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THE SOUNDS OF battle had been going on for at least ten minutes. Char ignored them. The harsh metal clanging of sword against sword, the screech as a sword slid against armor, and the groaning and gasping of fighters as they exerted themselves—and ultimately died. Char let all that mess flow around him.

Keeping the oatmeal from burning was much more important after all.

Char gave the deep pot a stir, gauging the softness of the oats. Satisfied with the consistency, he opened the pouch of dried fruit and tipped it over the pot, letting half the pouch fall into the oatmeal below. The heat and residual water would soften and partially rehydrate the fruit, making it a perfect addition to breakfast. Char also put in about a tablespoon of brown sugar—calibrated to be enough for a pot this large without forgetting the natural sweetness the fruit would also add.

He glanced below the pot at the cooking fire that was mostly embers and decided it didn’t need more wood. The oatmeal would be ready about the time the battle against whichever thieves had been airheaded enough to attack an armed mercenary company was over. After the mercenaries ate and tended their wounded, Char expected them to move out. He didn’t need to maintain the fire to make lunch, since lunch would likely be jerky eaten in the saddle. At least Char had a pouch of his own homemade chicken jerky, carefully spiced with sage and smoked with onion and garlic. He didn’t want to know what the rest of the band were actually eating when it didn’t come out of a pot or pan of something he prepared; Char suspected it would be something gross.

The oatmeal was starting to bubble and blurp, very close to being ready. Char gave it another stir and then stopped to actually pay attention to his surroundings.

Sounds of battle came from all directions, so whatever enemy the mercenaries were fighting had tried to flank them. Still, the number of bangs, clangs, and groans of pain hidden from him by the thick brush and rocky terrain surrounding the campsite were diminishing, so the battle was definitely nearly ended. Char stood, went over to the bags adjacent to where their pack donkey was picketed, and pulled out bowls and spoons. He returned to the fire and started laying out his supplies until he had two lines of bowls, each with a spoon resting inside. The last bowl and spoon he kept for himself.

He was just reaching for the pot to fill his bowl so he could eat before the onslaught of hungry postbattle mercenaries when something hard tapped him on the shoulder.

Char glanced back and froze in place, the tip of a bloodied sword brushing against his cheek.

“No blood near the food, please,” he said automatically.

But, as his eyes followed the length of the blade up to the owner, he wasn’t met with one of the mercenaries he had been feeding for the last week. The stranger was tall and his fair hair, where it poked out beneath his helmet, was darkened with sweat. A splash of someone else’s blood crossed his even features, and his hard hazel eyes glared down at Char.

“Er, hello?” Char forced out, unsure how to react.

“Captain, I think that’s the last of them,” someone else called from the edge of the clearing. “We can move out when you’re done with him.”

The stranger—the captain—only moved his eyes away as he replied, the sword not wavering against Char’s neck. “Check their supplies. I want any orders or paperwork indicating what they were doing out here, and we might as well take anything of use.” His gaze immediately returned to Char. “You’re a noncombatant?” he asked.

“Hired to cook and maintain camp for the mercenary company,” Char replied. “Do you want some oatmeal? It’s just about ready, and it sounds like the people I made it for are no longer around to eat it.”

“Are you bonded to a merc company or freelance?” the captain asked.

He was asking whether Char had any emotional investment linked to the mercenaries the captain and his people had just killed. Char didn’t. What he wanted was their armed escort through the mountain pass and, incidentally, their coin. A lone traveler wouldn’t survive the mountain lions, let alone the bandits looking for the easy pickings of travelers exhausted after the arduous climb. Adding a little spending money to help him get on his feet at his destination was an added benefit. Besides, aside from the mercenary captain, Char hadn’t learned their names or really spoken with any of them. They hadn’t been a friendly bunch, really more of a means to an end, so he wasn’t particularly upset they were gone.

“Freelance,” Char replied, trying to sound convincing. He would have shrugged, but that sword still hadn’t moved. “I wanted to travel east; they wanted someone to maintain their camp. Getting paid is a side bonus. I’m headed for Etoval. No idea where they were going. We only contracted through to Marketon.”

The captain continued to glare, his frown full of distrust.

“The oatmeal is going to burn,” Char said. He really didn’t want to die, but not ruining his poor breakfast was also important.

“Skinner!” the captain suddenly barked, making Char jump. “Stir the oatmeal and fill the chef’s bowl.”

“Sir!” someone called. A moment later the spoon scraping against the sides of the pot and the glop of ooey gooey, perfectly cooked oatmeal sounded. “Looks good,” he added as Char’s bowl was tugged out of his hands. A moment later, the bowl was pressed against his fingers for Char to take back, this time heavy and warm.

