The Price of Reputation by J.M. Turner
Part II
“How was your whore, Connors?” Gambet asked while he stirred a pot of thin gruel for
breakfast. “Everything you hoped for?”
“And more!” the man exclaimed, sitting down next to the Sergeant with an empty wooden
bowl. “She was a lovely girl; very sweet, very talented, and a wonderful cook.”
“A wonderful cook?” asked Jens as he plucked bits of gruel from his full, red beard. “What
are you on about?”
“Well, we enjoyed ourselves so much that she took me back to the brothel’s kitchen and
cooked me up some potatoes and a leg of lamb. And then she let me take her again for half
price!”
“I think young Connors is in love,” Gambet said, scooping a helping of gruel into the lad’s
bowl. “A woman of such skill is hard to come by. I’d marry her if I were you.”
Jens nodded. “And do it quick like before someone better looking than you gets to her
first.”
“Hmm, you might be right about that.”
“Right about what, Connors?” Captain Owen asked, stopping by the fire to warm his hands.
“Jens and Sergeant Gambet think I should marry the whore I was with last night, sir.”
“Connors, don’t bother the Captain with your debauchery,” said Gambet, whacking the boy
over the head with his ladle.
“You should never marry a whore, Connors. It’s their job to make you love them. It’s all a
ruse.”
“Ah, but this one cooked for him, Captain,” said Jens. “Potatoes and lamb.”
“And the next round was half off,” Gambet added.
Captain Owen cocked his head. “How much did she charge for the first go around?”
“Six shillings,” answered Connors before slurping up the last of his breakfast.
“Well now,” said the Captain, scratching the bristling hair on his chin. “That’s not half bad.
Perhaps you should marry her after all.”
“If we make it big on this next job, I’ll do just that!”
Captain Owen grinned. “That’s the spirit, Connors. You boys finish up and get ready to
march. My gut is telling me we won’t be in Denning very long.”
Captain Owen’s gut was wrong. He realized this the moment Lord Kelvane, a bald man
with a horrific scowl, laid his cold, black eyes on him.
Captain Owen was the last of the nobles and commanders to be called forward to be given
orders, which was no doubt thanks to Sir Frencis who stood by the Lord’s side, a smug grin on his lips.
“You are Captain Owen of Dahrmenheim Company, yes?” Lord Kelvane asked in his deep
and booming voice.
At least he had the courtesy to call us by our proper name. “Yes, my Lord,” Owen
answered.
“Light infantry, poor equipment, poorer reputation…I’ll do you a favor, Captain, and have
your men take care of the wolves that have been marauding Denning’s fields of late. Should be a job your men can handle.”
“My Lord, if I may, I would ask that we join the main army on the march west. It is true
that we are poorly equipped, but many of my men were hunters and trappers in their younger days and could be useful as scouts.”
Lord Kelvane rubbed his chin as if in thought and then shook his head. “No. These wolves
need taken care of and I can spare no other company to handle it. You have your orders, Captain.
You can get the details from the mayor down in town,” Lord Kelvane said with a dismissive
wave of his hand. “Off you go.”
The Captain ignored the mocking snickers and poorly concealed jests of the other
commanders and quickly departed the Lord’s keep. He sighed once he was alone out in the cool autumn morning. Wolves. What are we, dogcatchers? He went over his options while he trudged down to the bailey. Most of the men would not care that they had been given such a demeaning job. In fact, they would most likely rejoice at the chance for easy pay. Perhaps if they managed to kill the wolves fast enough, they could catch up with the rest of the army and get a better job. Captain Owen hastened his pace toward the mayor’s manor.
The mayor was an aged, brittle looking man with a mousy voice and tiny, squinting eyes.
His manor was equally as brittle, looking to be held together by the host of cobwebs that
occupied every corner. “Oh yes, we have a wolf problem. Mm-hmm, a serious problem. We’ve lost close to a hundred sheep and half a dozen shepherds this month alone.”
“How big is the pack?” Captain Owen asked. “Must be large if they’re killing that much.”
The mayor shrugged, his shoulder’s cracking audibly with the gesture. “I can’t tell ya how
many exactly, but one of the shepherds told me he saw a dozen at once. Massive wolves, he said, and some of ‘em moved on two legs!”
“Two legs? What do you mean?”
“I mean these wolves moved as men do. Running about on their hind legs.”
“Where is this shepherd? May I speak with him?”
The mayor emitted an odd wheezing sound that Captain Owen soon realized was a laugh.
“You’d need a spirit-talker to do that,” the old man said. “He was killed last night. Ripped to
ribbons I’m told.”
