It was pissing down rain by the time he found the baron’s remains, and “remains” itself was a generous word. Phillip Strenger was a pile of sodden ash and singed bone. Only his feet remained, too far from the rest of the fatty tissue to properly burn. A pyre, by Geralt’s measure, seemed unnecessary. Perhaps his men had feared he would rise as a wraith; perhaps they simply hadn’t wanted any part of his body to stay on the property. Perhaps it was spite. Either way, Geralt supposed, it didn’t matter now.