Hordedoom

Three and a half weeks after the end of the war:

Reaper faced the motley gathering, leaning on the closed doors concealing the screens. Years ago, this place had served as the meeting hub for the Assassins' Guild, a rare area of absolute security where even whispers of treachery were punished by swift elimination. Here, the masters of death had traded, exchanged rumors, discussed contracts, supervised initiations, and formed alliances.

After the guild's dissolution, the dregs of society serving the families had taken over the lair, and the floor was littered with bottles, used syringes, and the general garbage of the illegals who had been forced to huddle here. Perhaps out of sentimentality or maybe guided by a business instinct, Sitota had purchased their former base at a bargain price with the insurance tokens.

Her kids cleaned up the area, dragging in round tables while their mother set up a coffee bar. Neon signs on the street above had not yet been turned on, as not even half of Houstad's population had returned, and the workers knew their way around the busy rebuilding city, so Sitota saved money on paying for lighting costs.

Reaper had visited her two days ago and chuckled at finding his room converted into the kids' bedroom. Empty arsenals, cleared of contraband, stored video game consoles, and four surviving wardrobes were full of children's clothes. Sitota had torched the remains of the drug laboratory and placed a washing machine inside. A crude menu, handwritten by a child's hand, juxtaposed crayon-painted images on the billboard that once listed low-value hits.

Days had indeed changed for the better.

"Welcome," he addressed the murderers, killers, mercenaries, and criminals seated at the tables. Just for today, the bar's owner permitted alcohol, and her sons and daughters darted back and forth, delivering orders. "Thank you for answering my call. Many of us have thought of leaving or outgrowing our former ways, but not everyone is that strong." He nodded at the detached Sitota.

"You are here because the war has awakened a certain call in you," Reaper continued. "Be it the thrill of the hunt, the desire to kill, or the need for repentance." To him, it was all three. "Whatever your reasons, you cannot return to civilian life, not yet. Don't bother lying; I have sensed the change in you. That is why I called you and why you brought those who feel the same." No one argued. Their eyes and lenses were on him, waiting and planning. "We stand at a fork. The military doesn't want us, officially. To satiate the newfound need, we can either turn to the bygone era, restore the Assassins' Guild, and operate in the shadows, culling our prey in the dark alleys and eluding authorities. In turn, we will also be pursued, and one day our prey may well be these very children."

The volunteers and the drafted who survived the Battle of Houstad watched him. Slaughterer, now more machine than man, whipped a mechanical tendril, calling a young Malformed kid to refill his goblet. The stitches snaking through his swollen, crimson flesh kept the boy nervous. Sitota's scythe conveniently never left her back. A nearby mercenary tensed, looking around as if in fear that anyone here might take Reaper's proposition at face value. But most of the crowd smirked, telling the little ones jokes about the hilarious situations from their own experiences.

"No point in beating around the bush." Slaughterer belched, emptying the goblet. "Nice coffee. My compliments to the chief!"

"My pleasure," Sitota said dispassionately, wiping the counter. "Just to avoid misunderstandings. I don't run the charity here."

"And I have tokens."

"Then the next one is on the house, for being such a valued patron and as an apology." Sitota motioned to her son.

"Sweetie, you're the best!" Slaughterer saluted her. "So. I guess you have an idea, Reaper?"

"Indeed. The Guild will be restored." He raised a hand, gleaming silver, silencing the chorus of objections. "Not for its original purpose. Surely you've noticed how many peculiar individuals are present here who have nothing to do with the covert trade of shortening life expectancy." Reaper looked at the former prisoners.

"Hey, if no one is left alive to raise, and every corpse is eaten, that counts as covert, right?" Slaughter boomed.

"Yeah, I was wondering when someone would point that out." Mark, her or his arm, Reaper wasn't wholly sure, was in a sling, drummed on a table with the fingers. "I am a t…"

"Technical specialist," Reaper finished for Mark. "There is a place in the world for us, one that lies outside the boundaries of the law. It is easy to say, simply change your nature, but far harder to do. We can not only simply exist but also help to bring about the change we have learned to cherish." He stepped forward, and the metal doors opened, letting the blue light of the screens shine on the gathering. "Congratulations. We have been officially recognized as an independent mercenary organization, with an affiliation to the three great nations, for our combined efforts over the past few weeks."

Surprised whistles came from the crowd. Mercenaries exchanged excited glances, while wildlings such as the Malformed and local thugs scratched their heads, oblivious to the true meaning of what he had just dropped at them. Mercenary teams operated freely in the desolate regions. Any street urchin with half a brain cell could've assembled a crew of like-minded individuals and ventured forth, accepting contracts from anyone foolish enough to trust them.

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More often than not, these crews died or disbanded, unable to find jobs. As a result, most of the newly formed mercenary bands splintered off from the established groups that vouched for their quality. Some exceptionally talented hirelings even signed up with the respectable groups with the sole intention of earning this recommendation, meticulously including it in their contract.

But there was one category of mercenaries standing above the reliable teams. The affiliated. These individuals had proven their reliability and trustworthiness enough to earn permission to formally accept contracts directly from either Iterna, the Oathtakers, or the Reclamation Army, and even had the right to operate inside their borders, with the caveat of adhering to accepted moral norms. As a bonus, the patron country's lawyers represented their affiliates in international courts. Such was the value of affiliation that band leaders would rather murder their own subordinates to prevent a crime than take an easy way to enrichment.

