The War of Houses was heating up. The roads turned razor-sharp. We walked along the edge of the conflict, trying not to shine, but today the Great RNG decided to flip a coin tails-up.

  Morning began with personnel sabotage.

  The Sergeant stepped into formation holding the green-spotted Standard. Since Otwin’s death, there had been no volunteers to carry the "Arrow Magnet."

  "Gisel!" the Sergeant barked. "You are now the staff Standard-Bearer. Accept the post!"

  Gisel, our "Fake Architect," stepped out of line as if every joint in his body were made of rusty iron. He clutched his lower back, his face a portrait of martyrdom.

  "I can't, Commander," he wheezed. "Failure of the load-bearing structure."

  "What?"

  "The spine. Yesterday, while reloading barrels... there was a foundation shift in the vertebral column. I cannot maintain the vertical. If I fall, the Brand ends up in the mud. Reputational risks!"

  Gunther looked up from his ledger.

  "He is malingering."

  "It is a latent defect!" Gisel protested. "Material fatigue! I require bed rest and a position in the second row, where there is no load."

  Gunther sighed. He didn't want to risk the 250-crown banner.

  "We need a Deputy. Adler," the Accountant said, looking at our one-eyed fat man.

  "Me?!" Adler squeaked. "I am a Tank! I have a shield! Without a shield, I am like a turtle without a shell!"

  "You are a Reservoir of Resolve—fueled by mass. Take the stick. And don't whine. Double ration of porridge tonight. If you survive."

  Adler took the Banner like a death sentence. Gisel, miraculously cured of his acute lameness, briskly took a spot in the second row, directly behind Adler's wide back.

  "I will cover your rear."

  "Perfect," read the expression on the schemer's face. "The fatty will screen me from arrows. I'm in the bunker."

  And at noon, we ran into a Patrol of House Grauwald.

  Twelve men. Mail hauberks, heraldic shields, heavy arbalests. A real regular army.

  "Those aren't brigands!" Jem yelled, nearly dropping his lute. "That is a Punitive Squad! They have plate!"

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  "Move out!" hissed the Sergeant. "Dieter and Huber into the cart, they are useless! Bodo, to me! Hold the line!"

  "They see us," Gunther stated. "Initiative is theirs."

  On the hill, an enemy arbalester raised his heavy weapon.

  He saw the target: the idiot with the flag, standing there shaking.

  Click.

  The bolt arced through the air.

  Adler saw the glint of the tip with his single eye. The instinct of a hereditary coward worked faster than thought. He didn't try to be a hero.

  He simply squatted.

  Sharply, like a sack of potatoes, covering his head with his hands and dropping the banner.

  The bolt passed exactly where Adler's head had been a second ago.

  And with a dull, wet sound — THWACK! — it buried itself in the shoulder of Gisel standing behind him.

  "AAHH!!!" the Fake Architect howled, clutching the protruding fletching. "My clavicle! Violation of safety regulations!!!"

  "It happens," Jem observed, philosophical and unruffled, hiding behind a tree. "If the target dodges, the projectile hits whoever is standing in the Line of Fire. Karma caught up with the smartass."

  The enemy infantry began to close in. The wall of Grauwald shields advanced like a press.

  "Odds assessment!" Gunther shouted.

  "Zero!" Bodo answered, spitting tobacco. "We get wiped out."

  "Protocol 'Negative Growth'!" Gunther commanded. "Retreat! Save the Investment! Talah — back!"

  It wasn't a flight. It was a Chaotic Migration into the Treeline.

  Talah (our 9,500 crowns) ran first, pushing through bushes like a gilded icebreaker, because Gunther was screaming at his back: "If you get scratched — I’ll kill you!"

  The Sergeant and Bodo covered the retreat, snapping back with lunges and taking hits on their shields.

  Gisel ran, bleeding and howling in pain, clutching his uselessly dangling arm.

  Adler ran, dragging the banner along the ground, with Gunther yelling: "Don't tear the fabric, you idiot!".

  The cart with the wounded Dieter and Huber shook so hard they prayed for a quick death.

  We broke away. The forest was dense, and the footmen were lazy.

  We sat in a ravine, dirty, sweaty, humiliated.

  Vain (the Anatomist) leaned over Gisel. Forceps glinted in his hands.

  "Interesting trajectory," Vain muttered, licking his lips. "Bone grazed, but the artery is intact. This is going to hurt. Don't twitch, Architect, or I'll demolish the load-bearing structure."

  Yank. Gisel howled and lost consciousness.

  Gunther took the bloody bolt.

  "Bolt — into inventory. And you, Architect, get a Fine. For poor positioning. And for simulating illness this morning."

  "It's Adler's fault!" Gisel whined, coming to his senses. "He ducked! It was a setup!"

  "I was surviving!" Adler snapped back, greedily finishing off the half-ration confiscated from the punished Gisel. "Next time, stand with the flag yourself. I'd rather see what's flying at me than catch your mistakes with my face."

  Gisel, holding his bandaged shoulder, looked gloomily at the chewing Adler, then shifted his gaze to Talah, who was polishing his golden armor.

  "Next time," Gisel said quietly, "I am standing BEHIND Talah. He is too wide. And too expensive to fall."

  "We're alive," the Sergeant concluded, wiping his sword. "And the banner... well, Greta will wash it."

  Thus, a new Rule appeared in the squad:

  "If you want to hide behind someone's back — make sure that back doesn't know how to fall faster than you."