“They’ve butchered him!” one voice shouted among the rambling crowd of peasants swarming the cart as it moved farther into the village of Etka. They were all pale and tired-looking people, their faces drained of life, cheerless, and morose. Most were farmers, a few wielding their daily armaments of hoes and pitchforks—their hands and faces caked in the soils of fieldwork, their skin cracked and cut. Women and children left their hovels and shacks, scurrying barefoot towards the central road to investigate the curious sight—a stranger in black mercenary garb at the reins of a cart carrying two exhausted looking guards of Osto and the lifeless body of some fallen warrior.

“It’s a dead man! Look, a soldier!” A young, emaciated female said, pointing to the back of the cart. Edum and Randal attempted to obscure the body by sitting in front of it, but Sir Jackemere was too bulky and his glistening armor could clearly be seen by the mass of villagers.

“The war front has reached our lands! Gods save us!” an elderly woman cried, gesturing her hands upwards towards the sky.

“It’s not just some soldier—it’s a knight! It’s a knight!” A bellowing male voice said. “Wait, it’s Sir Jackmere! Osto’s man! The fools fucking killed the bastard!”

The crowd began to press in closer to the cart. Edum and Randal instinctively unsheathed their short blades, slashing the air in front of them, deterring the few villagers that grabbed at the edges of the cart.

It was a confused mess of a poor and weary folk, thought the rogue. Starvation, illness, poverty—the tolerated plagues of the downtrodden—had infected Etka thoroughly, their people now disillusioned, weary, bored. A wayfaring rogue and a cart with a corpse were enough to spur the whole village to life. It was something new, something other than the endless toilings of farmwork under a drunk lord. And this was the Far Country after all, a secluded land often isolated from the workings of the outer world, far removed from the plague, the war, the politics of the Reidmar Alliance, oblivious to the feuds with Essolian kings.

The rogue saw Osto’s abode in the distance, the great hall stood atop a hill in the center of the village. It was tall, made of dark wood and aged brick, at least a hundred times larger than the huts and cottages built in its shadow. The rogue whipped the reins. With a neigh the horse galloped into a hurried pace, stray cats darting out of the way towards collapsed porches and bushels of hay. The horse raced past a series of dilapidated homes, a busy tavern, and a half-burnt down inn, before arriving at the towering iron doors of the hall. The rogue rode slowly right up to the doors. Two guards in similar leather armor to Edum and Randal, flanked the closed entrance. One was nibbling on an apple core, intermittently spitting the seeds to the ground.

“The fuck you bring a cart up 'ere for?” asked the guard with the apple core, genuinely confused. “You have business with Osto or what?”

“Yes,” said the rogue, eyeing both guards over. “His man Jackmere—Sir Jackemere of Merrimont—is dead. I did it, and I had good reason for doing it. Got these two gentlemen as witnesses to the whole debacle.” The rogue gestured his head to the back of the cart. The guards went to investigate. Randal and Edum jumped out, greeting their comrades, patting them on their backs.

“Edum, what in the Inferno is this shit?” asked the other guard.

“It’s a fuckin’ corpse, Devel. Jackmere’s corpse.” Edum said tersely. “The strange fellow, here on top the cart, he saved a whole fuckin’ tavern. The bastard knight went mad. Jackmere wouldn’t stop swingin’ his fuckin’ sword, nearly killed half the patrons. Our friend here put an end to it swiftly.”

The guard with the apple core hopped into the back of the cart, spitting some seeds onto the ground as he approached the corpse.

“That right?” asked the guard with the apple core, cautiously looking at the body, the open throat smeared with dark blood.

“No, Georgich, I made up the whole fuckin’ thing, slit the shit’s throat myself and just wanted to see how you two ass heads would react when I came knockin’ at Osto’s door with his body,” Edum aggressively retorted. “And watch where you’re spittin’ those fuckin’ seeds, you’ve got one lodged in the back of my damned shoe now!”

“Alright, settle down Edum—just want to make sure this ain’t some weird necromancy thing. You know ‘bout the rumors—the lil boy and all. You can’t be too careful with bodies rollin’ up to doorsteps ‘round ‘ere . You best know that too, you said you’ve seen em, that boy,” said Georgich as he began exiting the cart. “Wait—the fuck is that?”

“What is what?” Randall replied.

