Lothar didn’t realise quite how tired he’d got of life in the city until he left. But stepping out into the great untamed lands of Gal’azu felt freeing. There were opportunities here, for those with the guts to take them. He wasn’t sure why it had taken him so long.

He’d heard that many Hargon immigrants had taken land on the west side of the Auster River, and that seemed the natural place to begin his quest.

He found slim pickings. Most people here had a different notion of what a life of adventure looked like to his. To them, it was waking up early and cleaning out the pig sties, before tackling an endless list of other chores, until one staggered into bed, woke up again in five hours, and did it all over again. When Lothar talked about fighting bandits, finding treasure, and the experiences that got his blood racing, all he got were polite nods.

As he moved from farmstead to hamlet to village, he began to wonder if he hadn’t simply made a great mistake in coming to Gal’azu. It made sense in theory. An unexplored continent, full of dangers, but equivalent rewards. But he needed to find explorers ready to face danger, who craved such rewards. It seemed the folk who had come here had different motives. They craved the sort of freedom that provided independence and peace. It was all rather inconsiderate.

He had a go at recruiting the local youth in one village, buying them a round of drinks. They were excited at the idea of fighting monsters and discovering untold riches. They just didn’t see themselves doing it.

‘Imagine me doing that!’ a lad with a fuzzy beard said. ‘I’d mess my breeches in terror!’

‘I couldn’t fight,’ said his friend. ‘I’ve got two left hands. I’d stab meself before someone else.’

Lothar leaned back, disappointed. The crowd he was with looked sorry for him.

‘What kind of person are you looking for, mister?’

‘Someone who can use a weapon. Any weapon would do.’ He sighed. ‘An archer. Been a while since I had an archer in my crew. Always adds an extra dimension to a skirmish.’

The group looked at one another.

‘There’s Christoph the Bowman,’ said the bearded youth. ‘Lives on a farm two miles out west.’

Lothar gave him a stare. ‘Are you kidding me?’

‘No, mister. We can take you. If you want.’

Two of his new friends led him across a muddy wasteland towards the isolated farm. It had been hacked out of the woodland which bound it to north and west. There were a few wooden buildings and plenty of animals in the fields.

‘What is an archer doing living here?’

‘Well, Christoph isn’t really an archer,’ said fuzzy beard. ‘He’s a farmer, working here with his family. There’s his parents, aunts and uncles—’

‘Wait,’ Lothar said, stopping. ‘Christoph the Bowman, you said. That’s why I came here.’

‘Well. Bowman is more of a nickname, really,’ said the girl who accompanied them. ‘See, he once met an archer. Wouldn’t stop talking about it. So everyone calls him Christoph the Bowman.’

‘He once met an archer,’ Lothar repeated. ‘And you dragged me out here for that? How is that helpful?’

They both looked hurt. ‘We can go back—’

‘No. We’re here now. It’s my fault, I suppose, for not asking the right questions before we left.’ Lothar really didn’t think it was his fault. ‘Might as well meet him.’

At least the family of the ‘bowman’ were a friendly lot. They were one of those traditional families who pulled out all the stops when they had guests. Lothar was seated at a table in the kitchen which was soon groaning with food. Hams, sausages, cheeses, eggs, sauerkraut, bread, sauces—and homebrew. Lothar was in his element.

The commander of the feast was a handsome woman who turned out to be the Bowman’s aunt. When the eighteen members of the family and their three guests were seated—a spread of ages from six to sixty—she led the prayers, then the interrogation.

‘So,’ she said, after Lothar had introduced himself, ‘you have come to recruit Christoph?’ Her puzzled look was shared by the other family members. Christoph beamed, perhaps at being the centre of attention.

‘Well…if he has the skills I’m looking for,’ Lothar said, doubtfully.

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Christoph was nineteen, still skinny, despite his labours on the farm. He had a mop of dark blond hair and wide, blue eyes.

‘Oh, he’s a quick learner,’ said Christoph’s father, ‘and a hard worker. I think spending some time with Mr Sauer will benefit him no end. It’s time he left the nest and explored the world.’

‘But isn’t mercenary work dangerous, Mr Sauer?’ his mother asked.

Yes. Of course it bloody is, Stiff said to himself. ‘Well, I’ve reached a good age. A few scars along the way, of course. But as your husband says, I’ve seen the world, and made good money doing it. Someone of your son’s age doesn’t have to do it for long. He can earn a nest egg, then buy some choice land and retire at thirty.’ He probably won’t see twenty-one if he comes with me.

