"YOU FUCKING MUTTS, YOU DOGS, YOU'LL PAY FOR THIS, YOU HEAR? YOU'LL FUCKING PA—OOF!" A shoulder rocketed into his gut, cutting off his rant mid-way and folding him double like a sack of milled grain.

Rough hands yanked him back upright, the rope biting into wrists; raw, bloodied and bruised.

"YOU THINK THIS IS OVER, YOU PIECES OF SHIT?" he spat, eyes ablaze.

"YOU THINK YOU'VE WON? I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU, YA HEAR? I'LL RIP OUT YER THROATS AND SHIT DOWN YER NECKS! EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YER BASTARDS WILL PAY!"

"I, ROGIER OF THE—OOF!" A fist pummeled his jaw, snapping his head to the side, sending a spray of blood and spit onto the dirt.

His face, beaten beyond recognition, was a swollen, ruptured mess. His features, buried beneath a tide of blood, brises and grime, barely resembled those of a human's.

"I'LL… GUT YOU! I'LL GUT YOU! I'LL GUT YOU LIKE PIGS, YA HEAR?" he screamed, voice cracking with rage, blood dripping from his split lips and broken nose.

"I'LL FUCKING—UGH!" Another blow to the ribs had him wheezing, his breath hitching as he fought against the ropes cutting into his swollen, raw wrists and ankles.

"Shut the fuck up already," someone barked. "Can't stand another word from this fat bastard."

"The fucker killed ten of ours," another growled. "We should string him up by his guts and hang him from the gates, let the crows pick him clean."

"Boss's orders," a third cut in, his voice lazy and flat, wishing it were otherwise.

"YOU... YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE LAST OF US, DOG! COMMANDER DURNARD WILL RIP YER BASTARDS APART. HE'LL MAKE EVERY ONE OF YA MUTTS PAY!" Rogier barked, struggling to stay upright, hobbling and wobbling on feet bound by heavy rope, forcing him to shuffle like a trussed-up hog.

One of the mercenaries, sick of the captive's mouth, kicked the back of his knees, sending him crashing to the ground face-first. His nose crunched with a sickening thud against the dirt, blood pouring down his abused face.

"I'll rip out your fucking tongue if you don't shut your trap, you fat fucking pig." They yanked Rogier back to his feet, face now like a pumpkin kicked in, dragging him along with the rest of the captives, who shuffled forward in a miserable, winding line.

"Look at this sorry lot," someone cackled, pointing with a greasy finger. "The Bloodied Hand, soon to be bloodied stump. Have fun jerking it now, you sorry cunts."

"Better start practicing with your feet then, eh?" another jeered, triggering a round of raucous laughter. Some slapped their thighs and others nearly doubled over, guffawing like a band of idiots.

They dragged Rogier onto the platform, shoving him to his knees. His hands, raw and torn from the ropes, were yanked free and slammed onto a splintered block of wood, stained a deep, dark violent red.

image [https://i.imgur.com/AbVkA0L.jpg]

"Hands out flat, so I can make it nice and clean," a brute of a man sneered, hefting a massive bardiche over his shoulders, its blade catching the orange firelight along its wicked edge.

He ground Rogier's palms into the rough wood with his filthy boots, twisting his heel with a special malice as he forced them flat against the splintered surface.

"Do your worst, dog," Rogier spat through a mouthful of blood and drooling spittle, his voice hoarse from a night spent screaming expletives and describing mothers.

"Oh, believe me, I'm dying to. But tonight…" The man raised the bardiche high, grinning as the world held its breath. "… just a little trim."

With a sickening crunch, the blade crashed down, tearing through flesh, bone, and sinew in one brutal stroke.

Blood sprayed in a crimson arc, splattering the executioner's boots. Rogier's scream shredded the night, a clawing, guttural howl that echoed off the castle walls. The crowd's shouts and jeers joined in mingling with his tortured wails as he clutched his shredded stumps, blood spurting from the savaged ends.

"Tch... tch... tch... messy nails," the axe-man chided, a smirk curling his lips.

He wiped the blood from his blade with a rag, kicking the severed hands aside like so much garbage, adding them to the waist-high pile of discarded limbs that would only grow before the night was done.

"Didn't your mother teach you any better?" he sneered, watching as the hands landed on the bloody heap.

"Look at him now!" one of the mercenaries shouted. "Bet you won't be so fucking handy with that mace of yours anymore, huh?"

"Guess you're going to have to get real creative when you need to rub one out, ya stump-fuck."

"Think he can still pick his nose?" called another.

"Fuck him, he ain't picking anything ever again!" someone else shouted. "Good luck wiping your ass, stumpy!"