Georgich threw his apple core to the ground and gently lifted Jackmere’s torso up several inches from the cart. Reaching behind the body he pulled out the decaying arm of the creature. Upon recognizing the flesh as putrefied, he immediately dropped the arm.

“Th-th, this, this some fuckin’ plague rot or somethin’?!” shouted Georgich. “Explain this! Explain why there’s a rottin’ arm in the cart! By the gods, by the gods, I knew there was somethin’ mighty shifty ‘bout all of this! If this be plague rot you might’ve damned the whole village by now. One doctor claimed that if you even touch the flesh—”

“Shut up and listen,” commanded the rogue. “You really think we would just saunter into this place with some severed arm carrying plague rot? No, that’s a stupid assumption. I cut that arm off from an aberration, a creature that stalks the fields no more than a few miles from here. No doubt that’s the boy you’re referring to. He’s some type of wraith and your beloved Lord Osto ought to know about it before he...transforms.”

“Transforms?” asked Georgich, his brow furrowed.

“Yes—this isn’t some folk tale, you have something vile, something growing, that will, in time, be able to kill and devour several men easily.”

“Edum? What is this all ‘bout?” asked Devel.

“He told you,” said Edum. “The man is a professional, he kills these things and things like it. That’s right, you're not the fuck-all vagabond I thought you were, stranger.”

The guards paused for a moment and then looked at each other.

“Let’s just open the fuckin’ doors, Georgich,” said Devel with a sigh. “Gods know how many times we’ve opened these doors for weirder shite—like the chicken slayer or Lady Mona.”

“Fair nuff,” said Georgich with a scoff. “Just leave the body and arm ‘ere with the cart.”

The two guards simultaneously pulled the doors open, the iron bands at the hinges screeching. The three men walked into the building, the rogue striding slightly ahead of the others. The interior smelled of must, fire, and meat. The interior was vast for a farming village hall. Columns of ornately-engraved wood supported its vaulted ceiling and chandeliers bearing candles hung on its crossbeams, off-white wax amorphously lumped at the base of each candle. A large crackling fireplace at the far end of the hall was situated behind the black wooden throne, dramatically lighting the brick wall behind it with a flurry of shadows and flashes of red and orange. A horned dragon’s skull the size of a cow was mounted above the fireplace, its polished bones glinting in the flamelight.

Lord Osto sat upon his throne, his greasy, brown hair falling into curly bunches on each shoulder. His middle-aged face was oily and fat, his round cheeks nearly obscuring his eyes into two squinting slits. He looked swollen and plump like a bloated toddler—a child with stubble. He wore a dark red cape that hung around his neck by a collar of groomed black fur. He was barefoot, slouched in his throne, drinking a large jeweled goblet of wine.

“Boy? Boy? Where’s the fucking boy?! There you are!” Osto barked at a child looking out a nearby willow, admiring a cherry tree with a nesting bird. “Bring me another bottle of that wine! The Essolian one—nine-seventy-eight, year nine-seventy-eight! All the rest is horse piss.”

The boy dashed to a shelf near the fireplace adorned with a variety of different bottles—spirits, wines, and exotic elixirs. He rushed over and delicately poured the wine into Osto's goblet, moving the bottle in a circular motion—something he had done a hundred times before.

The three men approached the throne.

“A wine boy,” said the rogue, glaring at Osto as he took a gulp from his goblet. “Haven’t seen one of those in a while.”

“Hah,” exclaimed Osto as he pulled the goblet from his lips. “I’m merely following in the honorable traditions of the esteemed lords before me. It’s also much easier than stumbling around piss-drunk trying to find the wine bottle. Wait—Edum, Randal, who is this dreary-looking stranger that graces my presence? Why haven’t you taken his blade? I’d expect shackles on his wrists, boys. Or—wait—perhaps you’ve found the balls to finally assassinate me—well done! Etka finally pulls itself through the mire of cattle shit to put an end to the terrifying tyrant Osto. What a tragedy for me! Oh, how poetic!”

Osto was flamboyant and careless. The rogue noticed he spoke with a cadence foreign to these parts—his vocabulary more eloquent and educated than most. The rogue also noticed the sardonic and biting tone he used when speaking. He was a man on the brink of utter nihilism, thought the rogue, his only safeguard against existential turmoil being his goblet filled to the brim.

