Under the branch of an oak tree, two corpses hung rotting in the sun.
A thick, black swarm of flies buzzed around the decaying flesh.
"Who are they, ser?" Owen asked, his knuckles turning white as his hand nervously gripped the horn hilt of his shortsword. Vilon noticed he was trying his best not to gag at the smell.
From the nearby village, the distant, peaceful sounds of daily life drifted through the warm air, a dog barking, a woman calling out.
"Probably robbers or bandits," Vilon replied, leaning forward in the saddle.
Chestnut, thoroughly unbothered by the stench of death and delighted by the brief reprieve, was busy munching greedily on a patch of sweet, wild clover beside the rutted path.
A piece of rough-hewn pine hung by a frayed rope between two of the corpses, three words crudely carved into its surface. It likely contained the exact answer to Owen's query, but as neither the knight nor his squire possessed the noble art of reading, the wood remained a mystery.
