After it became too dark to work anymore, Malachar had settled into it with a strange sense of accomplishment. Pulling his cloak around himself for warmth, he couldn't remember the last time he had slept in his armor. Or slept in the dirt like some filthy peasant. And yet, as the unrelenting winds howled overhead, he couldn't help but feel like this was correct. That sleeping in his field was appropriate. He didn't have death-crazed soldiers standing guard around him. He didn't have sycophantic cultists asking him if there was anything they could bring him. There were no offerings. No sacrifices.

  There was only him and the dirt.

  Rising with the sun wasn't difficult. Sleep had been shallow and sporadic, but it wasn't the sounds of the night creatures that kept him awake. If the bloated leechwings had encountered a regular human exposed on the ground, he would have been sucked dry in an instant. If the roving fleshdogs had come across an unfortunate peon still out after sunset, they would have attacked him and consumed every part of his body. But while the beasts of the field didn't know Malachar, they could sense his undeniable power and domination over the land. And so they left him well alone.

  No, the cursed fauna wasn't what had kept him awake. It had been his armor. Malachar gave a great stretch and winced as he realized his gorget had made him arc his neck in an uncomfortable way no matter what side he lay on. He winced as he pulled it off, willing it to disappear before it hit the ground. If he needed that particular piece of armor, he could call it back to him. Finding his gauntlets got in the way of him rubbing his eyes, he made them disappear in the same way as his helmet. Next went the cuirass, the pauldrons, and the rest of the armor. Those pieces were more ceremonial than anything. He would be safe enough in a simple linen shirt, breeches, boots, and a cloak. He wouldn't look grand or imposing to his troops, but he hadn't raised any yet so it didn't matter.

  Once he cleared the crusty sleep from his eyes, he cast a critical look over his protective wall of black stone and the field of plants that should not be growing. And he saw there was more to the field than he had first noticed.

  Tiny winged insects flitted from one delicate green shoot to the next. They crept into the sickly leaves that had curled themselves up for protection against the night's cold and then flew to the next plant. Malachar felt a profound sense of fury. How dare these pests ravage the only things that dared to grow here?

  He scoured his spells, looking for something that could destroy hundreds of small creatures but leave other, also small, living things alone. He found nothing. All his magic was designed to obliterate huge armies or colossal monstrosities in hilariously huge numbers. But before he resorted to calling up his flaming greatsword, he stopped and stared at what he saw. Malachar was suddenly too stunned for violence. Once the offensive bug was inside the leaf-curl, the defensive frond unfurled, like it was being awakened. Dozens and dozens of the miniature scene played out across his field. He realized that the bugs were doing something to the sprouts. The bugs weren't pests. They were helping, but in what way, he didn't know.

  Malachar rubbed his scarred chin. How long had this been going on, this symbiosis? Arrangements like this didn't happen overnight. This insect-plant treaty must have been going for years, decades even. And he hadn't noticed. He'd been too busy planning the next military campaign or necromantic ritual to pay attention to anything that grew in the dirt. He squatted over the tiny plants and their even tinier insect keepers. The Ashlands aren't dead, he thought. They've just been ignored.

  Suddenly, he heard the distinct sound of footsteps drawing nearer. Grimacing at his own lack of awareness, the dark lord stood and peered over the wall. It better not be another rancid meat golem. He didn't have the patience to deal with another of those enormous annoyances. But instead of a lumbering pile of rotten flesh, he only saw a trembling old man on the other side of the wall.

  “I...I'm sorry! I didn't realize anyone else was here!” the old man said, backing away slowly.

  Malachar glowered. He seized the ragged old man's throat easily in one hand and lifted him over the wall to be held at arm's length.

  The old man gasped and wheezed as he struggled. The dark lord could snap his scrawny neck easily with just one hand. Just a squeeze and a twist, then it would all be over. Another countless human life snuffed out. Another corpse for the pile.

  But then Malachar would have to dispose of the body. And, just like with the meat golems, he just didn't have the patience for that. The dark lord released him, sending him sprawling to the dirt. The man coughed and hacked as he fought for breath, finally looking up at the towering man who raised his eyebrows in expectation.

  “What are you doing?” Malachar asked.

  “I...I was looking for terro,” the old man said. “I'm sorry! I didn't expect to see a wall over here.”

  “Terro?” Malachar asked.

  The old man pointed with a shaking hand at the tiny, sickly plants. “Those. Those are terro plants. They're not doing so good this year. Should be a lot further along than this.”

  “What do they grow into?” Malachar asked. He was suddenly very glad he hadn't killed the old man.

  The man brightened now that it was obvious he wasn't going to immediately die. “They're a kind of tuber. You know. Potatoes and such. Except these grow into spuds that bleed when you cut into them. Sometimes they scream! But if you're brave enough, you can turn them into all sorts of stuff. Stews, soups, bake 'em, roast 'em. Use 'em to keep wolves away. But mostly, they're good eatin! Provided you don't get one of the screamers, of course.”

  “Indeed.” Malachar's eyes began to smolder as he endured the conversation.

  The old man continued, completely oblivious to his impending peril. “But I ain't never heard of anyone actually setting up a farm over here. Not with the monsters and all.”

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  This is not a farm. And I am not a farmer, the dark lord thought. “But you came over to forage like some sort of scavenger,” Malachar stated.

  The old man stood on shaky legs but held his ground. “Just for a few. I tried growin them over in Goldengrove but they just wouldn't take.”

  “You are from Goldengrove?” Malachar asked.