“My Lord,” spoke Edum, bending his knee.

“Get the fuck up, Edum,” interrupted Osoto. “You know I loathe those trivialities when I’m half drunk. Gods, I hear stories about the courts in the Eimon Isles that require their knights to conduct a whole hour of ritualistic greetings and oaths before even bending the knee. Fuck all that. I’m too much of a fat, whore-hungry, bastard to care for it all.”

“Well, um, my Lord,” Edum said nervously while standing back up from the floor. He knew Osto’s temper was unpredictable and Edum feared becoming the next poor victim to it. “Your man, your knight, Sir Jackmere. He, well, he died.”

“What? Did his heart just decide to fucking stop?! What of?” asked Osto, sitting up in his throne.

“Well, you see, the boys and I were patrollin’ the outskirts like you asked and we stopped for a drink at the tavern, the Marred Cat, the one a half day’s ride from ‘ere. Sir Jackmere came in. And, so, what—well, it was just me and the boys, and, I mean—”

“I killed your knight,” interrupted the rogue. Osto bent an eyebrow. “That’s why I’m here.”

“To ask for forgiveness?” Osto inquired with a slight smirk.

“No, I don’t need your forgiveness,” said the rogue, taking a step closer to the throne. “Your knight was mad, certifiably so.”

“By the Infernal Planes, give me some damn context. The problem with the fools that waltz in here is that they only speak in half-sentences to me. So give me context, stranger.”

“I was going to,” said the rogue, glancing past the throne. He noticed someone dressed in white moving behind it. “Like I said, he went mad. And according to the tavernkeep this wasn’t the first time either—he butchered an innocent peasant prior. So much for chivalry. Now I’m going to be frank with you, I don’t like most knight errants. I think they're soulless, mindless, and narcissistic fools. Sir Jackmere was no exception. My exchanges with him at the tavern exposed him as a charlatan.”

“A charlatan?”

“Yes. Are you aware of the monster spider Marakusil?”

“The beast of Alguin Cliffs. Sir Maymoore killed it but two summers back, no?”

“Yes, and supposedly Sir Tetrin before him. Prior to that, commander Edward of Alwives said he defeated it with a dispatch of archers. Sir Jackmere claimed to have killed it too. It’s a common story among knights seeking to elevate their credentials—no one is going to trek to the horrifying Alguin cliffs to verify if the beast is really dead.”

“You saying that knight lied to me?”

“Yes,” said the rogue, looking at both Edum and Randal. “And as these men here can testify, me exposing him caused him to...snap. Jackmere went wild, swinging his blade, destroying a chair, nearly killing me and nearby patrons. I swiftly put him down before he hurt anyone.”

Osto paused, slowly circling his index finger around the brim of his goblet.

“This true, Edum and Randal?”

The two men glanced at each other and then looked up at Osto. They both nodded their heads in unison.

“Yes my lord,” spoke Edum.

“Nothin' but the truth, every word,” said Randal.

“I doubt you wanted a wild dog for a knight, let alone a fake one.” said the rogue. “If anything, consider it a favor. His corpse is in the back of our cart, in case anyone from Merrimont wants it buried.”

“Strange,” a soft feminine voice said from behind the throne. “A wandering rogue, a slain knight, and, if I’m not mistaken, some missing men.” A woman, her figure adorned by a thin silk dress, had slowly walked out from behind the throne, placing her delicate hand on Osto’s right arm. Her skin was fair, her hair a shimmering pale blond. Her eyes were a deep green and her lips full and moist. Though youthful in appearance, she held herself with the posture of senior nobility, her chin slightly angled upwards, her gaze glaring downvat the three men. The rogue recognized this woman.

“Ah, yes, very strange,” said Osto. “And yes, thank you Lady Mona for noting the absent men—Kalum, Soren, where are they? Did I not send four of you out on the patrol?”

“You did my Lord,” said Edum.

“Something happened on the road to Etka,” said the rogue, his gaze darting between Osto and the woman. “The rumors, the ones about the boy, they’re true. We saw him. He killed two of the men. I was able to ward him off—removing an arm in the process.”

“We can prove it!” Randal enthusiastically exclaimed, beginning to run back towards the doors.

“Where’s that bloody bastard going?” questioned Osto.