"Bet he'll use his tongue for everything now," a voice jeered. "Enjoy the taste of shit, pig!"

"Maybe we should chop that off next!" another barked, drawing more cackles.

"Next!" the axe man growled and Rogier was dragged away, leaving behind a smear of blood as another poor soul was shoved into his place, thrashing, wailing, and pleading; all for naught.

"What?" Gambino, the prick who fancied himself king of this sorry lot snapped my way.

My gaze flitted, unsure.

Should I ignore the man? Pretend that I did not here?

Perhaps I should have simply been grateful that I had survived this far and not risked demanding what I was deserved for my so-called 'daring volunteerism.'

"Nice little distraction you lot were," Gambino grumbled, eyes never leaving the ledger as he noted the bands haul amidst the cries of the maimed. "And I see you ditched those rags of yours. It'll be coming out of your pay."

Shit, of course. I should've expected that. The fucking miser.

Was I to respond?

That seemed unwise, but staying silent might only serve to worsen his already foul mood. Yet ignoring him entirely could be even more dangerous, especially with my unpaid wages hanging in the balance as they were.

Yet to engage him? That would be just as bad maybe if not worse.

"Ha! What's this? Got a case of the shies, have you?" He grunted.

"Spill what's on your mind, little mouse, or I'll have to tickle it out of you." His laugh was a harsh and ugly bark; an unpleasant assault on the ears.

The man's thick, Neanderthal brows knitted together as he meticulously cataloged every scrap of leather, fabric, and metal plundered from the defeated Bloodied Hand. My gaze swept over the line of captives shuffling forward, then settled back on Gambino.

Despite my reservations, I knew it was best to speak up before pushing him any further.

"You're... not killing them?" The absurdity of it all echoed in my voice. He glanced up from his ledger, his eyes lingering on a pilfered tapestry from the castles' keep, confusion flickering across his face.

"That's what's bothering you?" he asked, confused.

I nodded slowly.

"No," the churlish bastard snapped, before he returned back to his task.

Few were keen to cough up a mercenary's ransom, and even less so for a crippled one. Better to try and hawk off rusted nails, one would think.

Selling them as war slaves made more sense; even a broken body has value in the mines or as battlefield fodder. Keeping them alive, even briefly, wasted resources and time—hardly the kind of avarice I'd expect from this tightfisted bastard.

No god, rule, or higher ideal commands a mercenary more than the lure of coin, making this decision all the more baffling. This miser, who wouldn't spend a penny on a napkin and would rather drag his ass across someone else's rug, now choosing to be wasteful? Utterly bizarre. Those maimed without hands were without worth to put it frankly—they couldn't farm nor could they work a trade, and infection will likely do them in soon enough.

If so, then why maim instead of kill?

"Please, I have a family!" The plea tore through the air, raw and desperate.

"And they'll love hearing about Daddy Stumpy," one of the soldiers chuckled. "Imagine all the stories you'll tell. Bedtimes gonna be a real treat."

"Once upon a time... Daddy had fingers, ALL TEN—HA! What a tear jerker." someone added, drawing out another round of cruel chuckles.

A whistle and a thud, then a shrill scream as another pair of hands were severed.

"Hey, Stumpy, how you gonna hold your kids now? Oh, right, you fucking can't!" The laughter grew even louder, more vicious, as the captives' screams were drowned out by the mocking taunts

The obvious reason would be to sow fear, to instill terror so deep our enemies would rather face a plague than meet us in battle. History is littered with such warlords who used fear like a scalpel, cutting through armies with barely a drop of blood spilled.

But us? –We're just mercenaries, hired butchers, and societal leeches meant to kill. Gambino, in the grand scheme, was still just a two-bit thug, not some grand warlord carving out his kingdom –or maybe he fancied himself one; it was still much too early to tell.

Too much cruelty, though, and he'd become a liability to his employers, turning the populace against their would-be lords. Plus, it would rally even more enemies against us, painting targets on our backs when we could ill afford it.

The fear he instilled might keep a village in line for now, or it might rout the enemy at a critical juncture but it also planted the seeds of vengeance. Those seeds would grow, watered by blood spilled for no reason, and one day, they'd come for us with a vengeance that we couldn't afford.

Gambino's short-sightedness could make for a costly indulgence. Yet here he was, indulging in gratuitous cruelty with no clear financial gain. Each cut, each severed hand, was a coin down the drain in a line of work where every coin counted and every decision had to serve the bottom line.

