Chapter 9: The War Bear Mercenary Company

Old Jack's Tavern stood in the southwestern corner of Blackfort Town, a secluded spot nestled among stables and pigsties; yet, the tavern's business had always been brisk. The reason was simple: Old Jack's was the very heart of Blackfort’s black market. Each day, before darkness fell, mercenaries, traders, informants, wandering minstrels, and streetwalkers would come and go through its doors, each with their own secret purpose. In this tavern, you could buy many things unattainable elsewhere—so long as your purse was heavy enough.

Nelson sat idly in one corner of the tavern, a look of utter boredom upon his weathered face. On the sturdy oak table before him lay nothing but a heavy battle-axe, placed sideways. Leaving a weapon on the table in such a manner was a mercenary’s sign: he was waiting to be hired. The absence of food or drink, however, spoke of his empty pockets.

Outside, the cold gnawed at the weary, but within, the tavern was warm and welcoming. In the center, a hearth blazed merrily, tongues of fire licking at the bottom of a great cauldron suspended above it. Inside, a dozen or so salted rabbits tumbled in a milky broth, releasing a rich aroma that tempted every soul present. The tavern’s owner, Harle, never turned away a penniless mercenary, but neither would he offer even the cheapest mare’s milk wine—worth no more than five copper sols—without payment. And so, Nelson could only swallow his saliva, eyes lingering longingly on the stewing rabbits.

The tavern door swung open. Nelson glanced up to see Harle, all obsequious smiles, ushering a group of figures—cloaked from head to toe—up to the private rooms on the second floor. Nelson knew who they were: underlings of the Blackfort quartermaster, regularly bringing surplus military goods to Harle for sale. Nelson’s own Bear Mercenary Company had bought two discarded crossbows from Harle once; aside from the insignias being filed off, Nelson could see nothing else to warrant their retirement.

The door was flung open again, this time with a crash. A hulking, one-eyed giant of a man, nearly six and a half feet tall, strode in trailing a gust of icy wind, prompting a flurry of curses from the mercenaries seated nearby.

“Boss, told you it was free!” the one-eyed man bellowed, ignoring the jeers, and marched straight to Nelson’s table, dropping two ten-pound loaves of black bread onto the wood with a resounding thud.

The mercenaries who had been spoiling for a fight with the newcomer recognized him as one of Nelson’s men and quickly thought better of it, turning instead to a loud debate over which barmaid had the most generous curves, as though nothing had happened at all.

“Where are the others?” Nelson seized a loaf and began to eat, his powerful jaws making short work of the rock-hard bread, crunching it as if it were fresh oatcakes.

“Lilia’s still waiting in line at the church with the rest, hoping to get a couple more loaves,” replied the one-eyed man, scratching his head. “If only the church would catch a few more witches, we could get even more free bread.”

After every purification ceremony, the church distributed food to the townsfolk—a tradition that had endured through the ages.

Nelson finished the five-pound loaf in just a few bites and grinned at his companion. “Witches aren’t so easily caught. Remember the one in Dordo eight years ago? Took over twenty deaths to bring him down. It’s rare for a witch hunt to end like the one here in Blackfort, with no bloodshed.”

“Boss, those Wyvern fellows sent word again. They want to talk with you.” The one-eyed man’s tone turned serious.

Nelson’s eyes narrowed as he fixed him with a steady gaze. “Gru, what do you think?”

“I follow your lead, boss,” Gru replied calmly, meeting Nelson’s stare without flinching. “But the others—Ironhammer’s lot—seem tempted.”

“If they want to leave, I won’t stop them. But let me be clear: Wyvern’s crew is bad news.” Nelson sighed, his voice heavy with warning. “I’ve long suspected Wyvern’s just a front for the Blood Fox Bandits. Merging with them will bring us nothing but trouble.”

“Our Bear Company’s been around over twenty years. We’ve fought Saxons in the north, wiped out gnoll tribes in the south, but our main foes have always been bandits. The old captain was crippled fighting them, and on his deathbed he entrusted the company to me. I still remember his words: ‘There’s no future for bandits, but mercenaries have one!’” Nelson stroked the axe on the table, his tone wistful but resolute.

“Boss, six years ago you saved me from the bandits—lost my eye to one of their arrows. I owe you my life! Even if I starve, I’ll never work for bandits. I’ll go talk to Ironhammer’s lot right now!” Gru, overcome with emotion, leapt to his feet.

“Sit down!” Nelson called him back.

“I know what Ironhammer and the others are thinking. Over the years, so many of our brothers have died or been maimed. Ironhammer’s told me more than once I should send the wounded home if the company’s to survive. He’s right, but I can’t bring myself to do it.” Nelson sighed. “That’s why we came to the Horse Hills, to try our luck. Maybe the lord here would recruit us as household guards—a way out for everyone. But things haven’t gone as I hoped…”

Gru fell silent. The Bear Company was a force to reckon with among their peers, their captain Nelson a renowned fighter. Yet too many in their ranks were weak or crippled—of forty-odd men, eleven could no longer fight. Every time they sought work, prospective employers would see so many invalids and shake their heads. It had been a long time since they’d had a job.

Becoming household guards to a lord was a mercenary’s best hope for the future, but what noble would feed so many useless mouths? The two men sat in heavy silence.

At last, Nelson hefted a large bundle from beneath the table and dropped it on top with a thud that made the oak shudder. He patted it gently, his expression torn. “Looks like I’ll have to sell this old friend.”

“Boss, isn’t that your half-plate? You can’t!” Gru shot to his feet in shock.

Mercenaries usually wore leather armor; chainmail was a luxury, and plate armor—strong enough to ward off most blows—was rarely seen, its weight and expense daunting. Nelson had earned this half-plate as a gift from a grateful merchant after defeating a bandit gang. He treasured it, always caring for it himself.

Now he was actually going to sell it. Gru’s heart ached at the thought.

“Enough. The company funds are running low, and we’ve no work. Selling this will tide us over.” With that, Nelson slung the bundle and strode to the bar.

“Tell Harle to come out. I’ve got something he should see,” he growled to the barkeep, tossing the bundle onto the counter.

Soon, Harle appeared, eyes twinkling as he patted the bundle. “Captain Nelson, before you sell this half-plate, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

“Who?” Nelson eyed the tavern-keeper warily.

“Baron Wimbledon himself!”