“To get the arm,” the rogue said. “Forgive me lord Osto, your wife?” The rogue knew the woman was likely not his wife, and that her name wasn’t Lady Mona. She was playing some game with Osto, who was totally oblivious to it. The rogue was curious of her motives.

“If only!” exclaimed Osto. “This beauty here, as the fortuitous nature of fate would have it, stumbled into Etka three months back. At first, I must admit, her loveliness had me overcome with a drunken lust for her. I had her summoned up into this very hall. The exotic and beautiful woman who stumbles into this pigsty of a village, what a story. I had to know it all. So she drank wine with me. But I learned quickly she was a dignified lady, a legendary sorceress.”

“Indeed she is,” muttered the rogue under his breath.

“You see, stranger, I was at the time plagued by some itching pockmarks on my neck and swollen blisters on my throat, trailing down my esophagus. Gods, the doctors and herbalists said I had some fucking fever that would render my throat raw, that would make me a mute. Osto the Mute—what a shite name for the monks’ chronicles. I had swallowed warm honey daily, digested countless varieties of ground leaves, and rubbed all sorts of strange-smelling powders on my throat. Nothing worked, and my voice began to wane. And then on a cool summer’s eve I meet this lovely woman. And, after four goblets of wine, I found myself divulging my sensitivities to her, my flaws of character, my entire story—including the throat condition. She took pity on me, stranger, like rarely any woman has. She took both of her hands and wrapped them around my neck. It felt like fire, I swear. Her hands began glowing with a blue radiance. And like that the rawness was gone. The pain in my throat vanished—a miracle. So, like the kings of old, she is to be my personal mage, my lady of wisdom.”

“Nice story,” said the rogue.

Randal came racing back in, holding the army by its wrist.

“‘Ere my lord! Look, proof!”

“Oh by the fucking fates, you did actually encounter the boy,” said Osto, palming his face.

“Of course we did,” said the rogue. “I came here to the Far Country to discuss this very rumor. It’s a wraith, a special kind of one too.”

“Listen to him, my Lord,” interrupted Edum. “He’s no normal man. The way he took down Jackmere—such cold precision, his strikes cleaner than any warrior I’ve seen. He scared off that devil child too, made his blade shine with magic.”

“Magic?” questioned Osto.

“I’m a bladed priest,” said the rogue, noticing the woman eyeing him. She had not stopped looking at him since she emerged from behind the throne.

“A bladed priest? One of those exorcists with the black swords?”

“Exactly that.”

“I’ve heard stories about you warriors, bounty hunters, or whatever-the-fucks—slayers of demons, quellers of the undead, the necro-knights. You’re a relic of an era long past. Not many of you, are there?”

“Not since the High Temple fell,” said the rogue. “We’re wanderers now, but the world is still fallen, the dead rise, demons rupture our plane, malicious people cast malicious curses…” The rogue paused and looked intently at Osto, “...and corrupt lords are haunted by the corpses of their bastard sons.”

Osto’s face went white, his fattened fingers nearly dropping the half-full goblet. He had thought no one would uncover the scandal. The undead child looked like any other child—a farmhand, a beggar, or some other flavor of the scattered peasantry in the Far Country. No one would have thought the animated remains of some boy dressed in rags would have been the spawn of Osto. It was impossible, Osto thought, utterly impossible for any man to know his relation to the boy.

“Get out! Get the fuck out! You too boy!” Osto barked, flailing his right arm in the air. “Lady Mona, no you stay, my love.” He gently clasped her hand in his.

The rogue began to turn away, following Edum and Randal who were already walking towards the doors. It wasn’t worth it, he thought. The matter was too personal for Osto, and a man with his temperament couldn’t be expected to act rationally. Osto was a type of man all too familiar to the rogue. Politicians, philosophers, kings had all fallen prey to this corruption of the soul—they would rather hide their most grievous sins than deal with them. But the cosmos has its own sense of karmic justice, and often sins unseen can drown a man entirely. When confronted with the truths they already know, suddenly the veil of lies, the constant flashing of blind eyes, can no longer be used as a safeguard for these men. And then they come face to face with the wretchedness of their condition. For Osto it was a bastard son with a slit throat.

“Wait!” Yelled Osto. “You, bladed one, stay. I want to talk.”