“Excuse me, and good morning sir,” said the guardsman, standing before the scruffy looking stranger who came loping over the bridge and up to the city gate. “Business, or pleasure?”

“What?” Pike’s one grey eye glowered at the man.

“Business, or pleasure, sir?” repeated the guard.

“I don’t know what either of those words mean,” said Pike.

“Are you here,” the guard went on, in a halting rhythm that grated on Pike’s ears, “for the express purpose, of engaging in activities of trade, or commerce, within the city walls, for the express purpose, of generating income, or revenue.”

“I think so…”

“Then, I must request, that you sign the appropriate papers, declaring your name, and, the nature of your business activities. After which, you will provide a signature, agreeing to pay any tariffs, which might be applicable…”

Pike, having heard one big word too many, grabbed the guardsman by the shoulder. With terrible ease, the guardsman was hurled off the bridge like a rag doll, to fall into the moat below.

“Hey!” the guard’s young assistant came rushing up, “you can’t just…” Pike sent the boy plummeting after his companion, his cry of terror cut off as he fell into the mud with a plop.

The sun was only just beginning to rise, and a dense mist had rolled in from the sea. Pike lurched through the fog choked city, hand resting on the pommel of his new sword. The gloomy streets were quiet, save for the barking of dogs, the cries of babes, and the calls of seagulls. The people were only now beginning to rise, and those who stared at Pike’s sword and worn clothes were quick to look away and hurry back to work when he returned their stares.

Pike wandered aimlessly for a while. He had never been inside the city before, and his head was beginning to spin at the vastness of it, and the smell of all the rich and varied odours. His keen nose was assaulted by the strange mix of salty sea air, of smoke and charcoal, freshly baked bread and rotting fruit, sickly sweet perfumes and human waste.

Increasingly frustrated and feeling nauseous, Pike spotted a painted sign displaying frothing tankard. He decided that a stiff drink might calm his nerves, but as he entered the tavern’s courtyard, he spotted a man slumped against a wall, snoring loudly with an empty bottle in his hand. The man had a sword at his side, and his dishevelled coat bore a paladin’s badge and a cord of rank.

Pike prodded the sleeping knight with his foot, before giving him sharp a kick in the ribs. The man snorted and opened darkly rimmed eyes. He stared blearily up at the stranger, and finally caught sight of the grey eye leering at him from its nest of scars.

“God above!” the man cried out in alarm, accidentally slamming the back of his head into the wall. He groaned and clutched at his sandy orange hair with one hand. “Who are you?”

“Where’s your chief?” asked Pike.

“What?”

“Your boss, captain, or whatever. Who’s in charge here.”

The man shakily rose to his feet and warily scrutinised Pike. “The commander here is the Exemplar-Governor, Sir Gideon Grimfles,” he said slowly.

Stolen story; please report.

“Are you a knight too?”

“Aye,” he nodded. “I’m… Sir Erasmus… Erasmus de Mouton.”

“Bloody Hell.” Pike shook his head disapprovingly. “You foreigners have some odd names. And this… Governor Giddy Grumbles… he pays out the bounties, does he?”

“Bounties?” Erasmus’ gaze suddenly fell on the sword that hung at the stranger’s hip. Pike saw the knight’s eyes go wide, and grinned sardonically.

“Recognise this, do you?” said Pike, slapping the bronze hilt that poked out of the makeshift cloth scabbard. “This belong to you?”

Erasmus seemed like he was about to say something. But he stopped himself and snapped his mouth shut firmly, shaking his head. “No.”

“But you do know where its from, eh?” Pike continued. “Good. Then you’ll know who this is.” At this, Pike removed his pack and rummaged inside, bringing out a large leather sack that was about the size of a man’s head.

Erasmus took a step back. “It can’t be…”

“It better be,” Pike chuckled. “Not every Ranger is worth five hundred thalers. Come on then,” Pike stooped and slung his pack over his shoulders. “Let’s go share the good news.”

Erasmus led the scar-faced man through the city and towards the old fort in the knight’s district. Pike at last saw the ancient castle atop its hill, rising over the homes of the paladins and their friends. The morning fog was clearing, and the blue and white pennants of the Palatinate hung limply above the fortress.

Pike was vaguely aware of what that flag represented, little more than a relic of a dead empire. Long ago, some legendary king had ruled most of the civilised world. The poets said he was a promised champion, a guardian of the Empyrean itself, who presided over a golden age of sunshine and smiles. Pike never really liked those stories, save for the bloody battles at the end. This king got himself killed, and left his household knights, the Knights-Palatine, to rule in his stead. The Palatinate held sway for some time, claiming that their king was not really dead, and would return some day. After a few hundred years, everybody probably stopped believing that rubbish.

The Will of Heaven, the Masters of the Empyrean said, no longer favoured the Palatinate. Their fleets were smashed, their castles torn down, and their lands taken from them. And in the Paladins’ darkest hour, their beloved king remained dead and half-forgotten.

But the Knights survived, clinging onto what little power they had left by selling their ships as mercenary fleet. They sold their swords to the highest bidder, and maintained their numbers by excepting the dregs of nobility into their ranks. For a young aristocrat with few prospects, and friends in high places, it was simply a more dignified alternative to outright piracy.

Erasmus, wiping sweat from his brow despite the cold, seemed immensely relieved when the uphill climb finally ended at the castle gate. An armoured guardsman leaning on a halberd was there to greet them. When Erasmus and Pike approached, the man screwed up his eyes at them, and rifled through a pouch at his.

“Oh. Morning Rasmus,” the halberdier said after setting a pair of spectacles on his nose. “What are you doing up and about? You haven’t been drinking have you?”

“The stitches were keeping me awake,” Erasmus rubbed his shoulder. “Needed something to forget the pain.”

The bespectacled knight nodded politely, before glancing at Erasmus’ grim faced companion.

“Is the Exemplar up yet?” asked Erasmus. “It’s a… well it’s rather important.”

“Oh yes, he’s at his breakfast. But he’s entertaining the visitors, so you should probably wait if you want to see him now.”

“I think…” Erasmus coughed nervously, “that the Exemplar will want to see this man straight away.”

“Because of the head I’ve got,” said the bounty hunter. “The one in the bag. Not on my neck, can’t have that, it’s mine.”

The halberdier blinked in confusion, but Erasmus was already walking past him. “Sorry Rollo, but it really is important. I’ll go ahead and tell Sir Gideon. Please find an escort to bring our… friend in.” He leaned in closer to Rollo’s ear and whispered. “Don’t let him out of your sight.”

Rollo seemed about to object, but Erasmus was already moving across the courtyard. When he was inside the citadel and out of sight of the bounty hunter, he broke into a half-run, staggering through the corridors as he clutched his shoulder in pain. Blood was again seeping from the wound. The wound given to him by the outlaw whose head was now a trophy to be paid for in gold.

But more importantly, Scathabrand, the ancient sword which Erasmus had lost, was now within the city walls, in the hands of some scruffy looking vagabond. Now it would be Erasmus’ duty, to reclaim that sword, alongside both his honour, and Sir Hector’s.