“Eat your oatmeal. Make sure we didn’t burn it,” the captain said, his voice low and silky with menace.

Char frowned at him, the first strains of ire building in his chest. “My food is never poisoned,” he snapped. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the captain, but he grabbed the spoon and scooped it through the bowl, bringing the contents to his mouth. Char chewed, swallowed, and opened his mouth to show it was empty again.

The captain finally stepped back, his eyes still on Char. He dug a cloth out of a pocket and started wiping down his sword. No doubt he was waiting for Char to keel over or to start foaming at the mouth. Instead, Char simply dug the spoon back into the bowl and stuffed more oatmeal into his mouth. He had worked hard that morning, getting the fire ready and prepping the food long before the sentries had dashed into camp to frantically report the attack and wake the mercenaries out of their bedrolls. He deserved breakfast, especially one that was well-balanced with fruit and grains, sweetened perfectly, and cooked to perfection so it slid across his tongue with an amazing texture.

The captain’s mouth quirked upward on one side just the slightest bit. He finished cleaning his sword and slid it into the sheath at his hip.

“Looks like we can enjoy a hot breakfast today, boys and girls,” the captain said.

“Yes!” Skinner cheered, diving for one of the sets of bowls and spoons. He was quickly echoed by about a dozen others, all of whom rushed forward.

Char stepped out of the way, glad to see someone enjoying the meal he had worked so hard on.

“What’s your business in Etoval?” the captain asked. Someone gave him a bowl, and he started eating too. One eyebrow rose in surprise at his first taste, and he promptly stuffed a second spoonful into his mouth.

“My cousin invited me to come work in his kitchen,” Char explained. “The letter is in my pack.” He pointed over at the bags next to the donkey, which hadn’t been searched yet. He didn’t elaborate on why his cousin wanted him, although if the captain had been listening to what Char had already told him, he might have an inkling.

“Are all of those bags yours?” the captain asked.

Char shook his head. “Only the green one. The rest are dishes and rations, with the donkey to carry it all. I think the mercenaries had a long journey to go after Marketon, but I didn’t ask.”

A woman in hardened leather armor and chainmail pulled his bag out of the pile and yanked open the strings at the top. She pulled out his spare clothes first, shaking out each item and checking the pockets before setting it aside. Next she pulled out a rolled leather bundle. She undid the ties and unfurled it, revealing his knives, gleaming even in their sheaths, tucked into the pockets sewn into the case. She gripped one hilt and pulled it free.

“Look at this!” she exclaimed, thrusting the thin, curved blade forward and turning her wrist in a practiced movement.

“I promise that knife is much better for gutting fish than humans,” Char called.

“It’s really good steel,” she added, looking at her captain as she spoke while tucking the knife away again.

“Why are the knives in your pack, rather than in use?” he asked Char, suspicion back in his voice.

“Those knives are for use in a proper kitchen with a proper cutting board and excellent conditions to clean them,” Char replied, affronted that he was being accused of not doing his job properly. “A chef’s job is dependent on the quality of his knives, and my knives are kept in perfect condition. A rough camp is no place for them.”

She kept digging in his pack as Char continued to glare. The captain’s lips quirked sideways again in a stifled smile of some kind.

“Ah-hah!” she exclaimed, pulling out his folio. She quickly brought it over for the captain to look through.

All of Char’s personal documents were in there; everything he needed to be able to establish himself in a new city. His identification papers, his chef’s license, personal correspondence—including the letter from his cousin—all filled the folio for the captain to read through.

“Charmaine Obenson,” he stated aloud. “First rank, third circle, chef’s college, Timmonsville University.” He gave Char a flat look. “What the heck is a first rank chef doing cooking over a fire in the middle of the woods?”

Char sighed. He took a few seconds to scrape the sides of his bowl clean with his spoon, then chewed and swallowed the last of his oatmeal before responding, “As I told you. My cousin offered me a job in his kitchen in Etoval. The only way to travel over land from Svental to Etoval is through this pass, which the bandits know very well. As did the mercenaries, who didn’t want to sacrifice a fighter to the kitchen for the week and a half trip through the pass. Our paths aligned. Besides, I’m still third circle. I have a long way to go before I’m qualified to run my own kitchen.”

The soldier finished searching Char’s pack without finding anything else interesting and moved on to the bags of food and supplies. She exclaimed a couple of times over the dried and smoked goods, far more than Char needed for this trip. The mercenaries had agreed to see Char through the pass and onto Marketon, but Char didn’t think they had any interest in stopping to resupply there. Wherever their final destination, they had been in a hurry to get there.