For every mercenary aspired to earn an Iterna's affiliation. It was a golden dream, an opportunity to settle in the safest country on this globe, and the only way to earn this prestigious position was to work for either the Reclamation Army or the Oathtakers and then, after decades of honest service, to petition the Iterna government. Universal health care, a future for their children, rich pensions, and an abundance of various contracts…

And they received it on a silver platter as part of the ongoing experiment. Reaper kept that part silent, scanning the cheering crowd. The Dynast had arrived in Houstad in person. There were few things that could be hidden from his gaze. No doubt his spies had infiltrated this event to judge their character. One of the contracts on the display came directly from the Investigation Bureau, requesting an assassination attempt on His Majesty in order to test the security. Survival was not guaranteed.

He decided to decline the vainglorious opportunity to immortalize himself.

"The Guild will not be limited to one specific area of operations. Whether it be infiltration, an escort mission, the need to eradicate an insectoid infestation, or a simple patrol, we will handle it all." Reaper tapped, silencing the explanations. "Outcasts unable to tolerate peace will be offered an opportunity to use their talents for good. I understand how hypocritical my speech sounds." He joined the guild in laughter. "Yes, the term 'good' is not absolute. There will be shady dealings, I won't lie, and I swear to hold any Guild leader we elect accountable for failing to live up to the ideals of never becoming another monster like the Gilded Horde. We will never kidnap children or engage in slavery."

"No need to choose!" An augmented mercenary roared. "Reaper has secured us an employment! Let him lead!"

"Lead, lead, lead!" Hands slapped the tables.

It's disgusting how well His Excellency reads us. Reaper bowed, accepting the honor. It was an investigator who had brought him the proposal. The idea was to consolidate the rowdy elements of the Reclamation Army and the Oathtakers into a more controllable and less volatile force that would act in the interests of the common folk. Three weeks. Probably less. That was how long it took for the Dynast to imagine, negotiate, and implement a way to use the so-called heroes.

A normal mercenary crew ranged from a dozen to fifty members. The most respectable or influential of them often reached a hundred or two heads. The gathering here threatened to overcrowd a hall intended for a thousand people. As the tale spread, tomorrow they will have double that number and soon triple. A small army, financed from his coffers.

Sitota and the settled assassins had disproved his cynical views. They could change to become protectors. But that required strict leadership. He hoped to shoulder that burden.

"If that is your wish. I will strive to uphold the trust you have placed upon me," Reaper promised. "Naturally, I won't be able to lead you alone, but let's leave the orientation and formation of our command structure for later today. The more important are the tasks before us." At his snap, Sitota changed the screen to show a list of missing people. "Prior to her death, Mad Hatter had enslaved thousands of Reclaimers. Families and lovers are torn apart; many are taken outside the borders. Those freed here cling to the smoldering hope of finding their kidnapped friends and loved ones."

"We will rekindle it, I take it." A green flash occurred in a mercenary's ocular.

"Nothing so small. We will turn it into a bonfire," Reaper assured him. "Commander Ravager herself provided us with the information about the slavers operating in the area, and Commander Devourer and Grandmaster First Sunblade are ready to fund a daring rescue operation."

"So the formation of the Guild was never in doubt?" Slaughterer tossed his goblet with one tendril and clumsily uncoiled the next tendril, catching the object to test his agility.

"I believed in you," Reaper admitted. "Though I was ready to venture out alone."

"Even with the freedom I've earned, I have nowhere to go and no one waiting for me. What am I supposed to do, herd cows, or work as a courier?" Slaughterer asked. "Many here are in the same situation. Might as well try to build something worthwhile. Just don't put me in any leadership position. Wrong temper."

"Noted. Be it the tokens, the satisfaction of humane deeds, or a simple itch for battle, it matters not, for we will be richly compensated regardless, for doing the right thing, for channeling our impulses in the proper direction. Stick with me, and I promise you a fulfilling future where you are needed!" he repeated the words often spoken by the last master, altering them slightly.

Reaper went on, explaining his vision, the boundaries, and the limitations the nations had placed on the Guild. Its members were eligible to immediately settle in either the Oathtakers or the Reclamation Army, but ten years of service guaranteed them a clean slate, a complete wipe of their criminal record, and a plot of land to raise a family. Those willing to serve five full terms, twenty-five years in total, would earn Iternian citizenship.

There was no shortage of contracts to choose from. Reaper accepted several, including retrieving the refugees from the Hunter's Lair and mapping the depths created by the titans' clash. When he was telling the crowd about the branches into which their guild would be divided, Mark raised an arm.

"Sorry to interrupt, boss." Mark gestured at the screen. "It says here that me and the group have been hired by Warlord Alpha as instructors."

"Is that a problem?"

"Listen, I have no problem with heat, honest." Mark smiled nervously. "But I am no soldier. My only experience ended up with me nearly dying. I can empty pockets in a crowd without anyone noticing. That is where I peaked. I sort of hoped for more administrative or maintenance duties, boss. Guild master, I mean."

"Yeah, same here!" A burglar supported her. "I can crack a safe, no problem. Can strip a car naked without an alarm triggering. Give me that suit of yours, and I'll return it in tip-top shape. But laying mines, running with a rifle over a dune… Never been in a desert. We're kind of bound to fail this mission."

"Don't worry. You won't be teaching the Wolfkins how to fight there," Reaper told them.