A plea uttered, a plea answered.

Oak feasted his eyes upon the unholiest of the unholy and basked in the infernal glow of Ashmedai's domain. A faint hint of sulfur wafted from the landscape, mixing with the scent of fresh dew.

Under the soles of his boots stood a tall hill, covered in wet grass. From that lush mattress of green, sprouted the hilts of swords. All around Oak, blades stuck out of the ground like weeds in the heart of summer, stretching towards the sun. It looked like the hilltop was a cresting wave in a sea of grass and metal that continued to the horizon and beyond in all directions.

All directions, except one sliver of road crossing the plain like the crow flies, heading north-west.

Ten feet behind Oak, at the very top of the hill, stood two familiar looking armchairs made of brown leather, facing north. Ashmedai sat in one of them, smoking his pipe. Unlike last time, the striking demon had a black vest over his dark red button-down shirt. His rooster's leg poked out of his slacks and the demon waved at Oak with his claws.

Oak bowed low. "The First Apostate and the Last Believer. Thank you for answering my call, Demon of Wrath."

"Hello again, my Warlock." A dazzling smile graced Ashmedai's polished features. "Please, take a seat."

Sinfully soft cushions welcomed Oak to their sweet embrace with a tiny creak as he sat down by the demon's side. He gazed at the plain in front of him, trying and failing to imagine how many blades pierced the earth of this desolate realm.

"What is this place?" Oak asked.

"This is a graveyard."

A gust of wind from the east blew the grass into a slush, whipping it against the unyielding lengths of metal piercing the earth.

"Who rests here?"

"Everything and nothing." Ashmedai took a drag from his pipe and breathed out a string of smoke. "Mortals, angels, demons, and starved beasts of purgatory. Highest and lowest. All nailed to the soil of my Hell. But that is not important."

"Then what is?"

"Why, the road ahead." Ashmedai pointed at the dirt road heading north-west. "You will soon begin your journey across the vast expanse of the Hundred Kingdoms. Be on your guard, Warlock. This is the time of the sword and the spear. Of tooth and claw. Many perils await you, but I have faith in your success."

"I could do without perils." Oak cracked his neck and sighed. "Can't really reap souls for my engine by living in peace, though."

"Speaking of souls, I believe you have collected enough fuel for your next boon." Ashmedai clapped his hands together. "Fine progress."

"I aim to please," Oak replied. "So, Branch of Amaymon? Care to tell me what it does, exactly?"

"You are going to love this one. I ripped it out of my old advisor's bleeding heart."

All the smoke Ashmedai had breathed out coalesced into a ball. A branch unfurled from the sphere of smoke, gaining definition and complexity as it grew to resemble bone, muscle and sinew. It was an effigy of Oak's body, dotted with glowing Boons and pierced through the heart by a bough from the young tree that represented all the gifts of his patron.

"The Branch of Amaymon, once grafted to you, will allow you to enhance your body in a myriad of ways. Need stronger muscles? Tougher bones? Skin that no regular crossbow bolt can pierce? You can find boons for all that and more along this branch of fiendish might." Ashmedai licked his lips and his empty hand formed a claw, as if he still held Amaymon's heart in his grasp. "In my humble opinion, no other boon fits you quite as well as the first glowing knot along this branch."

Ashmedai pointed at the heart of the effigy and red flame bloomed there, glowing like a small star. "The Corse of Bloodshed. It will grant a slight increase to your overall strength and hardiness. The effects of the Boon grow in proportion to the wrath coursing through the recipient's veins."

"The Corse of Bloodshed," Oak whispered, leaning forward. The boon called to him, like he was a moth standing on the glass of a lit oil lamp. Lucky for him, Ashmedai could open the shutter, and let him inside to hug the flame within. "As always, you were right. I love it."

"I thought you would. Wrath and struggle eternal, Warlock." Ashmedai wagged a finger at Oak. "They are in your blood."

A comfortable silence fell between the two of them, and Ashmedai dismissed the image he had conjured. It was peaceful here. A strange thing to think, surrounded by the graves of so many, but it was true. On this field, Oak could finally breathe freely. Behar's death weighed on his conscience, but sitting here he could allow himself to believe that the passage of time would ease his guilt.

One day in the near future, I will go through my day and not think about Behar at all. How wonderful and horrific at the same time.

"I lost control, and a man died. It was not my intent," Oak confessed, though Ashmedai obviously knew that already. He still felt the need to utter the words. Saying it out loud made it real. Real enough that he couldn't pretend it didn't happen.

"This vexes you. Gnaws at your innards like a parasitic worm."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"It does." Oak nodded.

Ashmedai took a long drag from his pipe. Hot cinders glowed at the bottom of the pipe's bowl and the Demon of Wrath puffed out a spinning ring of smoke. With a swish of his hand, Ashmedai scattered the smoke to the four winds.

"War is a pit. A pit full of sons and daughters, mothers and fathers. Shattered dreams and broken promises, all jumbled and squished into sludge." Ashmedai spread his hands, gesturing at the untold number of graves surrounding them. "When you make war your trade, you forfeit any right to complain about dying in battle, no matter the manner of your passing. Behar was a soldier. He knew the risks."

"He did not deserve it."

"Please, Oak. Deserving has nothing to do with it. Death is rarely deserved and yet it arrives all the same." Ashmedai scoffed. "Despite my admittedly harsh words, I do not begrudge your guilt. It is a healthy emotion. But I have a request."