Christoph’s family all looked pretty keen on the idea. Lothar feared this was because they liked the idea of ridding themselves of a useless mouth to feed, rather than thinking a soldier for hire was the perfect career path.

‘You’ll want to speak to Christoph, Mr Sauer, I am sure,’ said his aunt. ‘To see if it’s something that would truly work out.’

‘Most definitely.’

Lothar and Christoph strolled around his family’s steading. Lothar could see the attraction of the farming life, even if he knew he was totally ill-suited to it. In his experience, there was something about such places that often created the best warriors. And, indeed, there was nothing wrong with Christoph. He was healthy, and young enough to mould into what Lothar needed.

‘I must ask about this nickname of yours. You spent some time with an archer, I hear?’

‘Oh, yes. The best time of my life. Ever since, I’ve imagined such a life for myself. Which is why I am so excited about your offer, Mr Sauer.’

‘And he taught you some skills with the weapon?’ Lothar pressed.

‘Oh, no,’ Christoph laughed. ‘But on one occasion, he did let me carry it.’

‘Carry it?’

‘Yes, Mr Sauer.’

‘So, your sole experience with a bow is that you once carried one? You don’t own one, or—?’

‘Oh, no. I wish I did!’

‘Then ‘the Bowman’ is rather a misleading nickname, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Very much so. It was said in jest at first, and then it just kind of stuck. And I suppose I kind of liked it, too.’

‘And you’re keen to become a bowman for real? You’d work at the weapon?’

‘Definitely!’

‘Practice every day? Until your fingers bleed, and your shoulder aches? I can’t carry people who give up when things get hard.’

‘I understand, Mr Sauer. If I ever had a bow, I would practise every chance I got.’

What else was there to say? The sad truth was, Christoph was the only recruit Lothar had found. He wasn’t going to make any difference to the Rescue Livestock mission Wilson had bungled. At the very best, he was a long term prospect. But the boy was all he had.

‘Alright, I’m taking you on.’

‘Thank you, sir!’

‘Let’s go see your folks and break the happy news.’

Christoph’s mother cried, and Lothar could hardly blame her.

‘Is your sister here?’ he asked.

‘Femke? My sister-in-law. She’s in the maternity pen. We have a cow ready to give birth and she never leaves her for long. I can take you.’

‘Point me in the right direction.’

Lothar peered around the entrance to the barn, fearing the worst.

‘What are you afraid of?’ Femke asked him, wiping her arm on a towel. She had her nephew’s blonde colouring and big blue eyes.

‘Blood and guts.’

‘Odd that someone in your profession should be afraid of that.’

‘Yes and no. You look after all the animals here?’

‘Not only me. But when it comes to birthing and healing, I’m the one they call.’

‘Huh. Christoph is coming to work for me.’

‘Will you look out for him?’

‘Of course. But I’ll be putting him in danger.’

‘I understand that. But I have a good feeling about you, Mr Sauer.’

‘Everyone calls me Stiff.’

‘Do they? Anyway, I’m usually a good judge of character.’

‘Then I have something to ask you. My outfit needs a medic. You’ll be paid well and I’ll keep you away from the fighting.’

‘I’m no doctor.’

‘You have the skills I need. Patching people up mid-mission. Those who need more specialist care can get it afterwards. Come on, Femke. Give it a try. Your family can keep this farm going without you.’

‘If I was ten years younger, Mr Sauer, then maybe you’d have convinced me. But I have bad knees, bad sleep, bad headaches, and most of the time, I’m in a bad mood.’

‘What if Christoph were to get an injury that you could have dealt with? If you’re not there, he’ll probably get treated by a gnome with anger issues.’

‘You bastard! Using my nephew to recruit me? That’s low.’

Lothar shrugged. ‘I’ve sunk far lower in my time. I’m not a bad judge of character myself, Femke. I want you on my team.’

‘Alright. But I’m not calling you “Stiff”.’

‘You have special dispensation to call me Lothar.’

He offered his hand and she took it.

‘But we can’t leave ’til this cow has foaled.’

‘Fair enough.’

Lothar returned to the main house. He allowed himself a big grin. He’d come looking for warriors to boost the strength of The Order of The Rotten Apples. He’d not found any. It was more confirmation that The Golden Blades had sucked up any decent sellsword in Gal’azu into their organisation.

But in the mercenary business, killers were commonplace. Competent healers could be priceless.