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The guards that were standing there looked at his group with hard eyes, but Simon could see that the warriors of Crowvar had no chance of stopping him if they tried to keep him out, and he decided to force the issue. It turned out that wouldn’t be necessary, though; as soon as they asked his business, and he told the stern-faced men that they were mercenaries here to collect on centaur bounties, the guards brightened immediately.

“We’ve been hearing about you, but we wasn’t sure if it was just a tall tale or not. People have been known to exaggerate these things.” the guard captain said looking through their sack of bloody trophies, “Say, that’s a hell of a haul. You’re all going to be rich men at the end of this!”

“It is,” Simon agreed. He stood there chatting with the guards for the next few minutes about where the best place was to stay in town for a night or two and how the best way might be to ask for a meeting with Baron Raithewait before they proceeded into the city.

There were a couple of inns left in the city, but there probably weren’t any big enough to accommodate all of Simon’s men. So, instead, they camped in a burned-out lot next to the Happy Harlot and used their common room for a bout of celebratory drinking and to plan their next steps.

Some of his men were definitely leaving after their payday, but Simon didn’t begrudge them that. They’d signed on to make a little gold, and after they got it, they were welcome to do whatever they wanted. He was pretty sure they could get another volunteer or two here anyway, especially after Simon bought the bar a round or two and stories of their exploits started to spread. Crowvar wasn’t a large town, but even in its current condition, there were a couple thousand people that lived there. Surely, some of them would want more than to eke out a meager existence in this grim place.

The size was helpful in any case because they needed to resupply. Simon’s crew was desperately short on things besides food. They needed arrows, rope, weapons, and more than a few repairs made on their armor. Fortunately, Crowvar had all of that, even if it didn’t have much else.

Simon waited until everyone was drunk and having a good time, and then he slipped away to go pay a visit to where his wife’s grave should have been for a few hours. Of course, it was still a blank spot, not far from the graves of nameless strangers. Someday, he’d come back here only to find a stranger buried in her place. Still, for now, he felt connected to her in this place, and he spent a couple of hours just quietly talking to her as he filled her in on his quest. He told her about the places he’d been and the people he’d saved, and when he was done, he was surprised to find it didn’t hurt as bad as it did before.

Simon and his crew spent the next day buying and packing things, and it was only that evening that he received a summons to Crowvar’s central keep. He’d expected an invitation for sometime later in the week, but when half a dozen guards showed up in the Happy Harlot’s common room, he knew things weren’t going to go quite as expected. Half of them had their halberds gripped tightly enough that they obviously feared a fight.

“By order of his lordship, Baron Varten Raithewait, the leader of this band is to come with us immediately,” their leader declared.

Simon’s men tossed him worried looks, and Bret, the man sitting nearest to him, said, “You really think you should be doing this?” when Simon started to stand.

“We’re just here to collect what we’re owed!” Someone else shouted. “If you think you can intimidate us by—”

“I’ll come,” Simon said, standing up and speaking to defuse this situation before it got any more tense.

In an enclosed place like this, if the fighting started, there would be plenty of deaths, including people he’d prefer to survive. If they wanted to get him alone for some treachery, then he was all for it. By himself, Simon could really cut loose and do things he could never do when his allies could see what he was capable of.

Outside, they made one stop at Simon’s camp to collect the bags of trophies they’d brought with them. After that, the Baron’s guards escorted Simon like he was under arrest and were resistant to his every attempt to strike up a friendly conversation with them.

He probably should have been afraid, but he wasn’t. Instead, he was overwhelmed with nostalgia. He’d been here before. He’d been here too many times. He could practically see the faces of old friends that he could no longer remember the names of. He could see the places where he’d killed people. It was hard to stay focused on the now when there were so many other ‘thens’ to see.

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Simon was led directly into the dining hall that doubled as an audience chamber where he found Lord Varten sitting on a large wooden chair that had been moved onto the dias next to the far wall. It was a poor throne, and it undermined his attempt to look imposing.

As Simon walked forward he looked around the room, noting the man’s brother wasn’t here in this timeline either. Did that mean he was dead, or had that accident not happened yet? Simon had no idea, but for now it didn’t matter. The only people in the room were the guards that had brought Simon, the maids that were still clearing away the remains of dinner, and the Baron himself.

