The world around us was going mad. The noble houses of Grauwald and Berengar were at each other's throats. Villages burned, and gleaming columns of footmen marched along the highways.
And what about us?
We, PMC "The Bums", were doing what we loved best: hiding in the shadow of Giants.
"Neutrality Doctrine," Gunther announced as our cart rattled over potholes. "We do not touch heraldic shields. We look for the 'Third Force'. Brigands, deserters. Those whom no one will miss."
And we found them.
A contract in a small village on the border. A "Gang of Poachers."
"Easy money," the Sergeant decided, assessing the risk. "They have no armor. Only bows and knives. Ideal for formation drilling and raising morale."
We lined up on the field.
The Sergeant walked along the line, adjusting gear. Today he decided not to dive into the thick of the fight, but to supervise.
"Hold the line!" he roared. "Dieter, center! Knut, left flank! Otwin, front!"
Otwin, our "Morale Manager," stepped into the first row on the right flank.
He was beaming. The green Serpent Banner snapped in the wind above his head. He felt like a hero of an epic saga. He had the best shirt in the squad and a full 45 Hitpoints.
"Target sighted!" he shouted. "On the hill!"
Jem, standing in the back with his lute, narrowed his eyes.
"Those aren't just bowmen. Those are Marksmen with crossbows," the Jester said quietly. "And they don't see a 'hero'. They see a 'Big Bonus to Hit'. Sergeant, pull him back! Otwin has no Ranged Defense!"
"Belay that!" barked the Sergeant, loyal to the old manuals. "The Banner must lead the men! Otwin, show them our Colors! Let them fear!"
Otwin took a wide step forward, waving the standard.
On the hill, a bowstring snapped.
It wasn't a volley — a single, dry, businesslike shot.
The bolt cut through the air with the buzz of a hornet.
Otwin didn't even have time to get scared.
The bolt hit him precisely in the left eye socket.
His helmet (a simple leather cap) didn't save him. It couldn't have.
Otwin's head jerked back as if from an invisible uppercut.
He was dead before his knees hit the ground.
The Banner — our Brand, our Pride worth 250 crowns — slowly, as if in slow motion, toppled into the spring mud.
"Otwin!" Dieter roared.
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The squad froze.
It wasn't just death. It was Shock. An instant Morale Wipe.
We had seen men die. But Otwin... He was our Face. And now that Face lay in the mud with crossbow fletching sticking out of its eye.
White flags — [Morale Check Failed] — began popping up over the recruits' heads. Tobias the Coward was already turning to run.
"Hold!" Gunther's voice cut through the panic.
The Accountant wasn't looking at the corpse. He was looking at the Banner lying in the puddle.
"The fabric!" Gunther squealed. "The fabric is spoiling! That is an Asset on the Balance Sheet! Pick it up! Immediately!"
The Sergeant froze. He looked at dead Otwin and realized: he had killed him. His order. His stupid adherence to "heroics." His hand gripped the sword hilt until his knuckles turned white, but he couldn't take a step. He was paralyzed by guilt.
Then, from the second row, stepped Gisel.
Former mason. Fake Architect. A man who always knew where the lightest bricks lay.
He didn't rush forward screaming "For Otwin!".
He calmly walked up to the corpse, stepped over it (trying not to stain his boots with his colleague's brains), and picked up the shaft.
Mud slapped off the green fabric.
"Gisel!" the Sergeant shouted, finding his voice. "Get in formation! First row! Replace the fallen! Hold the flank!"
Gisel looked at the Sergeant as if he were an idiot suggesting to build a house in a swamp without a foundation.
"No," he said firmly.
And took a step back.
He stood behind Dieter — our Tank in the wolf skin. He hid behind the barbarian's broad shoulders.
"In University, they taught us," Gisel muttered, shaking off the banner, "that the Load-Bearing Structure (that's me with the Banner) must be located inside the Facade (that's Dieter with the shield). If the Facade collapses, we build a new one. If the Load-Bearing Structure collapses, the building is finished."
An arrow whistled and struck Dieter's shield. Gisel didn't even blink. He was safe.
He raised the banner high. The Serpents soared above the squad again, but now — from the safety of the second row.
He opened his mouth to let out a battle cry...
"Uhh..." Gisel squeezed out. "Ahem... Well... Hold on, lads? I think we are winning?"
He didn't have a commanding voice.
But the sight of the Banner flying again (and, more importantly, not falling) calmed the men.
Tobias stopped running and started shooting back.
Dieter roared and charged, covering the "architect."
Baldur raised his Skull Hammer.
We slaughtered those poachers. We took out all our anger and fear on them.
When the fight was over, we gathered around the body.
Gunther busily approached the corpse, braced his foot against Otwin's forehead, and with a crunch pulled out the bolt.
"Bolt intact. Into the quiver. Leather cap — to the laundry, blood washes out. Shirt ruined, scrap for bandages."
"Gunther..." the Sergeant wheezed. "That was Otwin."
"That was a written-off asset," the Accountant cut him off. "With a negative luck parameter."
The Sergeant stood silent, looking into the empty eye socket of his former "Manager."
"I..." he began.
"You made a mistake," Jem said, touching a lute string. The sound was sad, like a funeral toll. "You thought the Flag was a Shield. But the Flag is a Magnet. Otwin paid for your tactical lesson with his life."
From that day on, a new Rule appeared in our squad:
The Standard-Bearer never stands in the front row.
The Standard-Bearer is a Shrine. And Shrines are kept deep in the Temple, far away from vandals with crossbows.
Gisel became our new Standard-Bearer. He didn't know how to yell. He didn't know how to inspire.
But he knew how to hide behind the backs of his comrades. And for "The Bums," that was more important than any heroism.
