“There’s a saying that every mercenary captain had to be a good accountant, since they had to keep balancing gains and losses all the time, albeit the gains and losses at times being measured in life rather than gold.” - Karel Rotyul, retired mercenary treasurer.

“How’s the situation?” Reinhardt asked later that evening, when the whole Company had gathered in their makeshift encampment deep in the forest once more. He noticed people from Nicole’s, Fatimah’s, and Egil’s group returning, which meant they were done taking care of the pursuers.

“Got rid of the stubborn ones, boss-man,” said Egil with a toothy grin the goblins habitually did, which could be a little unnerving for some due to their array of sharp, dagger-like teeth. Reinhardt just returned a grin full of fangs, though, the mutual gesture between the races being one of friendliness, as it showed that while they had fangs, they were not about to use it. “Some of them sure get pretty persistent, I say.”

“Most of them dropped out before too long after the traps, boss,” added Nicole while she tried to scrape off a stubborn bloodstain from her weapon. “One group had their commander barking like mad and insisted that they chase us to the ends of the world though.”

“I expect since all of you are here already they were taken care of?” he asked just for confirmation.

“They had been removed, captain,” replied Fatimah, the southern woman lowering her mask to take a drink after the long trek. Reinhardt was not too sure on human standards of looks - being raised amongst the mercenaries who were leaning heavily to dwarves back then - but he thought Fatimah didn’t look all that far from his wife, and he had heard other humans call Elfriede beautiful before. “The wild beasts shall have a feast tonight.”

He did not know why the southerner woman almost always kept her mask on except when eating or drinking, maybe it was the odd, undulating pattern tattooed on her cheek, maybe other reasons. He did not bother to pry either way. As long as the woman and her group - who also shared the habit with the mask - remained loyal and competent, he could care less.

“Excellent work. Have a report of your kills, losses, and bounties submitted to Loren as usual,” said Reinhardt with an appreciative nod. While years ago when they first joined the southerners were still a bit awkward with the terrain in Alcidea, they had grown used to it by now. Fatimah’s people were listed as light auxiliaries and scouts, but he recognized their habits for what they were in actuality: Assassins in an unfamiliar environment. “Good work, everyone. Now go get yourselves some grub and drinks.”

To say that it was overkill to have their whole group jump on a squad of soldiers lost in the woods was an understatement, but safety was one of Reinhardt’s main concerns. He wanted no survivors from the enemy side and ideally no casualties from his side.

The mercenaries had a rather cheerful dinner, as the battle today, while quite intense, had gone almost entirely their way from start to finish. The only unexpected thing was that mage who forced his group of footsoldiers to chase faster and actually engaged them, but even then, it was but a minor hitch to the plan.

Several members from those who were in the back had toasted Salicia for her timely arrow, as they would have likely taken more casualties from that mage if not for her. As it was, all the mage caused in damages were one broken and two sprained arms, and a set of bent shields, which were negligible in the overall situation. The burly man whose arm was still in a sling even called a toast for her personally, to the cheers and raised flagons of the rest.

Reinhardt had just finished his bowl of stew and washed it down with some bittersweet ale when Loren came over. He had gravitated to the unofficial position of bursar for the Company over the years, since he had a good head for numbers. It was common for the company to report their results to him first, for him to summarize before it was brought to Reinhardt.

“How does it look, Loren?” Reinhardt asked, offering a flagon of ale to the young water mage. Loren technically had counted more as part of their support staff, as his combat capabilities were poor, but as he was also one of their few healers, he was brought along with the others to the encampment.

“I guess it’s not too bad, Cap,” he replied after gulping down the contents of the flagon and sitting down. “Not many casualties on our end. Thirty-six light injuries, seventeen heavy injuries, already stabilized, and three dead in total.”

Reinhardt nodded, the casualties well within prediction. While his group had not taken any, those who struck and held off the Bostvan archers were fighting against larger numbers after all, even if their opponents were less skilled in melees. That only three people died was close to a miracle, but also spoke for the training his people had gone under.

“And what of their losses?” he asked, glancing back towards the north where the battlefield was.

“Well, from what we could confirm so far, twelve trebuchets at fifteen a piece, three mages of which we have proof for two, twenty five a piece. The boys also gathered up around thirty heads of lieutenants each worth one gold, and two commanders each worth ten,” listed Loren as he perused a sheet of parchment in his hand. “Assuming they just count the ones we have proof of, that’s two eighty gold, Cap.”

“Not bad,” said Reinhardt with a nod. Two hundred eighty gold was a sizable sum, when a peasant household usually lived by copper and silvers. Five to six silvers was considered enough for most peasant households to live well for a whole month, which was why life as a mercenary was attractive to many.

Just their idle pay - pay for when the Company was on downtime and resting - was easily ten silvers a month, which was doubled when they went into combat. From there, various hazard pay and bounties come into play, with some of the more generous Companies like the Free Lances even paying condolences money to the family of those who lost their lives in battle, in the Lances’ case to the tune of four hundred silver.

Assuming the relatives of the fallen mercenary remained with the Company as followers, their lives were pretty much provided for, and even if they chose to return to their hometowns, that sum of money was enough for them to last for a good while, long enough to find another living or even start a business.