“So, what is this pact I made? I mean, it must be something pretty important if the god of death has granted me perfect health, right? I mean, I feel better than I did before all this started. I got speed, strength, vigor, and energy pouring out of every hole in mah body.” Alazandrae was trotting behind Rigor, hopping up now and then, punching the air, and taking in the bright colors of the trees and brush around her. The sound of the river could be heard off to her right, distant but there. She could hear animals scurrying about yards away, and the smells…

  She shut her eyes and took in a deep breath through her nose. Dirt, damp wood, animal feces, and her own sweat filled her nose, even some sort of stench that burned at the back of her nose. Maybe the smells weren’t so nice, but everything was so vivid.

  Rigor remained silent, casually holding his axe with one hand, marching on without pause. No breaks, no food or water, just his ever-forward strut towards his goal.

  “Speaking of the god of death, ya called him, Necroth, right? Is that his true name? Because at the village, we called him Samdei, at least mah mother and me did. We prayed to him and offered sacrifice, not people of course, but we burnt plants and animal scraps to him, some homemade beer and wine, and other things, but I never knew that he actually existed, until you killed those men that is, it was all just doubts.”

  Rigor marched on, silent, his metal feet stamping down with metallic clops as dirt whipped around each foot. His head on a swivel as he trudged onward, turning at every sound, looking out for danger.

  Alazandrae pushed her dreads out of her face, “So, ya just gonna not say anything, eh? Alright, ya keep ya secrets.” Alaz put her hands in her pockets, gazing up at the sky. The sun was beginning its decent to the horizon. Innocent clouds hung in the air, billowy and soft, slowly floating on by in the light blue sky.

  Whatever it was that she promised in the pact, she didn’t know if she would regret it or not. Did she make the right choice? What if the ends were worse than the means? She would save her mother, but at what cost now?

  Her head dropped, watching the feet of Rigor before her. Whatever it was, it was her only choice. Without the pact, she would have died to Copperhead’s venom and been writhing in agony until her body shut down. There was no other choice, right?

  She was too lost in thought to notice that Rigor had stopped walking, holding his hand out for her to stop. She walked right into his armor, smacking her head on his breastplate.

  “Oww, what gives?” She looked up and saw Rigor brandishing his axe, looking at the brush shuffling nearby. Her ears twitched and she heard it too. She grabbed her knife and held it out in front of her, waiting for whatever wanted to murder them next.

  Giant gators, bandits, a snake gang leader with a gatling gun, what would be next?

  The brush shook, branches swayed as an old man stepped into the road, a wide brimmed hat sat gently upon his head, shading his face from the sun.

  Rigor relaxed, letting his axe fall into one hand. Alaz watched the Death Knight with suspicion. Why would he let his guard down now? She felt it too though. She shut her eyes and felt a calming presence. There was no need for action here.

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  She opened her eyes and sheathed her knife. The old man before her was deathly thin. His skin dried up and wrapped around each bone like a sausage sleeve. He wore breeches and sandals, holding a cane in one hand, and a small pack on his back. Under his shoddy brown vest was skin tanned dark and dry.

  His eyes squinted at the two of them on the road. He didn’t react violently, or with suspicion, “Don’t be alarmed. I’m just an old traveler, I’ve nothing of value, if you’re bandits…” His voice was dry and hoarse, “take advice from and old man, and don’t waste your time.” His body quivered with each step, struggling to keep him upright with no muscle to assist in basic movement.

  The old man began to trudge past them, his vison blurry at first, but it wasn’t until he got closer to Rigor Mortis that he began to see the black armor, the skulls attached to his belt, and the skull mask on his face. The old man stopped. His cane fell from his hand. He began to weep. Small tears streaked down his face as his knees went limp and his arms fell upon Rigor, holding tight to his armor, his chest heaved with each cry.

  “I’ve been searching for so long. I’ve prayed for so long. I was told to head this way, unaware of what was to be in my path. My prayers are heard. My prayers are heard…” He sobbed, falling into the fetal position, holding onto Rigor’s leg armor.

  The Death Knight reached back and handed his axe to Alazandrae. She grabbed the cold metal from his hands, dropping the head of the axe instantly to the dirt. She summoned the rest of her strength to just hold the haft of the axe up off the ground. Her muscle strained as she grunted. There was no way she could carry this thing around, let alone swing it at an enemy, even with her new-found strength. She looked over at the Death Knight with a new respect as he hefted the heavy thing around everywhere with ease.

  “I’ve finally found you. The promised one. It’s been so long. I had no peace. Everyone I’ve loved has gone missing. Everything taken away and turned into something evil and abhorrent, or done evil themselves, driven to madness by this curse.” Tears dropped to the dirt road below, landing in a puff of dirty air. “I’ve even forgotten my wife’s face. It’s been a hundred years since I’ve seen her smile. I don’t know what, or who she is anymore. Just vague feelings that flee just as fast as they come.” The old man gazed up at Rigor with teary, blurred eyes, “Please, grant me peace. Answer my prayer just this once and grant me peace.”

  Rigor tenderly picked up the man and walked into the brush until he found a nice grassy area, soft and peaceful. He laid the old man down in the patch of grass, rubbing his gauntlet over the man’s head, pressing two fingers across his eyes, closing them shut. He placed his hand on the man’s chest and closed his eyes, muttering in some strange tongue.

  Alazandrae could hear the strange words, but knew nothing of what he spoke. She watched as the old man’s chest slowly ceased to breath. The heave and ho of life had faded from his lungs. His chest was flatlined. Nothing else came from the old man.

  Rigor stood, gazing down at the old man, his body language solemn. His eyes closed and something rattled around in his helmet. Alaz could hear the faint sounds of a prayer, but the same strange language was whispered. Rigor snatched his axe back from her hands with ease, holding it in one hand again as he continued his march on down the road.

  Alaz stared at the old dead man. A smile was plastered across his face. She knelt, placing her hand on his chest. He was so peaceful. This was the calm that she felt before. The yearning for death. The righting of the wrong that had plagued this world. A shiver trickled down her spine. Somehow, she knew the old man was in a better place.

  She once thought Rigor’s journey was a terrifying one, a brutal adventure filled with carnage, but now, she realized that it was bringing the natural state back to the world. Without death, things didn’t change, they couldn’t. Without change, things withered into a state of decay that corrupted the world into a place where evil men like Copperhead could reign supreme.

  She glanced up at Rigor passing around the bend, disappearing from her sight. There was more to the man than just killing. He was tender to those sensitive to death. Was this Necroth an empathetic being? Or was she just bull shitting herself? Either way, there was far more to Rigor and his mission than she could ever grasp.

  She stood, following Rigor down the road. Whatever it was, she was happy to be here to learn more of his ways. The world needed this healing, but was she ready to bring it to the Bone Doctor?