Baron Otturo Vicelli sat his horse like a man used to capering about on a manicured lawn, hopping over carefully erected banisters that barely made the horse break its stride. As I followed his weasel-faced seneschal the dozen paces to stand before the Baron, I took him in more than I had when I met with him a week before as I was accepting my commission as a Free Lancer for his warparty.

He was tall but slight, as if a breeze might catch too much of his billowing cloak and he could get pulled away to the far corners of the world. His boots and gloves were of supple deerskin, even here on a bloody battlefield fought in his name, and he wore an embroidered coat in his familial colours, protected by an ornamental breastplate of godsteel engraved with the same rampant lion. His lips were thin and purt in a perpetual sneer as if he were surrounded by an ill smelling aura. All of this told me one thing - Otturo was going to be the last Baron Vicelli.

It hadn’t happened today; I and about four hundred other men had made sure of that in exchange for hard coin, but it would eventually. There were three kinds of rulers in the Free Kingdoms - those who conquered, those who inherited, and those who squandered. Otturo’s grandfather had likely been the man who conquered, the one who chose the Lion Rampant as his heraldry and carved his lands from the hands of another. His father would have been the inheritor, bringing stability and trade and all the things a prosperous kingdom needed. And now, with both men cold in the grave, Otturo caused problems for himself. Got into squabbles with his neighbours, that led to battles that could have been avoided. All it would take is one famine or drought and I had no doubt that he might just get overthrown by his own smallfolk.

None of that was going to help me with whatever this extra summons was.

“I found the man, your grace,” the seneschal sniveled, simpering away despite his lackluster confidence in his riding.

“Ah, yes,” the Baron said, looking down his nose at me.

“Your Grace,” I said, lifting the faceplate of my sallet helm and nodding deeply. It was all that was expected of a knight in full armour on a battlefield, but it still didn’t seem to please the Baron.

Marshal Reiner sat his own horse like he’d been born in the saddle, but I could tell from the corner of my eye that he wasn’t sure what this was or why I had been summoned.

“You are called Jon the Younger, yes?” the Baron asked me.

I ignored the lack of my title. “I am, your Grace, or sometimes Sir Jon of Bloodbraid.” There was another name as well, joked about quietly at my passing in camp. Jon Hellspawn. A play on my true father’s moniker.

The baron nodded to his seneschal and turned in his saddle, seeming to have decided I wasn’t worth talking to himself.

The seneschal smiled, his mouth big for his face, and I half expected him to flick a serpent tongue from between his lips. “Jon the Younger, you were seen leaving the battlefield under your own power before the victory had been declared. Baron Vicelli has decided, in his ultimate graciousness, not to call fault on your contract as a Free Lancer, but you and those associated with you will not receive the rewards owed to those who stayed the battle for it’s full term.”

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I blinked and cocked my head, set back on my heels a moment. “I- what?”

“Your Grace, this is-” the Marshal spoke up, but the Baron lifted a hand to interrupt his sworn man.

“His Grace himself witnessed you carrying your man from the battlefield, instead of finishing the battle as per your commission,” the seneschal grinned. “You are hereby relieved of service.”

I set my jaw and sucked on my teeth for a moment, keeping my anger from boiling over into something I would regret saying to a nobleman on his own lands. It was a skill I had learned the hard way, over years growing up in Bloodbraid’s court. “Marshal,” I said slowly, “would you consider the mass surrender of the enemy the end of a battle?”

The Marshal was frowning deeply, looking from me to his Baron.

“Because that,” I continued, “Was when I sheathed my sword and went to find Gresham Cutter where I had seen him fallen, pinned beneath a horse and spitted on a spear.”

“I have to agree with Sir Jon, your Grace. Surrender is the end of the battle in any soldier’s eyes,” the Marshal said.

“As by the contract signed, in agreement with the regulations set forth by the Free Lancer Guild, sir Jon the Younger agreed that he would not quit the field until victory or surrender had been formally accepted,” the seneschal said. “This was not the case, thus sir Jon the Younger has broken the letter of his contract. Again, it is only through the kindness of his Grace that you will not be reported to the Guild yourself.”

I took a long breath, and then another. It was absurd. It was the sort of wordplay that led to barristers being such a hated profession by any except the judges they served.

“And if you think we don’t know who you are, John the Younger,” the seneschal said after a moment of watching me control my anger. “We are well aware of your dubious parentage. Sir Jon, called the Hellrider by some, is still only an unlanded Free Lancer, no matter the number of songs sung about him, and word has spread of Zeigtrygger the Bloodbraid being made the cuckold, and having raised the bastard in his own house. Neither man, whichever father you think to cry to, will raise a hand against a rightful Baron.”

The Marshal spurred his steed between me and the seneschal and Baron. “Go, Jon,” he said, leaning down to me. “Do not do what your guts are telling you. Use your head and go.”

I’d lost feeling in my body. The only thing I could feel, like a pin, was a twitch in my right eye. My gaze was locked on those beady eyes of the seneschal, who was slowly understanding the wrath that he had just provoked.

“Jon,” the Marshal grunted again. His hand was on his sword hilt, his veteran eyes watching me carefully. It was his duty to protect his liege lord, the man who had given him land and title.

I took one step backwards, looking over the rump of the Marshal’s horse at the Baron. His sneer faltered for a moment as our eyes met, and he looked away, letting the feign of disinterest fall upon his face again.

“All this, for a pouch of fifty gold well earned,” I said. “That’s what I’ll say, Reiner. When I settle this, that is what I’ll say.”

I turned and stalked through the battlefield. Finding the two Lancers I’d slain was no longer on my list of things to do if I was to be denied payment. Two years and I still had yet to piece together a full suit of godsteel armour - my height made it difficult to scavenge suitable pieces, and battles like this with many Free Lancers on either side were not so common. Now I’d been denied my right to trophies, if he was claiming I’d broken contract. One of the men I had killed had wielded a godsteel sword, not that I needed a second one, but the gold that weapon would have brought could have made a dent in this loss and kept the troupe with full bellies.

“A drink,” I muttered. “I need a drink.” And time. I needed time to plan.