Lance is close behind them, and hurries forward when Fiadh calls to him.

"Saints alive," he hisses, beginning to saw at the branches with his belt knife in time with the blacksmith, the lantern lighting from below what the moon above cannot.
The more progress they make, the clearer it is that this man is beyond saving: he's not only entangled by the roots, but impaled, his mouth forced open by a stalk that erupts out the side of his neck, the contents of his bowels held in place by the growth that stabs through them. His limbs are bent at unspeakable angles, his eyes rolling and bearing consciousness only to the extent that he is still alive.
Gods only know how long he's been here like this.

The jostling alone has been too much for him, and his cries grow weaker until he lies still, expiring before their eyes. Lance tremulously reaches to close his eyelids, looking to the other two in silent horror.

Anyone casting their eyes about might see a sack lying nearby, or notice the glint below the corpse in the roots where coins have fallen.