Empty bowls were starting to stack up next to the fire. Char eyed them and the pot, which someone had helpfully moved off the fire to the ground. Everything needed to be cleaned, and the small stream that paralleled the path through the mountain wasn’t too far away.

“Found some coded letters here, sir!” another solider called from where he was searching around the bedrolls.

The captain added his empty bowl and spoon to the pile and walked off, leaving Char alone. He was still under watch, since he was surrounded by the entire group, but with the captain gone a line of tension between his shoulder blades faded. They probably weren’t going to kill him at this point, but Char didn’t know what that meant for him long term. Rather than dwelling on it, he went over to the pot, which had been scraped clean of every morsel, and started putting the bowls and spoons inside so he could transport everything to the stream in one trip.

Char wandered through the camp, retrieving emptied bowls where they had been abandoned, and added them to the pot when he returned to the dying fire. He hefted the pot and started walking out of the clearing, but when he reached the donkey to retrieve soap and a scrubbing and drying cloth, the woman who had searched his bag stepped to his side.

“Where are you headed?” she asked.

“The stream,” Char explained. “Only place to wash the dishes here.”

She nodded. “Let’s go.”

Char retrieved all the washing supplies and then led the way through the woods in the direction of the soft burbling of the stream. The water was maybe a foot deep—two feet at the deepest part—and gentle. The raging, wild river he had encountered in the heights of the mountain pass had faded now that it had reached the lower slopes. Still, it was frigid. Char’s hands and knuckles immediately started aching as he dunked the dishes to wet them down and got up a lather on his cleaning cloth.

Oatmeal was easy to make and—with the right additions—delicious. It was a bitch to clean afterward. Cold, dried oatmeal turned to glue, especially if it was given time to harden. He slopped a few inches of water into the bottom of the pot and left it to soak while he scrubbed and rinsed the bowls and spoons. Then he tackled the pot, which took multiple rounds of scrubbing and rinsing before rubbing his fingertips across the bottom produced a faint squeak to indicate it was clean. He shook out the pot to get rid of as much water as possible before drying everything thoroughly. Mold wasn’t going to infiltrate into his dishes. Not on his watch.

They returned to camp and Char’s guard went to speak with the captain. Char busied himself with repacking everything she had searched. All the food and dishes, his own bag, and everything from breakfast was tucked away again in no time. He hung the wet cloths on a convenient tree limb to dry.

When he looked up again, the captain was standing over him.

“Sir?” Char asked.

“Charmaine, I believe you when you say you don’t have any loyalty to these mercs,” he said. “What about to Svental or to the country of Namin?”

That was luckily a simple answer, although Char suspected the question itself was the opposite. “None. I was sent to a restaurant in Svental in the random lottery as part of the postgraduation placement program after Timmonsville. What’s left of my family all live in Etoval or somewhere nearby within Toval.”

The country of Toval—capital city Etoval—and the country of Namin—capital city Svental—were uneasy neighbors. Separated by the Spikehorn Range, the mountain range Char was currently traveling through, both countries coveted the lush farmland in the foothills on the other country’s side of the border. Char had never studied politics or military policy or really understood all the machinations that went into keeping the peace. However, he had heard the difficulties inherent in moving large numbers of forces over the mountain helped. Certainly, even the small mercenary company hadn’t had an easy time of it—especially since they were all dead.

The captain studied Char for a few long moments, his eyes hard and searching. He must have come to some sort of decision because he abruptly nodded to himself, and his expression softened.

“I have a proposition for you,” he said. “Either we can leave you here with enough supplies for the three-day journey to Marketon, or you can join us. Our mission should last about two, maybe three weeks. After that, we will deliver you directly to your cousin’s doorstep.”

Char swallowed hard. He had been trying not to think about what his next steps might be until after the captain decided what to do with him. Now, his choices were equally difficult. He could attempt to finish climbing down the mountain alone, easy prey for the wild animals and the bandits. His chances of making it to Marketon at all were slim; his body would likely be left to rot where it fell, much like the mercenaries, and all of his worldly possessions stolen. The second option sounded better, but joining the captain was likely to be fraught with equal amounts of danger. Char didn’t know anything about them, nor why they were in the mountains. Although, he hadn’t really known much about the mercenaries either. They were a convenient way to be protected through the mountains—a means to an end. It sounded like he would get the same protection if he joined the captain. It would just take an extra two to three weeks to reach his destination.

“If I joined you, what would my duties be?” Char asked.

“Same as what you were doing for the mercs,” the captain replied with an easy shrug. “Cook for us, help maintain the camp, and stay out of the way during a fight.”

Joining sounded like a more certain way to survive. Char didn’t really have a choice. He stuck out his hand to shake.

“Call me Char. Pleasure to be working with you, Captain.”