Still uneasy, Malachar rose from his bed and stepped into the light of a new day. The sight of his field warmed him. His skeleton workers stood underneath a hastily-created pavilion, ready for the day's labors. His huge sarcophagus that served as a harvest bin stood at the far end of the field, full of the terro potatoes. Now that he had grown his first vegetable with astonishing success, he frowned. Was that it? Was that all he needed to do? Plant, weed, and water?

  But he remembered the taste of last night's dinner and how startlingly good it had been to eat what he had grown. Before, he had never imagined how delicious a simple potato could be, nourished by blood rain or not. He started to think about what other foods he could make with them. A kind of hearty stew would be good. Perhaps a breakfast of fried terro. He should have some kind of eggs with it, though. And bacon. Yes, his mouth was beginning to water at the mere thought of a hearty breakfast.

  He sighed, looking back at the ruins of Bloodrot Keep. He should be rebuilding it. He should be summoning infernal troops from the bowels of Hell. He should be raising his legions from the dead. He should be sending out the call to all the cruel and death-crazed people who lived in his kingdom and from outside it. The savage killers had always heeded his call because he always gave them what they wanted most: slaughter without accountability.

  He should be preparing for war. But he could do that later. Right now, he just wanted to feel the soil. The dark lord knelt down and pushed his fingers through the dirt, admiring how dark the earth had become after the torrential blood rain. The terro had been an easy victory, but what other vegetables could he grow? Whatever he decided, it would have to be hardy to survive in a place like the Ashlands. Turnips? Would turnips work? How about onions? Was spinach resilient? He would have to find out because he was certain there wasn't a book about gardening in the Ashlands he could read. Such a thing did not exist.

  Malachar meandered through his field and made his way to his sarcophagus. Though it was adorned with skulls and spikes, it was full of wonderful, delicious terro. Terro that he and his skeletons had picked.

  This is the longest anything has lived under my care, he thought.

  Pride welled up in his heart and he opened the lid to look upon the fruits of his labor, but instead of the ugly, charred spuds with facial features looking up at him, he found an enormous pile of reeking brown mush.

  What had happened? His harvest wasn't like this yesterday. He stepped away from the sarcophagus full of rot and glared at the sun as though it had committed this unforgivable act. But, of course, the sun hadn't. It remained the same as it ever was, a distant, ambivalent disc sitting against a sickly yellow sky.

  He looked over the rest of the field that hadn't yielded any terro yet. It looked pale, spindly, and weak. But the plants weren't dead. They just looked reluctant. Malachar shook his head. There was still hope. Hope for something to survive.

  “Get that cleaned up!” he ordered his skeletons and pointed to the sarcophagus. “And then weed the field.”

  His skeletons snapped to attention as he worked on summoning his demon. It was about time he got some answers about his water.

  ****

  In the end, he did get some good news. The pesky yet obedient fiend had managed to locate a waterbed half a mile away and created a portal from it to his well. He immediately tested it out, throwing down a bucket hooked to a chain that he could haul up with a crank. And, judging from the purity of the water, both ends of the portal worked. Malachar nodded. Yes, this was the way to do things. The blood rain had caused his terro to grow too quickly and had become bloated with the deluge of nutrients. Of course they had rotted away. But if he was dutiful about watering the plants with...well, with water, everything should be better. More sustainable.

  The skeletons were quick about disposing of the rotten mess and cleaning out the sarcophagus. Malachar double-checked to see if there was a forgotten curse inside the ornate coffin, but to his surprise, it was completely devoid of any black magic. Still, it was good to rule out his own error.

  “Well done,” he praised his workers. “Now, you must water each plant. Take one of these,” he held up a metal watering can that had once been a helmet before his alterations, “Fill it up at this well, and pour the water onto one of the plants. Once done, do it again for the next plant until they have all been watered. Are there any questions?”

  There were no questions but he felt like he had to continue. He had noticed the platter of roast taro was gone. There was no way they could have eaten it. Perhaps night creatures had devoured it. “You have your orders. Move out!”

  His skeletal workers sprang into action, each taking up a watering can and filling it up. Malachar crossed his thick arms over his chest. Yes, things would be different.

  ****

  Things were not different, the dark lord mused. Days had passed since he established his well and instituted a watering and weeding regimen. The skeletons had been diligent. He, himself, had gone out and worked beside them to make sure they were doing a good job. But of course they did. They didn't have any choice other than to do a good job.

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  But still, the terro plants struggled. The leaves on their vines first withered and then curled inward like they were ashamed. He didn't understand. He was doing everything right. The plants had sun. The plants had water. The plants were free of weeds. And yet they all continued to die a slow death.

