It’s not even a proper dungeon, thought the Highwayman, as a sliver of morning sun spilled from the narrow, barred window above him; there aren’t any rats. The heavy iron manacle around his ankle was proper enough, as was the chain attaching it to the wall. Yet the cot had fresh straw laid upon it, the chamber pot was clean… and the Lord of Elgeist was not known for his hospitality.

He sighed, heavily, and laid down on the cot. Suppose they want something from me, then.

The Highwayman was a tall fellow, though he’d seen taller, and strong, though he’d known stronger. Fought them, too, and soon learned that quick feet and a sharp wit were more than a match for raw power. He was a clever fellow, the Highwayman was, but of course one had to be when the road was their home. His hair was chestnut brown, his jaw firm and stubbled, and his eyes calm and blue as the winter morning sky. Though he was not old, he had the look of a man who’d seen many years; a man for whom the road was his only home.

It wasn’t long before a pair of guards appeared before his cell; an older, stout fellow with a fat-lipped scowl that made him look like he’d been weaned on a pickle, and a fresh-faced lad who barely seemed old enough to carry his blade and pistol.

“So, you’re the infamous Highwayman!” laughed Pickle Lips. “Bane of the Merchant Houses, the Knight That Serves No Lord, and all that rubbish. They say you could nick the crown right off King Ulrich’s brow if you had a mind to… and here you are, in Elgeist, caught stealing from an applecart!

“Never meet your heroes, lad,” he continued, turning to his fellow guard; “they’re never as grand as they want you to think they are.”

The young guard quietly stammered something and briefly cast his eyes downward. He’s nervous, the Highwayman noted, and nervous men make poor decisions. Though he’d been mulling over a few different escape plans, he now decided to wait and see how things played out. The thought of being shot by a scared boy barely half his age held little appeal.

The Highwayman shrugged, noncommittally, and stared at the ceiling of his cell.

“Got nothing to say, then, do you?”

“Nothing comes to mind,” he laconically replied.

“You might want to try begging for mercy, to start. We hang thieves in Elgeist.”

The Highwayman shrugged again. “There’s no rope around my neck yet.”

Pickle Lips scowled. “Your reputation may have bought you a few more days of life, Highwayman,” he growled; “but only a few. Lord Rosemont wants to see you. To pass his judgement on you in person.” He pulled a pair of manacles from his belt. “Stand and put your hands behind you, now. We’re taking you to Cloudkeep.”

The young guard drew his pistol, cocked back the flint, and held it on the Highwayman with a trembling hand. “Watch your trigger, lad,” the Highwayman gently said as he slowly, calmly turned around and allowed Pickle Face to lock the manacles around his wrists. “You wouldn’t want to put a bullet in the back of your Lord’s guest.

“Guess I won’t be swinging from that gibbet after all,” he continued, conversationally, as the guards dragged him from his cell.

Pickle Lips sneered and shoved him down the dungeon corridor. “When you hear what Rosemont wants from you, Highwayman, you’ll wish you’d been hanged.”