Goodbye, diplomacy. Welcome, violence.

  Besnik took one look at his fallen comrade with an arrow sticking out of his belly, and rushed towards Oak, his pitchfork at the ready. The young man was astoundingly stupid, but no one could fault his courage. The three other villagers followed in their leader’s wake, clutching their mattocks and hoes.

  Oak dropped his bow and unsheathed his falchion. It was time to kill some idiots. He charged right at Besnik and swung like he was trying to fell a tree with a single chop. Eyes wide and a battle-cry on his lips, Besnik lifted his pitchfork to block the strike.

  Elven steel connected with the pitchfork’s wooden handle. Steel won.

  Besnik’s weapon broke in two, and Oak sliced him in half. Blood sprayed all over his face and chest as the bisected corpse fell to the ground, still twitching. His engine hummed.

  By Ashmedai’s lance, it feels good to reap my rewards.

  By the looks on their faces, the drunken defenders of piety and justice had clearly thought he would try to run away from their superior numbers. The sudden and violent death of their leader shook some sense into them. Eyes filled with terror, the trio backed away from Oak and his two handed falchion, dripping with blood.

  “Fuck!”

  “Besnik, no!”

  “Oh, Mother preserve us.”

  “It's too late now.” Oak growled. Why do they always start pleading only when it will no longer do them any good?

  Geezer rushed past Oak and bowled the leftmost man over like he was a toddler. The sight of a snarling hellhound ripping their friend's throat out separated the wheat from the chaff. One man rushed to avenge his friends. Oak caved in his chest with a pyrokinetic blast of flame and stomped on the man’s skull for good measure.

  A satisfying crunch echoed in the night air.

  The other man threw his mattock on the ground and fled screaming into the forest.

  No matter. A chase only sweetens the kill.

  Geezer trotted next to him, snout covered in blood and red eyes gleaming in the darkness of the night. The hellhound threw a questioning look at Oak, asking for permission.

  “Go on. I will follow shortly.”

  The hound barked gleefully and ran after the fleeing man. The dark forest swallowed the black dog’s form, and Oak was left standing on the road under the blanket of stars covering the night sky. A familiar bloodlust slithered in his heart. He gripped the handle of the falchion firmly but gently, like holding a lover.

  Oak turned towards the bowman, sitting in the middle of the old road with an arrow in his belly.

  The hook-nosed man breathed in and out in short, labored gasps and he had his arms pressed around the wound, as if that would do him any good. His shirt was wet with blood. The internal bleeding alone would kill him, and even if by some miracle he survived, an infection would finish the job.

  When the bowman saw Oak looking at him, he lost what little color remained on his face. “No! Please!” he begged. “Wait just a goddamn moment, would you?”

  Too little, too late.

  “What would be the point? There is an arrow in your belly.” Oak stepped up to the man and lifted his falchion. “You are already dead.”

  “Curse yo–”

  Oak split the man’s head open. The corpse flopped on its back, mouth open in a silent scream. Blood and brains pooled on the ground, mixing with the dirt.

  Wrath. Wrath and struggle eternal.

  Wasting no time, Oak dove into the Waking Dream. This was a precious opportunity, and he would not let it slip through his fingers. Ghosts didn’t grow on trees. This is how beggars must feel when they notice a cold coin laying in the dirt. The splash of the Dream’s icy waters stole the breath from his lungs, but no thorns of suffering sought to flay his mind.

  In the past two weeks, they had put a lot of distance between themselves and the horrors of Ma’aseh Merkavah. Unlike in the City of God, the Dream around these parts held no malice. The sudden death of a million souls and the influx of their ghosts had not suffused the waters with suffering and hatred. Oak delighted in the freedom to dive into the shallows without having to worry about leviathans and poltergeists behind every blade of grass.

  Thick trees covered the land in their sweet embrace. The forest stood tall in the Dream, reaching towards the stars high in the black sky and leaving the underbrush to quiver in the dark. Vegetation choked the road on both sides. A small piece of civilization straining against the wilds.

  Shattered shards of the minds of the villagers Oak had slain stained the shallows around him, being washed away by the soothing currents of the Unreal Sea. One hook-nosed ghost still floated along the flows, mostly intact. As fast as he dared, Oak sank his hooks on the ghost, and seized it for himself.

  A just reward for his efforts. Another building block of a future he was yet to shape. Oak stringed up the ghost among the rest of the ghastly collection hanging inside his sanctum and returned to the real world. There would be time later to slot it into his wards.

  The hunt was not finished just yet.

  The smell of blood, piss, and shit hung in the air. Oak took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Dead men empty their bowels. One of those things they don’t mention in all the songs, but he couldn’t find it in himself to blame the bards for that one.

  It’s hard to make a corpse shitting itself sound glorious.

  ***

  Jozef ran through the woods like the hounds of hell were on his tail. By the look of the monster that had ripped out Vasil’s throat, it might even be true.

  Unseen branches emerged from the surrounding dark like demonic whips, flogging his face and heaping punishment upon his flesh. He deserved it all for being such a failure. Jozef ran right into a thornbush, wailing as he ripped himself free. Some thorns came with him. Blood flowed down his forearms and his chest in little meandering rivers.

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  Oh, no. The blood! The hound will smell the blood!

  Icy terror and shame had replaced his earlier confidence and chased away the pleasant buzz of alcohol. Every thought that entered his mind was more terrifying than the last. Every possibility was more unnerving than the one before it. Thoughts raced through his mind like nightmares on wings, leaving only growing anxiety in their wake.

