For those who seek gratification from children, who mutilate the adolescent for their own machinations, and those who coerce the young with falsehoods, there is no death horrible enough for you. Let none rest until every conceivable atrocity can be visited upon you—the Book of Morality, The Sacral Compendium.

One week later…

Maro pulled the brake on the wagon and climbed down to the road. He swayed for a moment, letting his body readjust to an unmoving ground. He stretched, reaching for the sky, coming up to his tiptoes before ambling to the back and Bastard. A cluster of soldiers stood laughing, and he had the sense of déjà vu. Hadn’t he left these shitheads not two weeks before?

Is this how the main force of the army conducts themselves while I was scouting and shitting in the woods?

Maro seethed at the injustice, but he stamped out the rising anger. That part of his life was over, just like escorting Maribel to Red Creek. His future, however clouded and uncertain, lay before him. Still, the urge to kick the shit out of the drunken fools did stir the embers within him.

I was never a good man, but I ain’t a dumb one either.

The stockades would be the least of his worries if he gave into his baser instincts.

Untying Bastard, he led him to the hitching post, then dragged his saddle out and saddled him. With the trunk in his hands, he staggered up the three front steps to the guild and entered the building. It wasn’t easy.

Nothing ever is.

Horace looked up from behind the counter as Maro came inside, and he did a double take.

“Well,” Horace called, “I for sure thought the Lanton gang got ya.”

Maro grunted as he closed the distance and hefted the trunk onto the countertop. “I went for the girl,” he corrected, “but I took care of the gang.”

Horace’s eyes widened. “Bull shit.”

Maro took off his wide-brim hat and set it on the counter. “I don’t jest about killing since it seems the only thing I’m decent at.”

Horace glanced at the trunk. “What’s that?”

“Musket-pistols. There’s five, but I plan to keep one. You can have the rest.” He pointed out the window. “As well as the eight horses and the wagon.”

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Horace nodded. “That’ll fetch a number of crowns. We can add that to the ledgers for you, but I count nine horses.”

Maro shook his head. “Bastard’s not for sale.”

“You named your horse Bastard?”

He grunted, reached into his pocket, and produced the small, circular disc he claimed from Peredur, the bounty hunter who died on the trail. It spun on the countertop and clattered to a stop. “He’s dead. Figured this might be the next best thing besides dragging his corpse back.”

Horace plucked it from the wood and examined it. “How’d he die?”

“His guts were hanging out, but don’t worry, I paid them back in full for taking the little girl.”

“You saved her?”

He nodded once. “But the mastermind’s still at large, and that’s mainly because I didn’t leave anyone alive to rat him out.”

“Who’s the mastermind?”

“Avardi.”

“The banker?” The incredulous look on his face made it impossible for a blind man to miss. Horace cleared his throat, and from behind the counter, pulled out another disc similar to Peredur’s. He handed it to Maro. The ex-soldier turned it over in his hands.

“So, if I take this, I’m a bounty hunter? I can pull wanted posters, buy and trade here?”

Horace nodded. “Minus your fee, of course, but with us taking in the pistols and the horses, I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

Maro stared at the chit for a long moment. He wanted to get away from this kind of life, the immoral killing, the torture, roughing it in the woods, but he wasn’t a fool. Other than bounty hunting, he had no other prospects, no other way to make ends meet. But the posters, they were for men who were already found guilty in the sight of the law. Would tracking them down be immoral, or would he be carrying out their justice?

“Put it in your pocket,” Horace said, his voice holding a stern edge. “You can worry over any dilemmas you have later. We’re an extension of the lawmen, going after what they can’t because they’re too few. We enforce the law, not break it. That’s what’s different between us and them. Besides, there’s always bounties for monsters, too. Most stay away from those due to the high mortality rate.”

Maro cocked his head. “Monsters?”

Horace nodded. “Oh yeah, wargs, wraiths, trolls. You name it, we kill it.”

Maro grunted and slipped the chit into his pocket.

“Now,” Horace said, “why don’t you tell me what happened out on the trail? And then, Drallus and I can help you find a way to nail Avardi.”

“Who’s Drallus?”

“The guild master here.”

“Thought you were.”

Horace shook his head.

Maro paused for a moment, considering where to start. What could he say? Would he spare Horace the gory details? If he did, his tale might not ring with truth. Instead, he decided to be as forthright as he could be, much more so than with the clergyman, and he’d spill every visceral fact.

“I had no qualms killing the gang,” Maro started. “That was the easy part. A righteous man would’ve balked at the task, and an evil man would’ve joined them. That’s why the Autarch made people like me, I guess, people who can purge Atar’s filth. It doesn’t surprise me that people like Avardi exist, and killing him outright will make me appear I’m as terrible as him.”

“That’s why you’re going to tell me,” Horace said, “and we’ll figure out how to take him down together inside the law. But it won’t be immediate, and it won’t be easy.”

I may not be a good man, but I can be better.

Maro grunted. “Nothing worth doing ever is.”