Perhaps I had made a very critical error in aligning myself with these maladjusted individuals. My options were undeniably limited at the time, no wider than a tooth pick really, yet hindsight offers with it a particularly clearer perspective.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

Gambino looked up from his work, eyes narrowing as the scratching of his quill halted for but a second. Sensing the man's growing impatience, I opted for a quick response to stave off his rising ire.

"Why?" I asked, "Why not just kill them and be done with it?" In the background, another scream echoed, a pair of hands freshly severed at the wrist.

"Why? What do you mean, why, you nosy little imp? You think I need to explain every piss I take to you?" Gambino growled, his tone icy but lacking true anger, not even glancing up as more and more loot was piled next to him as he continued with his scribbling.

"I doubt you do much without a reason, sir," I ventured, nudging carefully, trying to sound as deferential as possible, making sure as to not to offend; my past life having prepared me expertly for this role. After all, it paid to be mindful of his temperament, especially in a company as delightful as this cesspool of degenerates.

"Otherwise, none would speak of the Steel Hounds the way they do." Playing kiss-ass to a psychopath—exactly the kind of career progress I had always envisioned. It was flattery, of course, but hopefully not too sycophantic or obsequious.

A looted silver chalice was flung in to the growing pile which Gambino noted down after a quick cursory glance.

"Awfully chatty, aren't you?" He said whilst scribbling before later adding, "But I do plenty of things without needing reasons for them." He jerked his head toward the pile of severed limbs.

"See all those hands, you little pisser?" His voice was cold, and I followed his gesture, nodding reluctantly.

"Thought it'd make for a laugh." His expression stayed grim, then he added with a gruff sneer, "And because Durnard's a prick with a rod shoved so far up his arse it's a wonder that he doesn't shit fucking splinters. The fucker's ego's only outdone by that bloated codpiece of his, the bastard."

That was…worrying–extremely so.

The outfit had gained some notoriety and enough renown for some to be aware of it and moreover had survived thus far.

I would have liked to think that it wasn't solely due to dumb luck but partly because of the man steering this wreck. Gambino, from what I'd observed, was a ruthless and callous bastard, squeezing blood from a stone if it meant an extra coin. His irritation at my survival; all the proof I needed.

Or had I perhaps misjudged him?

Was he just a spiteful, petty tyrant, driven by whims that overruled even his own greed? If so, that was troubling as my fate was now tangled with this sorry lot, despite my deepest wishes otherwise.

Greed was predictable; it was something you could count on in humans. Emotion, far less so in all regards.

Logically, Gambino's actions made little sense from a financial or strategic perspective. His cruelty seemed excessive and gratuitous in both measures, missing the calculated coldness expected from a mercenary leader of his stature.

If his goal was to create fear or to antagonize Durnard, a swifter, more brutal approach would have been more efficient. This lingering, inefficient sadism hinted at something deeper—a potential instability that could endanger everyone under his command.

Another thud and a wail, and another pair of hands joined the pile.

Or perhaps…could there be a deeper motive at play?

The man's past victories suggested he couldn't be a complete brute ruled by impulse alone. I wasn't privy to all the details of the previous battle, and it wasn't my place to inquire. Nevertheless, we had won, incentivizing the ill-equipped rabble like myself to sacrifice themselves willingly so the seasoned and better-equipped core of veterans could remain out of harm's way.

Was his cruelty a calculated tactic then, cleverly disguised as petty indulgence? Perhaps there was a twisted logic at play here, not immediately evident.

Controlling a group of human scum such as this required more than brute force; it demanded a balance of fear, respect, and cunning. A leader who appeared unpredictable and ruthless could deter dissent and maintain control through terror. By indulging in acts of cruelty such as this, Gambino might be aiming to solidify his image, ensuring no one dared to challenge his authority.

However, from what I have perceived so far, there was little sign of dissent within the party, with the exception of the new recruits—and those were few in number. The core members displayed unwavering loyalty to Gambino, their positions secured, and their lives relatively protected in how he chose to wage war.

In contrast, the recruits, deemed expendable, were frequently sacrificed in battle to keep the backbone of the mercenary group out of harm's way. This imbalance revealed a managed hierarchy where loyalty was rewarded, and discontent was minimized.

If his cruelty was a calculated tactic, cleverly disguised as petty indulgence, it might have been designed to maintain an iron grip on his followers.

But even then, that seemed too…simplistic for someone like Gambino.

What then was his angle?

"The hell are you gawking at? Eyeing up those bloody chunks for supper? You're even worse than that other pint-sized runt of ours." Gambino let out a heavy sigh,

'The other?' Whoever they were, it could wait, as it wasn't immediate or pertinent to the matter at hand.