  The sun had set below the horizon some time ago, and the canopy hid the stars above, leaving Jozef in utter darkness. He could barely see two paces ahead of himself as he struggled through the underbrush. Grime, cold sweat, and shame covered him in their icy embrace.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. His eyes welled with tears. We only wanted to do what was right! To restore the honor of our village!

  Something smashed into him, and Jozef fell back, forehead throbbing with pain. He lay there on the ground and admired the spots of light dancing inside his eyelids. Dizzy. He was so dizzy. Panic bubbled inside him, threatening to burst into the surface and leave him a gibbering wreck clutching at the darkness for salvation.

  He wiped the blood from his eyes. Breath, Jozef. Breath. He had run full tilt against the side of a tree. Maybe a jackalberry, though he could not be sure in the dark. Laboriously, he dragged himself up. There was no time. No time at all.

  The world swayed around him like a rowboat in the clutches of a stormy sea, and Jozef fell to his knees. He pressed his bloody hands together in prayer, but the sight of them reminded him of the way the giant had cut Besnik in half, and he puked out his dinner.

  Beer and porridge tasted much better on the way down than on the way up.

  Cursed foreigners! Why do the heretics have to ruin everything! Where was the justice in this world when four of his friends lay dead on the old road and that demon worshipping harlot and her protector walked free?

  Jozef wiped the sick from his mouth onto his sleeve and staggered upright. Something growled. He froze. Fear clawed at his throat and stole his breath. Two red eyes stared at him from the underbrush. The hellhound emerged from the darkness like a living shadow being poured into shape. It stalked towards him languidly, bloody teeth glistening like red pearls.

  The horror looked pleased. “No! Stay away! I deny your works, Demon!” Jozef shouted, scrambling away from the hound of perdition. “The Seraphim will flay you for this!”

  “The Seraphim are not here.”

  Jozef whipped his head around. “Oh, G–God.”

  The first thing he saw were the large, bloody hands, holding the biggest and meanest looking meat cleaver Jozef had ever laid eyes on. The heavy breathing of the giant had more in common with a bear than a man. The sound invaded his ears and sent him trembling. His gaze traveled upwards. Eyes wreathed in flame assessed him from on high and found him wanting. Jozef pissed himself.

  “But I am,” Oak said.

  The last thing Jozef saw was the cleaver’s edge descending towards his face.

  ***

  The glow of the campfire was a welcome sight for Oak’s tired eyes. Ur-Namma was still awake, keeping watch by the fire. The old elf waved at him and Geezer.

  “By the look of you two, it was a good idea to circle back,” Ur-Namma said. He had one hand up to the elbow inside Oak’s rucksack, digging around for something. “How many?”

  “Five men.”

  “Hmm.” The elf pulled some provisions out of Oak’s pack. “Supper? I roasted some salted pork.”

  “Might as well,” Oak said and accepted the offered slice of meat and a piece of bread to go with it. He sat down and munched on them in silence, eyes fixed on the flames. Sadia slept on the other side of the campfire, wrapped up in his spare cloak. She looked tired, but peaceful. Considering her circumstances, that was about as good as anyone could hope for.

  In times past, Oak would never have stared at an open flame at night like this, but it wasn’t like he could lose the ability to see in the dark any longer. The Boon of Darkvision took care of that for him. Being a Warlock was terribly convenient.

  Geezer laid down on the ground by the fire and yawned mightily. It had been a long day for both of them.

  “This might be the first time the mutt hasn’t begged me for scraps of food,” Ur-Namma observed. “He must truly be tired.”

  “He is quite drowsy, but it’s not that,” Oak said. “He ate his fill already.”

  “Ah.”

  Oak quickly changed the subject. “How’s the girl?”

  “She is a spiteful ingrate.”

  “So, you do like her.” Oak chuckled. “Don’t be too harsh. She is a teenager. They are all spiteful ingrates.”

  “If you say so. It’s been a while since I have spent time with such young humans.”

  As tired as Oak was, he knew he would not be able to sleep before he had taken care of his weapons. He had wiped down the falchion and the cleaver onto the clothes of the villagers, but that alone would not suffice.

  The old man always liked to say that you can tell all you need to know about a man by observing how he treats his possessions.

  Oak licked his fingers clean and grabbed some pieces of cotton cloth and a small brown bottle of oil from his rucksack. Then he settled back down by the fire to oil his blades. He did not know if his enchanted blades even required oiling, but he found the ritualistic nature of the task relaxing, anyway.

  “I tried to convince those young morons to let it go, but they would not have it,” he said. The words just spilled out of him, like water flowing downriver. “They were drunk. On booze and faith.”

  “Hmm.” Ur-Namma grinned, showing his needle-like teeth. “Poor bastards.”

  The way the oiled cloth traveled along the blade of his falchion felt soothing. Oak didn’t know why he felt the need to explain to Ur-Namma that he had tried to solve things peacefully. It was not like the elf gave a single fuck about the lives of some peasants.

  Status.

  He had gained two ghosts, not to mention four more souls, equaling four more units of fuel. That brought his total to thirty-six. It was time to have a chat with Ashmedai again. He could use another boon, and now he could surely afford one.

  “I will commune with my patron tonight,” Oak said after he had put away his blades. “Will you be alright tomorrow, if you keep watch for a while longer?”

  A gust of wind fluttered the elf’s hood, and he pulled the cloak tighter around himself. “No need to worry. These old bones don’t require much sleep.” Ur-Namma winked at him. “Sweet dreams.”

  “Sweet is good, but I would rather my dreams were demonic this time around.”

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