  The man nodded. “Yep. Closest settlement to the Ashlands. People say this place is cursed, and it is, but there's some pretty good stuff to be found here. Not just death taters. There's rare ingredients that alchemists pay a high price for. There's all sorts of ore. And magical relics are strewn about all over the place, so if you're lucky, you can get set up for life!”

  The dark lord narrowed his eyes. He did not care about alchemists or enchanted trinkets. “Why would the terro not grow in Goldengrove?”

  “Pretty sure it was the lack of the regular blood rain they get over here,” the old man said. “But I wanted to get a few screamers before the dark lord returned. Then ain't no one comin over here after that.”

  “No,” Malachar agreed. “There is no coming over here after he returns.”

  The old man gave him a nervous smile. “Well, good luck to you, sir. You've got more courage than most to try and grow anything here. Maybe I'll check back on you, see if you've had a good harvest. I'm Bobbert. What's your name, friend?”

  He held out his hand. His hand. As though they were equals. Malachar had probably murdered a past relative of his during one of his many invasions. But this mere mortal wanted to shake hands with him.

  Bobbert kept his hand extended, but it began to shake as he began to think that maybe the big man on the other side of the inexplicable wall in the dangerous hellscape was an absolute lunatic. But before he could retract his hand and run away, Malachar gripped his wrist in a crushing grasp and held it like they were making a blood pact.

  “I am Eli,” Malachar the Ash King said like he was delivering a prophecy of doom. “I am Eli and this is my terro.”

  Bobbert blinked a couple of times, then cracked a smile. “Well, Eli, it's nice to meet you. Don't work yourself to death!” he laughed.

  Malachar's eyebrows furrowed as he seriously considered the old man's words. “Very well,” he finally said.

  And with that, Bobbert the terro scavenger took his leave. Completely alive and well, for the time being.

  ****

  Eli. Why had he chosen the name “Eli”? Malachar asked himself as he walked around the wall, searching for any damage the wind or the elements might have caused before he started building a well. His terro would need water and it didn't look like it was going to rain anytime soon, blood or not. The problem, first of many, is that he had no idea how to build a well. How did one find an underground water source? Did one just start digging and hope for the best?

  Hope was inefficient. Hope was for weaklings. But he had no intention of wasting time. Though he had no intention of summoning the fiery generals of hell to launch yet another invasion, he had no compunctions about enlisting one demon for a specific task.

  Malachar stood over the intricate rune he had carved into the ground and focused his will on the design and the energy of his command.

  “From ash and ember, heed my call,

  O watcher deep beneath the sprawl.

  By pact of blood and buried stone,

  Reveal where living waters groan.”

  He stood back and waited, expecting some rumbling and perhaps an eldritch glow to begin pulsing from below. After enough time, he snorted. Demons had always been lazy and poorly motivated. After pulling a dagger from his necrotic shadow realm, he carefully sliced a fingertip and let the blood drip onto the soil before trying the chant again.

  Without much fuss, a small, sinewy creature that looked like it was made of centuries-old beef jerky materialized in front of Malachar. It leveled an accusatory stare at him and coughed up a thick glob of mucus.

  “Yeah?” the demon asked in a phlegmy voice. “Whaddya want?”

  Malachar brought his boot down onto the wretch, pressing into its body with enough pressure to, not crush it, but to let it know that being flattened wasn't out of the realm of possibility. “I command you to find a nearby source of water for me. Once found, you will construct a portal from it to the surface here, allowing me to collect the water in a controlled fashion. Do you understand?”

  The demon squeaked under the weight of Malachar's heavy boot and nodded its gnarled head. Once freed from its impending doom, the monster rubbed its neck and looked up at Malachar with puppy dog eyes.

  “Ash King!” it stammered. “Please forgive this foolish fiend. I didn't recognize you! When I heard your chant, I couldn't believe you were looking for something as mundane as water. I was expecting to see a fiery helmet and a billowing cape of darkness! Or at least the impaled bodies of those who dared to oppose you.”

  Malachar pressed the demon to the ground again with his boot. “If you do not do what I command, you will become the impaled body for the next demon to see. Have I made myself clear?”

  “As crystal!” the demon gasped.

  The dark lord lifted his boot again. The demon groveled for a moment more, then he saluted. “Finding the water, no problem! You got it, my lord!” And with that, it disappeared.

  Once the imp was gone, Malachar shook his head. Had his legend faded so much with the infernal legions? Was he going to have to display his strength to them again? But before he could worry about organizing a tournament between himself and Hell's strongest warriors, he saw a dark winged shape flutter onto the field.

  It had the proportions of a crow, all black feathers and wings, but it had entirely too many eyes to be perfectly ordinary. It blinked its seven eyes up at Malachar in an unsettling pattern before it decided the dark lord didn't pose a threat. It hopped over to the nearest terro shoot and used its bill to pluck it out of the dirt, gobbling it down with gusto.

  Malachar let out a furious cry. He rushed over to the offending avian, prepared to crush its entire body, but the crow took to the sky and let out a series of admonishing croaks before settling on the far end of the wall.

  The dark lord glowered, but instead of launching a bolt of acid at the disrespectful crow, he opened up his necrotic shadow realm. The small portal sat before him, showing him a glimpse of what he had tossed in there. He fully intended to find a place for all his spoils later, but he was always busy running his kingdom, so his treasury was never organized.

  So sloppy, he thought, shaking his head. Now, though, now was the time for organization. Now was the time for creating order from chaos. Because now was the time to build a scarecrow the likes of which the world had never seen before. When his cursed scarecrows were activated, those goddamn crows would stay scared.