "They look like Margins," Gunther corrected. "We are ready for the Crisis. If they die — we lose nothing but petty cash. If they live — we hit the jackpot."

  Mercenary squad "The Bums" had swelled to the size of a small army.

  An army of freaks, ready to meet the Army of the Dead.

  (END OF INTERLUDE 3)