The Captain raised an eyebrow. “I see.”
“All I can tell ya is where most of the attacks occur,” said the mayor, motioning for Owen
to approach his desk where a tattered and dusty map of the town lay unfurled. With a quick
swipe of his hand, the mayor cleared the southern section of the map of a respectable layer of dust. “Here in the southern fields. I think they come down from the moors.”
“I see…” Owen studied the map over the mayor’s shoulder. “Do you have a copy of this
map that I may have?”
“Ah, no.”
“What about parchment and ink? I need to know the land if I’m to find these wolves.”
“Right, right, of course,” the old man rose to his feet. “Let me see where I put all that
nonsense...”
Captain Owen continued to examine the map while the mayor noisily rummaged through
his closet. It was truly a well-made map with excellent illustrations and precise measurements. What a shame it has been treated so poorly.
“Here ya are,” the mayor said, placing parchment, inkwell, and a flimsy quill on the desk.
“I hope ya don’t want me to sketch the damn thing for ya. My hands aren’t as steady as they
once were.”
“I can handle that,” Captain Owen said, snatching up the quill and dipping it into the
congealed ink. “Won’t be but a moment.”
“Wolves, huh?” asked Jens after Captain Owen had explained the company’s new
assignment. “Seems easy enough.”
“Depends on their size,” said Gambet, rubbing his teeth down with a bit of licorice. “A big
wolf can shrug off a thrust from a spear and snap your neck like a twig. You ever heard of a
dread wolf?”
Jens and Captain Owen shook their heads.
“Back when I was in Layruin we were always fighting these folk called Goblins. Short,
pale, clever little things. They lived in this miserable forest called the Weeping Woods.
“Anyway, over the years they’d managed to breed enormous wolves the size of, now I’m
not lying, ponies. The size of ponies. These bastards were faster, stronger, and more cunning than any other wolf out there. We got pretty good at handling them, but even then you were like to get cut up real bad.”
“Well, we aren’t in Layruin,” countered Jens.
“No, but if the wolves are big enough, and these peasants seem to think they’re pretty
damn big, then it doesn’t matter. Do you know how to fight wolves?” Gambet asked.
“Crossbows. Crossbows make it easy. But we don’t have crossbows, so we’re going to have to be smart. We should split the men into pairs, one man with a spear and one with a sword or axe. The man with the spear’s job is to take out the wolf when it lunges, and the man with the sword is there to kill the wolf if the first man misses.”
“There’s another thing,” Captain Owen said. “There are claims that some of these wolves
move about on their hind legs.”
“Wolfmen,” stated Jens.
“Wolfmen? What do you mean wolfmen?” asked the Captain.
“You’ve never heard of wolfmen, Captain?”
“Never.”
“Where I’m from there are hundreds of stories of wolfmen. They say that they are U’ssari
druids who have become one with nature and are able to command packs of wolves. Some can even change their own forms.”
“Have you heard of wolfmen, Gambet?”
“Oh, sure. You usually don’t hear about them this far south, but plenty of folk say they see
them in the forests at the base of the mountains up north,” answered the Sergeant. “They tear into houses and gobble everyone up. Nasty creatures.”
“Have you seen one?” pressed the Captain. “Can they be killed?”
“No need to worry, Captain,” said Gambet, tossing the branch of licorice into the fire. “I’m
sure these villagers are just seeing things. I’ll have some of the lads go check out the hills today and look for tracks. Maybe we’ll get lucky and have ourselves wolf for dinner tonight. Been a long time since I’ve had a good cut of wolf.”
“Never heard of a wolfman, huh?” Jens said, grinning at Captain Owen. “Where are you
from, Captain? Wait, wait, don’t tell me. Dirty blonde, skin’s seen a bit of sun, sharp
nose…you’re Annorian, am I right?”
“Well done, Jens,” the Captain replied, genuinely impressed. “I’m from Shreve on the
southern tip. From what part of Horinthal do you hail?”
“You think I’m Horinthalin, eh? What gave that away?” Jens stroked his fiery beard as he
spoke. “I’m from way up north, a gods-forsaken place called Highkarth. About as north as you can be on Praetoria.”
“What are the chances we’re here in Kelv hunting wolfmen together?”
“Probably greater than the chances we survive,” Jens said with a laugh. “What brought you
across the channel?”
Captain Owen pursed his lips while he thought of the best answer. “Desperation.”
Jens spread his arms wide. “Then you’re in good company, sir.”
Thank you for the contribution, J.M.! You can follow this author on instagram @jmturner.author
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