The Price of Reputation by J.M. Turner
Part I
The scene that lay before him was grim. Bodies mangled, burned, or otherwise, clogged
what bits of street the charred remnants of homes had left untouched. The air was heavy with
smoke and the sour smell of drying blood and rotting flesh. The captain was no stranger to death and violence, but what these savages had done to Balintil went above and beyond normal warfare.
“Nothing but the dead and dying,” said one of the sergeants, a man named Gambet.
“They took everything: food, water, even the whores if Jens is to be believed.”
The young soldier standing to the captain’s left gasped. “Gods above! Not the whores!”
“Shut up, Connors,” Gambet growled. “There’ll be whores in Denning.”
“But this is Balintil…” Connors began to protest.
“Was Balintil,” Gambet quickly corrected.
Connors’ lean face sagged, and he hung his head. “…They write songs about the whores
of Balintil.”
Gambet rolled his eyes and turned back to his commander. “Orders, Captain Owen?”
Captain Owen managed to peel his eyes from the destruction and face his men. “Prepare
to march. Oh, and keep Connors away from the livestock until we find him a Denning whore.”
The Denning Road, too, was grim, though not quite so much as the ruins of Balintil.
Torched villages, their silhouettes little more than black shadows in the distance, spewed smoke high into the afternoon sky. Terrified peasants mobbed the roads with heavy laden wagons and herds of sheep and cattle. Despite slowing the march to a slog, Captain Owen took comfort in the commoners’ presence. If the small folk were heading toward Denning, then it was likely that the town was still in Kelv hands.
“The old man told me this is your first time leading mercenaries,” Gambet said, appearing
at the Captain’s side. ‘Old man’ was how most of the men in Dahrmenheim Company referred to their patron, the stooped and withered Lord Swarth.
“That’s right.”
“You seen much action, Captain?”
“A fair bit,” the Captain replied. “Enough that Lord Swarth has confidence in my abilities.”
And enough to know better than to crawl back to the soldier’s life.
“That’s good. These are good men you’re leading, but they need someone to keep them in
line. We don’t have the best reputation, and some of the men use that as an excuse to act up.”
Captain Owen regarded Sergeant Gambet a moment, trying to figure what kind of man he
was. To call him ugly would be an understatement. He was a wretched thing. Though he could not have been older than thirty, his face was woven with scars, the most prominent of which was a puffy, half-moon gash above his right eye. His nose favored the left side of his face, having no doubt been broken more than once. His mud-colored hair was greasy and unkempt, and the top half of his left ear was missing. Lord Swarth had said Gambet was the best sergeant any of his companies had ever had, and Owen had never known the lord to tell a lie. Then why stick him with Dahrmenheim Company?
“How long have you been a mercenary, Gambet?”
“Since I was a boy,” answered the Sergeant. “I squired for a shamed knight who served
with the Outcast Legion. When the knight was slain, I took his arms and armor and found passage across the channel to Kelv. I’ve bounced around companies over the years. Bad luck to stay in one place too long, you know?”
“Right.” This Gambet seemed a reliable man despite his haunting visage, and if Lord
Swarth vouched for him then it must be so. “Well, I hope you don’t plan on leaving us anytime soon.”
“So long as the old man keeps paying me like he does, I see no reason to.”
“Are there any other officers in the company? A single sergeant seems a bit lacking.”
“Officially I’m the only sergeant, but Jens helps me out. The men respect and listen to him.”
“Just Jens?”
Gambet nodded. “Just Jens.”
The wooden walls of Denning appeared in the distance just as the dark of evening was
beginning to settle in. Driving his men through the press of the crowd, Captain Owen was able to get the company through the gates before they were locked for the night. The town green, which was less green and more quagmire of mud and shit, was crowded with the refugees and Kelv soldiers who were unable to find lodging.
“No point in trying to find ourselves an inn,” said the Captain. “Gambet, send some men
out to find a place to set up camp.”
“Captain, sir,” said Connors, shoving his way up to the front of the company. “Permission
to find a whore, sir?”
“Find us a place to camp, Connors, and you can whore the night away.”
Connors snapped a sharp salute. “Yes, sir!”
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Vulture Company,” sneered a knight in shining plate and a
crimson tabard. The man approached with an exaggerated swagger in his step. “Done plucking peasant’s corpses?”
“I beg your pardon?” the Captain asked, crossing his arms before his chest.
“I asked if you were done plucking…-”
Captain Owen cut the knight off. “No, no, I heard that part. I’m asking about the first bit.
Who is Vulture Company?”
The knight threw his head back and laughed. “You are, you fool! ‘Who is Vulture
Company?’ That’s rich! Tell me, who are you? What happened to Captain Kent? Shitting himself over some bad peasant I’ll wager.”
“I am Captain Owen of Dahrmenheim Company. You must have us confused with
someone else.”
“Are you insulting my intelligence, Owen?” asked the knight, his voice taking a sharper
edge.
“No, but I wouldn’t say I’m complimenting it either.”
“Watch yourself, Owen. Since you are clearly new to these parts I’ll show you mercy this
one time, but only once!” The knight spat, his glob of saliva and nasal fluids splattering across Owen’s left boot.
“Who was that?” the Captain asked while he watched the knight disappear into the throng.
“And who is Vulture Company?”
“Sir Frencis of House Kelvane,” answered Gambet. “And we are Vulture Company,
Captain. At least that’s what everyone calls us.”
“Why?”
Gambet sighed and ran a finger through his matted hair. “We don’t have the best reputation
around here. I liked Captain Kent as a man, but as an officer he was a bit…dense. I can’t tell you how many times we broke and fled only for the battle to end up going in our favor. We looked like right fools.
“It’s been months since we’ve seen action. Our patrons always hire us to guard baggage
trains or to root out brigades in backwater villages. Mercenaries here in Kelv call those jobs
‘leavings’. Only vultures eat leavings.”
“Well, this is unacceptable,” said Captain Owen. “Who hired us? Lord Hastings, right? Is
he in Denning?”
Gambet grimaced. “Lord Kelvane hired us, sir.”
“Oh. Shit.”
Thank you for the contribution, J.M.! You can follow this author on instagram @jmturner.author
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