Durnard's presence suggested the Bloodied Hand was a far larger and more organized outfit than this ragtag group of sorry excuses. Their threat was one that was far from yet diminished.

If Gambino had no plan to kill these men, the only option left was to let them go.

Sending these incapacitated men back to Durnard instead of killing them outright must be a deliberate tactic then.

Cripples, unable to fight effectively, would impose a significant burden on the Bloodied Hand. Their maintenance would strain the larger force's finances and resources. The Bloodied Hand, with its presumably superior funding and size, would be compelled to reallocate resources to care for these men. This diversion of support would not only drain their financial reserves but also disrupt their operational efficiency.

Gambino's approach seemed aimed at undermining Durnard's forces not through direct battle but by targeting their logistical and financial stability. By depleting the Bloodied Hand's resources and causing internal strain, Gambino sought to weaken the enemy through indirect means. This method of destabilization showcased a ruthless strategy, leveraging the enemy's own resources against them to achieve a long-term advantage.

In essence, Gambino's strategy was to inflict long-term damage rather than immediate destruction. By sending crippled men back, he was ensuring that Durnard's forces would be bogged down by their own injured, draining their resources and creating internal turmoil. This kind of indirect warfare demonstrated a cunning that went beyond simple cruelty, revealing a leader who understood the power of attrition and psychological warfare.

"Are you going to let them go back? Back to this... Durnard?" I inquired, striving to mask my realization that I was dealing with a true maestro in the arts of war.

Gambino's eyebrow arched, but his cold gaze remained unwavering. With a dismissive shrug, he snapped, "Don't give a rat's arse what happens to them. But what's it to you?" His voice had a sharp edge, laced with irritation. I was treading on thin ice. Better for me to get my payment and leave before pushing my luck any further.

Yet I persisted.

Demonstrating that I could grasp the overarching intent of his strategy and rise above my current role as a mere meat shield whos' only purpose in life was to catch swords with their face was crucial for my continued survival. If I could show that I understood his broader scheme, I might curry favor and secure a position beyond the ignominious rank of human fodder—possibly one less involved with hiding under corpses or something where fewer sharp objects were aimed at my vital organs.

"You're trying to bleed him dry," I said, eager to prove my worth. My heart pounded in my chest, knowing that this moment could determine my fate. Gambino's eyes narrowed, scrutinizing me with a cold intensity.

"Bleed him dry?" he echoed, his tone mocking, so as to discourage me, obviously. "What the fuck am I going to bleed him of?"

"By sending these crippled men back, you force Durnard into a predicament," I continued, determined to demonstrate my understanding.

"He's faced with a choice between two equally damaging options: either he endures the significant financial and logistical burden of caring for these wounded men, or he risks undermining…"I stopped mid-sentence, biting back the rest of my corporate jargon that I always found myself defaulting to when faced with a superior.

This wasn't a boardroom, and the man I was addressing sure as hell wasn't a CEO. No, I was dealing with a cutthroat mercenary leader, not some suit with a corner office. Speaking the way, I was used to back in my old life wasn't going to get me anywhere here. If I wanted to survive this, I needed to adapt —anything less would be a fatal mistake.

"…he… he either spends a fortune keeping these men alive, or he leaves them and wrecks his reputation. It's a smart play—to drain his resources and make him look bad."

Gambino raised an eyebrow, his face otherwise unreadable. I pressed on, hoping to prove my worth beyond that of doubling as a mobile sponge for arrows.

"A leader with any sense wouldn't cast his men aside, even the injured ones. If Durnard pushes these soldiers out, it'll be clear he doesn't give a damn about them. His image would take a nosedive, and his men wouldn't trust him as far as they could throw him. Kicking his own troops to the side would crush morale. They'd start thinking that the second they're no longer useful, they'll be tossed out too" I glanced at Gambino, hoping my words were sinking in.

"If Durnard's got half a brain, he might try to sweep this mess under the rug," I said, my tone sharp. "But trying to hush up a hundred broken men is a tall order and word will spread fast, from the taverns to the brothels. This kind of scandal will ripple through the ranks, and no one's going to be eager to sign up under a leader who dumps his own. The backlash could trash his reputation choke off new recruits, and gut his command's strength."

Gambino's eyes narrowed as he listened, his face a blank slate. The silence that followed my words hung heavy, a sign I was hitting the mark.

"So, you're setting up a win-win for yourself," I continued, pushing the advantage. "If Durnard takes on these crippled men, he's saddled with a load of extra costs and headaches. He'll have to drain his resources just to keep them breathing, and that's going to stretch him thin. But if he dumps them, his reputation's in the gutter. His men will start doubting him, and no one's going to want to sign up under a leader who ditches his own. Either way, you're ready to take the upper hand."

