The sound of frantic hammering, harsh orders being yelled, and desperate preparation echoed out around us as we approached the Cod. The sign had been hung above the door, and the dancing neon lights added a slightly jarring science fiction vibe to the medieval aesthetic of the street.

  Despite the hustle and bustle of a town bracing itself for a siege, there was a queue of people stretching from the front door of my establishment and twenty metres down the street. As we drew closer, I realised why. My tongue flickered in and out, and I stopped in shock. The taste-smell of heavenly pastries filled the air. Jenny had started doing her thing, and just as I’d hoped, her goods were a hit.

  “Excuse me. Terribly sorry. Do you mind, please?” I muttered as I reached the door, bypassing the queue.

  “Oi! Queuing is a sacred tradition, you oaf!” called a short lady, almost as broad as she was tall. Her bonnet and floral dress would have looked pretty on someone ten years younger, and who conformed to more traditional human dimensions.

  “This is my pub, madam–” I began pleasantly before something horrific caught my eye. “What the fuck is that!” I exclaimed as I saw the notice nailed up just beneath where the fish repeatedly appeared on my beautiful sign. It read ‘Not a fish. Bob is an idiot’. “Benton, you bastard!”

  “Mind your language, young man! And get to the back of the queue! Lying straight to my face, saying you own the place! For shame!” She tutted and rearranged her chest by nudging a forearm into one of the pendulous appendages.

  “Captain, could you please explain to this woman who I am?” I asked Johnson who had been standing with a vaguely bemused expression on his face.

  “Madam, this is in fact his property, at least in part,” Johnson said firmly.

  “In part? What part is that then? I knew you was lying!” She pivoted back to me and began wagging a finger under my nose. As her mouth opened for another tirade, I narrowed my eyes and hit her with a short blast of Hunter’s Gaze. She locked up, but her eyes were more angry than afraid. I hoped she’d be fighting on the walls when the Orlic arrived. She’d scare the crap out of the crazy green bastards.

  “Excuse me.” This time, I was more forceful, both in tone and action. I needed to speak to Esme, check on Jenny, and then introduce the good captain to the concept of cyberbunnies. I carefully picked up a startled young man and put him gently to one side with a word of apology. I had been British back on Earth, and in addition to tea and crumpets, queuing properly was built into the DNA of the human elements of my mind.

  We made it inside, and I threaded my way through the tables, nodding to Mick as I passed him, who was enjoying a pre-work ale and a tray of something sweet. Shards of fluffy pastry lay scattered across the table and down the front of his overalls.

  “Try the milfloor delights!” he recommended, as he rose to set off to work, and I nodded in response. Esme was wearing a pretty grey dress today, low-cut at the front in a way that made me suspect she either had some kind of magically enhanced bra or a personal anti-gravity field. Her eyes lit up as she saw me, and she blew me a kiss before turning back to the next customer and greeting them happily.

  “What would you like, sir?” she asked in a way that made my blood divert southward. It was as if she had been designed for front-of-house work by some horny god with too much time on his hands.

  “Two puffy delights and a bronzed pastie, p-please,” stammered the young man across the counter from her. I slipped round the side of the counter, Johnson following in my wake, and gave her a peck on the cheek, earning a squeeze on the behind in reply.

  “C’mon, Johnson. Let’s talk business in the back room.”

  The kitchen was a flurry of activity. Jenny was moving from oven to oven, removing and adding trays as she went. Baked goods were cooling on racks atop almost every available surface. I went to put a kettle on the array of stove tops I’d provided, but Jenny shoulder-checked me and shoved me aside.

  “Don’t get in the way!” she snapped. Her hands blurred, and within a moment, the kettle was filled and in place, and two cups had received a bag of what I hoped was proper tea. “I need more flour!”

  “Jenny, you had tons of the stuff!” I grumbled as I sat down at the table and reached towards one of the array of pastries on a rack in front of me. A rolling pin thwacked into the back of my hand, and I snatched it back with a scowl.

  “Don’t touch! I need more flour! The troops have locked Billy down. Prices are skyrocketing!” she barked as she rushed a tray of baked goods through the repaired curtain and out to Esme.

  “Who the hell is Billy?” I wondered aloud.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Billy Miller. Runs the mill,” Johnson supplied. “Now, about the troops you mentioned, why won’t I like them?”

  “Is the smith called Smith as well?”

  “What kind of evil parents would call their child Smith Smith? The main smith in Fidler’s Mill is called Kalst Limphammer.” I raised an eyebrow, and the man just shrugged. “I didn’t say he had a good name.”

  “No, you didn’t. Why is the price of flour going through the roof?” Jenny was still outside with Esme, so I snatched a confection from the rack in front of me and threw it down my gullet. It was remarkably good. Johnson checked around nervously, then did the same, but he chose to take smaller bites, the amateur.

  “Siege rules, Bob. Taking control of food reserves is vital. The price spike is only because the rationing system hasn’t been implemented yet,” he said as he chewed, spraying crumbs onto the table. I swallowed my own mouthful before speaking.

  “Can’t you requisition more from the next town along or something?” I had not sprayed any crumbs. I’d been very careful in that regard in order to focus Jenny’s wrath on Johnson when she returned and found the missing treats.