  Over the next few days, the dark lord tried some small fixes. He ordered the skeletons to give each plant extra water. He removed any necromantic residue he could find at each plot. He even rewrote a spell he would cast on his soldiers to make them stronger. Now it was geared toward nourishing plants instead of empowering bloodthirsty monsters.

  But nothing worked.

  The dark lord paced the rows of blighted crops, rubbing his scarred chin and brooding. His skeleton workers pulled weeds as quickly as they came up. Every day, they watered. And still, his plants could not muster the strength to keep on going.

  “Perhaps you need rain. Not blood rain, but good, natural rain,” he said aloud. The wispy ochre clouds overhead didn't look like they were going to deliver rain anytime soon, but Malachar knew he could change that. He spent an afternoon setting up an elaborate altar of stone next to his outpost, the most effective point on his acre of land. The geomancy was sound, perfect. This would absolutely work.

  He readied the ornate dagger over his palm. When he sliced his hand, the stone basin would collect the blood and he would offer it up to the heavens. And if he needed more, well, he could go to Goldengrove. There was an entire town full of people with blood in them. They would suit his purpose.

  But before he could begin the ceremony, he stopped. What was he doing? Was more blood magic going to fix his blighted crops? He set the dagger onto the altar and walked into his field, sitting down with his feeble terro.

  Conquest had always succeeded for me, he thought. Growth does not.

  He sighed, stood, and dusted off his breeches. The sun was getting low. He would retire early tonight. As he turned to walk toward his outpost, he caught a glimpse of something odd sitting on top of the far wall. A small, shapeless thing he could not identify.

  He approached it. Sitting on one of the stones that made up his wall, he found a single black candle burned down to the stub. The skin on the back of his neck crawled. What was this? Who had lit it? And why?

  He cast a look around his land but saw nothing out of place. Saw no one out of place. Malachar set his jaw and went inside. There might be someone outside watching him. There might be someone outside waiting for him to do something, anything. But they were going to have to wait. He was tired. He needed sleep to try again tomorrow.

  ****

  The shadow flitted at the border of the dark lord's land, knowing that he was not detected by any magical or mundane security. The darkness had always protected him in his quiet endeavors.

  “You are hurting. I can see that. But what are you doing? What are you doing when the world is crying out to be released from its suffering?” he murmured to himself. He ran a hand along the stone wall, where Malachar had just been earlier in the day. He shivered as he touched the spot where the dark lord had placed his hand.

  “You were so happy when you harvested your first crops. That was an ingenious use of a sarcophagus. But I had no choice. I had to make them all molder.” He felt tears welling up in his eyes. “I did it for you.”

  The shadow sighed as he looked over the field of stunted growths.

  “And this new crop of terro? That wasn't me, this time. That...that was you. This land rejects peace. It cries out for death, not care. It takes a firm hand to work the triage ward. To dispatch those who are beyond help.”

  The skeletons turned to look at him as he walked by, but he didn't fear them. They would just stand there under the pavilion like they were supposed to. They didn't have orders to guard the farm. Yes, farm. Because as disgusting as the notion was, the land behind the wall was a farm. At least, it was for now.

  “You have gone soft. This turmoil you feel in your heart? That's a sure sign that you must rise again. That you must raise your armies, prepare your siege weapons, and do what you always do.” The shadow clenched his fist, feeling his devotion, his love rise.

  “I will prepare the soil better next time. For you.”

  ****

  Malachar awakened to a bleak sight. Even though the skeletons were weeding the field and watering like he had ordered them to, they were tending to brown, withered plants that had died in the night. His entire field was dead.

  He had failed.

  He clenched his fists, his thoughts turning black. The Ash King had always burned and salted fields whenever he came across them, not grieved. Perhaps that was what he should do now. Burn. Burn. Burn and salt whatever was left. And then turn his sights onto Goldengrove. Burn that too. The violence would feel good. It always did.

  He heaved a sigh and summoned his necrotic shadow realm. He found his flaming greatsword and hefted it, feeling its familiar weight in his hand. He stood like that for a moment, reliving past battles, feeling the fight in his muscles, in his bones. The words of the old chant echoed in his mind.

  Nothing improves. Nothing heals.

  This is how the ending feels.

  We have come and we will stay.

  Do it again. Again. Again.

  He worked the magical energies within the weapon to reshape it into something different. He didn't need a sword right now. He needed a shovel. He was going to bury his plants. He was going to bury them because they had tried. And he would try, too. And after all his crops were buried, he would mark the field as fallow and try a different location to plant on his farm.

  Then he would go to Goldengrove to buy some seeds.