He stopped ten feet in front of Lord Varten and gave only the slightest of nods. It was as disrespectful a bow as he could offer, but Simon was fine with that. He was looking for any excuse at this point, and he had a feeling that Varten was going to give him one without too much effort.

Still, at first, the Baron only looked down on Simon with disdain as the guards brought the bags of totems and trophies he’d collected to the man and, at the Baron’s command, dumped some of them out on the floor.

Lord Varten looked at them for a moment with surprised eyes and then turned to Simon and, feigning nonchalance, said, “You really expect me to believe you killed so many? There’s got to be dozens here.”

“By my count, we’ve killed 118 warriors, along with 54 colts and almost three dozen mares, your Lordship,” Simon said with a smile. “Not all at once, of course. Lots of smaller war bands and ambushes on a couple of different herds made up the—”

“Poppycock!” Lord Varten said. “There’s no way. The centaurs simply aren’t that big of a threat. If you think I’m going to pay you for the bones and ornaments you must have dug up in some graveyard out there in the wastes, then you’re a bigger fool than you look.”

“A silver a head for centaur warriors and orcs and half as much for knolls and hobgoblins,” Simon answered calmly. “Those are the rates that the Raithewaits have paid out for decades.”

“Perhaps that was true in the past, but that’s a price for men that kill actual threats, not grave robbers,” the Baron shot back smugly. “You’ll see not a single silver from me for this.”

“We killed every one of those monsters,” Simon retorted calmly, “If we aren’t paid… well, it’s like your father used to say, mercenaries are cheaper than a standing army and much more disposable. How many men do you think will fight and die facing the monsters of the region when they hear they won’t be getting paid for the privilege.”

That made Varten fume for a moment. Simon sympathized. Simply having to talk to the man in a way that was vaguely respectful made Simon fume, too, but he was managing to keep it together better than he would have expected.

“I might see my way to pay out a few pennies for each of the… what did you say? 81 centaurs, was it?” the Baron said finally. “In the name of good relations with the warriors of the region. Let’s call in 5 per head and be done with this argument.”

“400 coppers is 20 silver, your lordship,” Simon said, squeezing his hands into fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. “That’s less than twenty percent of what we're owed, and I’m afraid quite unacceptable.”

“You can leave here with what I’ve offered or with nothing at all,” Lord Varten answered dismissively.

“I know my rights,” Simon said, a touch of anger showing in his voice as he resisted the urge to turn the Baron into a bonfire just for the joy of it. “If you won’t pay me a fair price, then I’m afraid we’ll have to resolve this dispute with something besides words.”

“Are you threatening me?” the Baron asked, leaning forward. He was a little older than he’d been when Simon had suffered under his yoke, but the man was almost certainly still spry enough to swing a sword. It was obvious from the scars on even the youngest guards that his games hadn’t changed at all in the interim.

“I’m challenging you,” Simon said, “Or your champion if you’re afraid to face me directly. If I was threatening you, you’d know it.”

The Baron purpled with rage for a moment before he yelled, “Guards! Seize him and put him in irons!”

The men began to move at once but uncertainly. Simon didn’t move. Instead, he regarded them briefly before he spoke. “You don’t have to listen to him, you know. He’s already failed this town once, and he will again soon. The orcs might have weakened Crowvar, but the Centaurs will finish the job in a year or two if someone doesn’t handle it.”

There was enough truth in his words that they delayed and looked to each other, trying to figure out what it was they should do. That delay was enough to cause Lord Varten to cry out, “I am the lawful ruler of this region and have the situation well in hand. If you cross me, you can be strung up right next to this man and his ragged little army.”

“That’s right,” Simon agreed. “I have an army. They know how to fight, but maybe after I take over yours too, that will be enough to handle the challenges your domain faces.”

“You insolent little…” the Baron snarled as he stood and drew his sword. “You think you can take my seat just because you killed a few horsemen?”

“I’d planned to settle for silver,” Simon said with a smile, “but since you aren’t paying, I suppose that would be the next best option.”

The armed men around Simon had paused and were obviously unsure of what they should do. One particularly zealous guardsman looked like he wanted to punch Simon in the face, but even as he raised his mailed hand to do just that, the man next to him grabbed his arm and held him back with a shake of his head. “Let the Baron fight his own battles this time.”

Simon smiled at that as the Lord approached. He had no sword, but he drew his dagger and waited for the first attack as patiently as he could. He was going to enjoy this.