"Yes, Patron?"

"Stop lying to yourself and to me. A man did not 'die'. You killed him and you meant it." Ashmedai's gaze bore into Oak's eyes like a drill. "Own your deeds and above all, be true to yourself, in all things. Actualization of the self cannot commence under the weight of delusion."

"Yes, Patron." Oak swallowed thickly. "My apologies."

***

Oak woke up to the sound of Geezer's paws scratching at the door of their shared room at the inn. He glanced at the shutters, but could see no light piercing through the gaps. Dawn was still a while away.

"Go to sleep, Geezer." He yawned and turned over, hugging the covers. "The sun is not even up yet."

The hellhound took hold of the blankets with his teeth and yanked them away.

You little shit.

"Fuck me. Fine. Fine, if you need to go, you need to go," Oak cursed and got dressed as quickly as he could. "Let's get this over with so we can go back to sleep."

They sneaked down the stairs and out the door of the inn together. Oak took great care not to smash his head onto the low door frame on the way out. If he woke up Vjolca again, the innkeeper might kill him in his sleep. As he had surmised earlier, the sky was still dark. Due to the early hour, the streets were empty of people, which suited him.

After the dressing down Ashmedai had given him, Oak was not in the mood for idle chatter.

The worst part was that his patron was correct. Oak had easily fallen into the comfortable grooves of hypocrisy, donning the trappings of his old mistakes like they were a well-worn pair of boots. When you were wrong, you were wrong. Nothing for it. He had promised to do better in the future and they had tabled the subject, for now.

Instead of taking a piss and heading back inside to continue his beauty sleep, like Geezer usually did, the hellhound led Oak down the road. No amount of pleading on his part could turn the beast's mind. Geezer just wagged his tail at Oak's orders, then at his groveling requests, and continued walking.

This morning, the hellhound had a mind of its own, and Oak could only follow along.

In no time at all, Geezer took him to the outskirts of town. Oak waved at a confused-looking watchman whose name he had never bothered to learn as he followed the hellhound into the ruins of the burned refugee camps.

Baskim Kashari's great work had left a foul mark on the land. Two giant warts made of hate, ash and half burnt debris defiled the plain with their presence.

Shattered dreams and broken promises, all jumbled and squished into sludge. He saw a blackened hand sticking out of a burned pile of tent cloth and poles. It looked too small to belong to an adult. Oak prayed the child had choked to death before the flames reached them. The skeleton of an upturned wagon smoldered a few feet to the left from the tiny corpse, a steady stream of smoke rising from the ashes of provisions and clothing.

A pit full of sons and daughters. I doubt you deserved this sorry fate either, stranger.

Ashmedai's graveyard to the Highest and Lowest had felt calming, even peaceful. Not so here. Standing in the middle of this monument to selfishness and low cruelty just made Oak feel hollow. The reason for it was stupid enough to make him cringe. He expected savagery from himself, but he had hoped others would be better than that.

Another one of his delusions. Why would they be better than him? They were just people. A person you could trust, but people? People were a swarm of starving locusts, driven by fear and hate. Tell them any lie that gave them permission to view others as lesser, to eat those vermin out of house and home, and they would swarm.

Geezer waited for him on top of a hill overlooking the destruction. Oak sat down next to his dog and gave Geezer a scratch, pondering the sights. Out west and to the north along the long shoreline, he spied some early risers working the fields. Multiple rivers from the west and south-west ended their journey across the vast plains by flowing into Lake Nin and the entire delta was densely farmed, due to the easy availability of freshwater.

Farmland divided into neat squares crashed against the waves and from there flowed wealth and trade down the waterways. The rich fields, the calm blue waters of Lake Nin, and the drowsy, peaceful town of Kesh on its shores looked profane next to the devastation of the Koromite and Muttalite refugee camps.

Suffering and prosperity, divided by a scant few feet of dirt.

"So, why did you take me all the way out here, you lovable goof?" Oak asked, gaze wandering from one pile of ash to another.

"ISOLATED. SECURE. MUST SPEAK."

Oak jumped up and scrambled backwards. "Samael's balls, Geezer!"

"ANTICIPATED YOUR REACTION." Geezer turned his head and his red eyes twinkled at Oak in the darkness before dawn like a pair of jewels. The hellhound's voice was a chorus of screams, making the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.

By the Hells.

His dog could talk. The hound he had raised as his own from a small puppy could speak, and his voice sounded like the shrieking of the damned. Geezer had transformed beyond recognition. A mere month ago, the little coward had been stupid enough to bite a hedgehog. Now, he was intelligent enough to talk and comprehend language.

In hindsight, it all made sense. A staggering amount of sense. Geezer had always been a smart dog, but lately the hellhound had followed his instructions a little too well. Read the intent of his words and gestures with such ease, it had boggled the mind.

No wonder Geezer had been so incredibly useful as of late. The bugger was probably smarter than Oak by now, which admittedly was not a mean feat.

"How?"

"KILLED MEN. ATE THEIR FLESH. DEVOURED THEIR VOICES."

"Right. Okay." Oak stared at his dog and tried to come up with something to say, but a buzzing noise filled his mind, drowning out all rational thought. "Guess that explains the screams."

Geezer looked to the side, ears bent back along his skull and seemingly too afraid to look him in the eye.

"ARE YOU PROUD OF ME, FATHER?"

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