The Gauntlet usually ran its finances poorly. That must be said early to lower your expectations as only the best commanders end up with well-run financials in their company.

The following really did happen, I swear... “Get a hold of yourself, Yarik!” The leader barked from the rear with no effect. “Rally!”

Then the bannerman raised our flag and, with voice booming, summoned forth his gift: “To the colors! To me, my Brothers of War & Honor!”

Despite that, the spectres kept coming with their horrible wails of nightmares real and imagined. We sometimes whispered of geists around the campfire hoping never to meet them. Too bad.

Unfortunately, Bertram the Lieutenant succumbed to his wounds from the horrific melee. A Fallen Hero got the best of the old lad & slew him with a heavy strike from his zweihander. Our former comrade arose moments after the kiss of Death. Dotted and splotched on his scale armor were bits of blood & ichor. Bertram the Dead groaned. We were shocked as we cowered behind our shield wall.

The sun shone down but hated us. And in a bit of shade from passing clouds above, our former brother became our enemy...

"Such a waste of coin and training," our passive leader later said.

In any company, mercenaries come & go, die, or hopefully retire with some crowns. Mostly they die or get maimed beyond belief. Our commander once let a fellow with a collapsed lung stay in our fighting line. Berthold ate a raider’s pike ending his suffering because he forgot his helmet. It’s a pity really.

Such stories are common and often true. In my expert opinion, the only false ones include tales of geese that lay gold crowns each day. Rubbish.

In any case, the big question is “How do you make a profit?” That is hard to answer besides the obvious, which are payouts from contracts & selling loot from the battlefield. While we certainly are not merchants, it is a good practice to buy trade goods at low prices, transport them to a citadel or city, and offload it all for a pretty pile of coin.

However, now don't get me wrong, merchants with caravan guards have made plenty of crowns playing mercenary and trader. Heavens, I know a caravan master who regularly buys loaves of bread to trade in the city at a slight profit.

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Then, though I scoff at the lunacy of this strategy, we have “the dagger party.” The joke goes that there is a “dagger party & you’re all invited.”

The downfall and demise of Black Balthasar, also known as the Black Crow, was a mighty bandit boss. Was. Allow me, dear reader, to recount the glorious tale...

We had tracked the bandit king, or so he styled himself, to a crumbled keep out in the Eastingvale woods passing by a band of mercenaries, The Whistling Arrows, who were caught up in a grand melee with some raiders. Ragnar advised us not to join in the brawl and so we instead followed tracks and other signs for 2 days before coming upon the patchwork fort of Balthasar. Bossing about his minions, the thug king was battle ready dressed in fine lamellar and quite a sturdy helmet. He had a kite shield, a stolen knight's faded crest still on its face, and the most expensive sword I've ever seen that was a true work of art and deadly too. Balthasar clearly robbed a nobleman for his sword... and it appeared his snakeskin boots too.

In any case, we readied ourselves and Ragnar gave a fine speech:

"Today we fight not as men or scoundrels, yes that means you Lothar you bastard, but we fight as Brothers. We of The Gauntlet are the finest mercenaries in the land and shall reign victorious over these two bit thugs. Steel yourselves, friends, and let's get into the thick of it. Make it loud and fatal!"

The Gauntlet cheered at that and so we advanced into The Eastingvale...

At Balthasar's crumbling battlements, we met them in a magnificent battle that included puddles of blood, broken implements and armor, & nine of our initial company dead with only three in the reserves. Ultimately, the first skirmish ended in failure with our Bannerman struck down but alive with brain damage, which was rather fortunate somehow... He was braver but quite... slow.

In the rejoined brawl, we advanced back in with six battle brothers with partially scuffed, blood-flecked arms & armor with Ragnar in rear guard as our commander.

Balthasar had lived from the initial foray & came out bellowing taunts. We ignored him as we formed a shield wall then edged in. Arrows rained down from bandit marksmen with simultaneously thrown weapons that weighed heavy on the frontline. Javelins & axes protruded from the interlocked shields, some kites and some basic round ones, as we kept a steady pace forward.

The first to fall was a southern merc, Hakim, who hailed from the grand oasis city of Karrakan. The Gilder, so the believers say, blessed Hakim with a strong physique. He was a pit fighter having fought in the tainted killing fields of The Arena.

He ate a hooked blade to the noggin. Shit happens.

We had cut a swath through the bandit ranks with only Balthasar the Crow remaining while he hefted his looted nobleman's war sword. The Crow struck down our already learning impaired Bannerman as our morale started to break.

A lucky hit with an arming sword to the head made The Crow reconsider his life decisions. He began to rout. We rushed in for the opportunity as our vengefully driven sellswords surrounded him, menacing him with drawn daggers.

And so Balthasar was no more; shanked into oblivion.