Squad Games [Squad Building LitRPG] [Book One Complete]

The financial loss meant nothing to Lothar at this point. He mourned the loss of three of his mercs.

Along with The Hoffmeister, Fortune and Pecs had been the first Golden Blades to switch to his company. They had fought for him in his toughest moments—against Queen Brid's orcs; the goblin invasion; and had given their lives in the war against the Sargassians.

From a practical point of view, Tree was a greater loss. He could do anything—fight, scout, and heal. With all those talents he had also been humble and reliable, a second in command in key moments. The Rotten Apples had plenty of high profile mercs these days, but Henning somehow seemed irreplaceable.

Lothar needed cheering up. He went to see Rosalind. Arriving at her house, he remembered how she used to have heavies working there. They weren't there anymore, reflecting how much more orderly Avolo had become over the last year. Of course, that didn't mean they no longer worked for her. Despite becoming a Rotten Apple, De Cheney still had her secrets. He grinned. He liked that about her.

He found her awake, sitting in her kitchen with a hot drink, but still frail looking after her ordeal.

"Feeling better?" he asked, planting a kiss on her forehead.

"Sure. My brain has started to work. Just need my body to catch up."

"Take it easy. And that…other thing? You know." Lothar still found it difficult to talk about magic. But he had seen…Well. He didn't know what he had seen. Flying white lights. Spirits? Ghosts? After Amotken's death, they had entered Rosalind, as well as Seregin and Bletcher. All three of them had levelled up afterwards, their magical powers enhanced. But he worried what it meant.

She smiled at him. "I'm not sure. I've never communicated with gods and spirits before, so it's hard to know what has changed. Perhaps I won't know until I call on their help. I will speak to Bletcher and Seregin about it."

"Oh." Lothar wasn't sure about that. For different reasons, he didn't trust either of them. He didn't trust magic at all. But you trust Rosalind, he reminded himself. He sighed. Some things just don't make sense, and you must live with them regardless.

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"Lothar, I worry about Amotken's staff. It holds dark power. In the wrong hands, it could be highly dangerous."

"I've been thinking about that myself." He didn't want Seregin to get his hands on it. Or Bletcher. And Rosalind? He asked himself. How much do you really trust her, when it comes to it? "I have a plan. But it involves Blueblade. I need to keep my hands on that damned sword."

"What's stopping you?"

"Foberoy. He's still talking about a public trial for Emperor Sahale. The gods know when he intends to execute the bastard. We can't afford to play games with the undead. He needs to be killed."

"You're right." She got to her feet.

"It's alright, I can handle him."

She put a hand on his arm. "Let me help, Stiff. You've saved Gal'azu twice. People like Urkal should be hanging on your every word and doing exactly what you ask. But in politics, a bit of feminine charm can go a long way."

***

Oripione worked with Suzie and Murder in the kitchen of The Smashed Marbles. The inn had become something of a convalescing home for those mercs ensorcelled by Amotken. She did her best to tend to those who had suffered at the hands of the Sargassians. With Tree gone, someone had to try. All of them had suffered physical injuries, often at the hands of their own crewmates. It was those mental scars that would stay with them the longest. Forever, perhaps.

If there was one thing she knew about, it was mental scars. It meant she was perceptive enough to offer what they needed. Food and rest worked for most people. Sometimes, someone to speak to. More often, someone who didn't pry.

One had to take the lessons of experience. Being a tiefling had exposed her to unrelenting hostility. She had learned about people's true natures. There were few who could fool her.

When Wynter and Rake entered the inn, she could sense something was off. He looked shifty. Wynter was better at hiding it, but her smile was fake.

"Thought we should visit with Mary," Wynter said brightly. "She could probably do with a bit of company."

"I'll take you."

"No need. Just send us in the right direction."

Oripione moved around the bar. "I insist."

Rake glanced at Goldblade at her belt, then across the bar at Murder.

Oripione anticipated what might happen should he turn on her. Her prospects weren't good.

"Didn't realise you were running a prison here," Wynter said.

"Not a prison. More like a makeshift hospital."

"Yeah, well. Guess we'll wait and visit our old friend when there isn't some stranger prying."

The woman turned to leave, and Rake followed her out.

Oripione went to see Mental. "You nearly had a couple of visitors."

"Me? Are you sure? Smoke already dropped in today, and Tree ain't with us no more."

"It was Wynter and Rake."

"Pah. Those fopdoodles weren't coming to see me."

Oripione nodded. "Yes. I think you're right."

"One thing you need to learn about me, tiefling. I'm always right."

***

Lothar sat on a rock in the sunshine. He couldn't recall the last time he had simply sat, doing nothing. He'd spent so long reacting to events, his mind needed some calm. Perhaps, with the Sargassians all but eliminated, he'd get the time he needed.

He'd killed the emperor himself, not trusting anyone else with the deed. With Sahale and Amotken gone, the Empire of Sargassia wouldn't be making a return. All be it, there was a couple of loose ends that still needed tying off.

Blueblade glowed at his belt. With some reluctance, he left his rock and drew the sword.

Stricken appeared. He shambled rather than walked, his body held together by spells that even Amotken's death hadn't broken.

The thief grinned at the sight of Lothar holding the magic blade. "Job's done," he said. "No one is finding that staff. Good thing, too."

"You have my thanks."

"Now all you need do is kill me, and no one will know where it is. Safest way to keep something hidden, ain't it?"

"So you worked that part of my plan out, then?"

"Aye. And I welcome it, in all honesty. I live with eternal hunger. More than that, I don't think I should ever have been woken. It wasn't right, what my master did to me and others."

"I agree. And I'm pleased you're so philosophical about it."

"I didn't live a good life, Stiff. Wasted it. I only realised that in death. I suppose that's something he gave me." Jurgen looked at Lothar with a curious expression. "Don't know if that's worth anything?"

"People are just a walking expression of how life has treated them, Stricken. It's for the gods to decide what, if anything, your life deserves. But you helped me to kill Amotken. Had the strength to turn against someone who controlled you. That counts for something, in my opinion."

"Mighty nice of you to say so, Stiff. Will you behead me?"

"If that's what you want."

"Yeah." Stricken got to his knees. "One last thing, Stiff. I've a pretty good idea where that princess went. If such information interests you."

"Sure."

Lothar didn't bury Jurgen Stricker. The bastard didn't deserve that. He dragged his body—and carried his head—to a ravine. He placed his cleaver in one hand and rested them on his chest.

He was no Rotten Apple, but he had been once. He'd killed one of his own crewmates, the worst crime amongst mercs. He was a rapist, and there was nothing lower than that. He'd probably saved Stiff's life. At the last, he'd turned against the necromancer who had revived him.

Lothar spat on the body. "Glad you're finally dead for good, Stricker."