Page 1 of The Chef

Chapter One

THE SOUNDS OFbattle 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 darkenedwith 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 isneverpoisoned,” 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 workedhard 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.

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