Gambino stared at me for what felt like ages, his face giving nothing away. Finally, he spoke, incredulity dripping from his words. "What the HELL are you blabbing about—" he began, then suddenly clammed shut. It was clear he was struggling to accept that his scheming had just been outed by someone he hadn't expected to in the least.

"Please," someone begged, tears and snot streaming down his cheeks. "Please, you don't need to do this." To my surprise, it was the damnable Rat-face this time, being dragged forward, pale as death, trembling like leaf, his eyes darting all over the place.

"Look at the little baby," one man taunted. "Scared of a little chop, chop?"

"Quit your whining," another spat. "We'd lop your heads off if the boss didn't say otherwise."

Rat-face's sobs turned frantic as he clawed at the block. "Please! No, no, not my hands! I-I'll do anything, just—"

Steel came careening down, biting through flesh and bone, sending a spray of warm blood arcing through the still air. His hands fell away, severed at the wrists, blood spurting from the stumps in grotesque, pulsing jets.

"Next!" the axe man barked, barely glancing at rat face writhing on the ground.

"Pity, if their hands had been crushed instead of cut off, they'd have a better chance of making it back to the Bloodied Hand alive without infection setting in," I mused, feeling the ends of my lips creep upwards as I watched from a far Rat-face get his due.

image [https://i.imgur.com/fSEHWZh.jpg]

I turned to Gambino, who met my eyes with a grim expression. His face as stoic as ever, but with a shift in the way he looked at me, something new in his eyes.

Gambino set down the quill he'd been scratching away with and reached for the cask of ale resting on the table. He held it aloft, pausing as if lost in thought. The furrows in his heavy brow deepened, and his eyes narrowed slightly. After a long moment, he took a deep swig, his throat working steadily with each gulp, before lowering the cask with a satisfied sigh.

He reached down slowly, his fingers bringing up a small pouch onto the table. "Your pay for yesterday's stunt," he muttered, voice gruff.

The pouch looked depressingly small.

As I reached for it, the weight was feather-light, almost mocking in its insubstantiality. A wave of frustration surged through me, the urge to rip out the man's throat born from sheer, maddening depression.

All that for nothing? And it was not like I was in a position to force the man to pay me what I was due.

I tried to keep my voice steady. "This is it?"

Gambino's eyes met mine, an ugly grin spreading. "After those new boots and clothes of yours not counting what you still owe me. Thought you smarter than to ask, mouse." He shrugged.

"You should be thankful I'm paying you at all and not having you 'hushed up' like you just said." Gambino continued in the same breath as he nudged his head toward Gaspard who was overseeing the loot being brought in.

I tightened my hold on the pouch, the scant coins shifting inside. The bastard!

"Maybe you're not as dumb as you look, little mouse. But you're still green as shit. You've got a lot to learn before you start thinking you can read me." He later added with a low chuckle.

Then he placed something heavy on the table with a weighty thud, startling me.

Wrapped in leather with bits of parchment sticking out the middle. A book?

"…Here, your share of the loot. Now fuck off." Gambino muttered, his voice flat and emotionless, as if he were handing me a piece of bread.

I stared at the offering, my mind racing.

This…this was incredibly generous, more than generous; it was downright absurd. Even though the printing press had been around for ages, books still commanded a ludicrous sum, especially in this part of the world. But something about this didn't add up. Gambino wasn't one for charity.

I hesitated, my fingers brushing over the rough, cracked leather cover. The texture felt wrong, uneven and damaged. As I leaned closer, the truth became more obvious. The book was in terrible condition—black soot marks marred the cover, the edges were frayed and crumbling, and entire sections of parchment were likely missing.

The double bastard! Handing me rubbish and acting like it's a favor.

I picked it up, its weight uneven in my hand, the charred scent of burned pages clinging to it. As I thumbed through the brittle remnants, I couldn't help but notice the gaping holes where pages had been torn out, leaving only jagged stubs behind.

Then, I turned it over the symbol on the cover having caught my eye—a , gilded emblem, prominent against the charred leather.

My heart skipped a beat as recognition struck–the Falcon of the Holy See.

The triple fucking bastard!

image [https://i.imgur.com/mLbtsOX.jpg]

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And a special thanks to all my patreons, (left to right) Stinker, Gremlin Jack, Aaron and Hayden.Joiner(not here) for their continued support and input. Thank you, it truly means a lot.

image [https://i.imgur.com/YyVnnlO.jpg]

For more art; x.com