  “Not before they arrive. Two days at the latest. It would take a week to get a decent quantity up here, assuming there was enough available to make a difference.”

  “I can cut that time down by a fair margin if I need to. How strong are your troops? Reg was clearly not your best, but you must have squads of high-level dudes who can steamroll the enemy with suitable support?” I asked. I had literally zero understanding of battles on Helstat. I either ate something or was very polite until I could escape.

  “High teens for about a third of them. The rest are below ten, but the same will apply to the Sausage Makers. I’m level twenty-three.”

  “Ouch. And you’re a feared warband?” I asked incredulously.

  “We’re a division of Lord Pratnip's armed forces. Maybe not the best division, and we probably aren’t even the best third of our division, but we’re good troops.”

  “Easy, Johnson. I didn’t mean to offend you. Look, I’ll have maybe two hundred troops at about your level that I can bring in before the Orlic get here. Maybe a couple of dozen before the other humans arrive.”

  “Two hundred level twentys? That’s… How the fuck have you got that kind of military power? You’re an outremonde who got lucky and spawned as a minor powerhouse, not a baron or a count!”

  “Do you know what a cyborg is?” I asked hesitantly.

  “No.”

  “Helpful. I’ve got a tech wizard.” No need to point out that said tech wizard was an Orlic, or worry about whether he understood the term. “A while back, Fidler’s Mill had a bit of an issue with a uni-bunny world boss. Maybe mid-forty level? Anyway, I dealt with it and put the beastie somewhere safe, but the little bastard somehow made a bunch of babies while flying solo, so I had to put him down.”

  “Where the hell can you put a ‘minor’ regional terror ‘somewhere safe’? Oh. Oh shit.” His eyes had gone wide, and then his face went pale as he looked at me. “You’ve got a-unk!” A rolling pin bounced off his temple as Jenny returned to the kitchen. He slumped onto the table out cold.

  “Jesus, Jenny! That’s a bit much for him eating-” I checked how many pastries were missing, “-three pastries!” Even if she somehow knew who had eaten what, I was assuredly the lesser villain in the here and now.

  “I know you ate at least one of them!” she snapped. Bugger. “He knows too much!” she hissed at me. “About you, you bloody great scale-brained, giant fucking– oh Esme! Sorry about this. The captain pinched some pastries, and I am a bit overprotective of goods for sale.” The mustachioed madame hurried to collect her high-velocity rolling pin from where it had landed near an oven.

  “Hells, Jenny! You can’t assault the local guard captain!” Esme rushed in and fussed over Johnson. She tilted his head so a cheek lay against the wood, rather than his nose, and then fetched a damp cloth to wipe away the blood.

  “He was about to-”

  “He stole some of her pastries!” I interjected. “You know how she gets about that. He knew the risk he was taking. Johnson saw Jenny damn near broke my hand when I reached for one.” Esme glared at Jenny, who in turn glared at me. I chose to be an equal opportunity glare-er and spread the love around equally.

  “I’m not sure I approve of this kind of violence in my kitchen,” Esme muttered as she moved over to the now-whistling kettle and poured out the hot water into the waiting cups.

  “Your kitchen? Who’s been baking since before the gods woke up?” Jenny said angrily.

  “Who’s been selling the damn things since before the cock crowed?” Emse barked back.

  “Speaking of cocks, look, is there somewhere we can slip the Johnson away so–” Both women turned their ire in my direction. That joke was a fail. “Is there a bed I can stash Sleeping Beauty in or something?”

  “I didn’t hit him that hard. I used my Precision Roller skill and made sure it was non-lethal,” Jenny protested. “Give him a minute and he’ll be right as rain.” Esme and I then turned sceptical expressions on her, and she blushed. “Well, he’ll have a headache.”

  “Dammit, Jenny, I had that under control.”

  “Anyone outside of a contract knowing you have a dungeon is not ‘under control’, you pillock!” the baker said harshly. She blanched and looked at Esme, but the buxom barmaid only had eyes for me.

  “Dungeon?” she asked in a tone I couldn’t interpret. Impressed? Angry? Sad? Beige? I couldn’t tell, but I got the sense that my actions over the next few seconds would have a long lasting impact. I opened my mouth. I paused for a moment and then began to speak.

  “Esme. I’ve only told people who are under system-enforced contracts. If the information gets out that I have a tame dungeon–”

  “The Guild will come hunting for you. I understand. Bob, you could have trusted me.” Her bright green eyes were filled with a sadness that lanced through my scaly heart.

  “Es-”

  “You fucking wuss! Pretty eyes looking sad are enough to break you? Who are you and what have you done with the real Bob?” she demanded with a wicked cackle.

  “Want me to rolling pin her?” Jenny asked, hefting her weapon of choice.

  “Ah, sweet Jenny, I invite you to try,” the tall beauty replied in a warm voice. In that moment, I was convinced Esme was the only weapon we needed against the gathering armies.

  “Dungeon?” spluttered Johnson as he snapped upright and stood at attention, launching his chair backwards. “Bob, we need to use it to keep the civilians safe!”

  Alas, poor Johnson, I knew him well. To eat him or not to eat him, that was the question.