The Ash King stared down his field as though it was full of an enemy's legions. It's not that different, he thought. If he failed, pain and death awaited him, but this time it would not be at the end of a sword. No, it would be a slow death of starvation. Or, remembering his ability to conjure field rations, it would be one of sheer exhaustion. Though his body was still strong and muscled, each one of those muscles ached with a deep weariness that went beyond anything he had felt before. But that didn’t matter. He had things to do and he would do them.

  Now that he had seeds to plant, it was time to till his field, but Malachar was too busy fighting with his own tools to get much work done. The dark lord regretted not buying any tools while he was at Garrett’s Greenery. None of those shiny devices were cursed with thirteen layers of sorcerous doom. At least, he didn’t think so.

  He was trying to transform his lethal battleaxe into a hoe but the damn thing refused to work with him. It retained its shape no matter what incantation he used. Sure, he had imbued the weapon with dozens of deadly enchantments and he had used Deathstalker (all legendary weapons deserved names) to decapitate many of his enemies, but that didn't mean it had to stay a deadly instrument of execution. Tools, no matter their purpose, shouldn't have opinions. Or feelings.

  Despite his frustration, the thought felt like a lie. From the untold eons they had strived and slain together, he and his battleaxe had memories. Still, there was work that needed to be done and nostalgia could only go so far.

  He finally resorted to pleading. “Please, Deathstalker. I need you to work with me in this new endeavor.”

  Suddenly, begrudgingly, the jagged edges of his battleaxe warped and twisted. Gradually, after melting and flowing, the metal and the wood finally formed itself into a hoe. A hoe that had too many spikes to be practical, but he would take what he could get. He took a tentative swing, but winced as the hoe-axe let out a bloodcurdling scream.

  “Stop that,” he said. He swung again, this time without any shrieking or wailing. The blade sank into the soil without any objections. The sensation felt right and proper. It was as it should be.

  But can a whole farm get mad, too? Malachar had to wonder as he continued his work. The ground was still cracked and wasted, but as he tried to dig furrows for his newly-acquired seeds, he felt a kind of resistance. If anything, the soil felt like it was sulking. Was it because he had gone to Goldengrove? Or was it because the land didn’t want to be a farm?

  He swung his hoe and sank its blade into the ground, but the furrows were stubborn and didn't want to maintain their shape. After enough sweat and toil, he had eight good furrows but the ninth one kept collapsing.

  “We've discussed this,” he said to the dirt. “We're going to grow things. Plants. Vegetables. I know I have cursed you, carved runes of death out of you, blasted away your very topsoil so I could build fortresses and keeps. I'm making some changes. Work with me one last time. Things are going to be different.”

  He gave one last swing with his hoe. Like it was listening to him, the soil deigned to stay a furrow. He nodded. Good. That was how it should be. The dark lord leaned on the Hoe of Tilling and Slaying and took a breather. He watched as his skeletons worked tirelessly. He had thought about having them till the soil, but, honestly, he had wanted to do it himself. At least, he had before the whole goddamn farm started throwing a fit.

  But he saw the fence his skeletons were building was coming along nicely. Made from thick bones, each fence post was topped with a skull. He didn't waste time wondering why there were so many huge bones just lying around, or why there were so many skulls. He just knew he needed a fence and he would use the materials he had. The fence would definitely mark this section of land as his. He should get a sign. The Ash King frowned. He should name the farm. Malachar returned to work. He would worry about the name and sign later. It was time to plant the seeds.

  “Spinach,” he said as though the name of the vegetable was a word of power. He pressed the seed into the freshly-tilled soil with his finger and covered it with dirt. He continued that way with each spinach seed, being sure to follow Garrett's guidelines on how deep to plant them and how much space each one needed.

  “Kale,” he said, starting with his next crop. He continued this way, saying each vegetable's name like he was giving each seed strength until he had plots of peas, broccoli, turnips, carrots, onions, and potatoes. Regular potatoes, not terro. He was glad he was growing things that didn’t grow its own nose. He stood, dusting off his hands and knees. Now it was time to plant the mysterious seeds that Sally had given him.

  He had no helpful instructions to follow, no idea how deep or how spread apart they should be. But Sally said she was a florist, so the seeds were probably flowers. He returned to his outpost and quickly, without argument from his hoe, dug a small garden. Malachar planted each of the twelve seeds and stood back, wondering what he was even growing. Still, he held his hands over the plot like a dark benediction.

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  “Sally tne Florist entrusted you to my care. Grow strong like she said you would,” he said.

  He didn't receive a reply. He hadn't expected one, but he didn't have time to worry about that. There were so many plants to water. And when the water in his can came out pitch black, well, he decided not to take it personally.

  Days passed. Malachar rose before dawn to walk the fence, to make sure it still stood straight and strong. He weeded alongside his skeletons, he watered alongside his skeletons, shoveled ash from the ash storms, gathered it to use for compost, and he mended the fence when it needed attention. None of his tools had argued with him. The land didn't rebel against him. He just showed up, every day, and did the work.

  And then he saw it. Tiny little buds poked their heads out of the soil. Though they were all different shapes and sizes, they were all the same pale shade of green. They looked weak and timid, like they all regretted their life choices. But every day, Malachar walked his field and encouraged the little plants to just keep growing. Keep growing and he would take care of the rest.

  One night, sweaty and exhausted, covered in dirt from work in the fields, he returned to his outpost. He sat in a chair he had placed outside. He had transformed the furniture from a large piece of broken wood. He couldn't remember what it had been a part of. A crucifix? Part of a palisade? He had no idea. Whatever it had been, it made a better chair. So invited his skeletons to sit with him and sipped his water, wishing it was something different. Perhaps tea. Perhaps some ale.

  He gazed up at the moon, which still looked ill and yellow, but it wasn't judgmental. Malachar was pleased. He didn't want to have to bargain with the moon along with everything else. He chuckled, wondering what he should have for dinner. He had roasted all of the terro that hadn't rotted and was now surviving on his magical field rations again. The dark lord looked longingly at his field and hoped it would yield plenty of vegetables for him to eat.

  Meat. The craving for meat struck him like a thunderbolt. Yes, his field rations had jerky of some kind but it was flavorless. He wanted real meat. Flesh from something that had bled not too long ago. He would be satisfied with chicken but his mind immediately leaped to an obscenely huge steak, well-marbled and barely cooked.

  If he had observed any animals living nearby, any rabbits or fowl, he would have gone hunting right then and there. But he knew no creature larger than a plague rat made its home anywhere near him. He had even frightened away the multi-eyed crows with his cursed scarecrows.

  “Perhaps I should look into raising cows and chickens,” he said to his skeletons. But he knew he would have to raise a barn and a coop to house these animals. And though he had the ruin of Bloodrot Keep to scavenge materials from, he didn't look forward to constructing a place where he had to keep something alive rather than the other way around.

  One of his skeletons jumped up like it had received a command. Or had seen something, Malachar thought. He summoned his flaming greatsword from his necrotic shadow realm, found he had grabbed a shovel instead, and decided it would do the job anyway.

  “Go,” Malachar ordered. He hadn't crafted his skeletons to be on guard duty, or to do anything other than farm work, but there was much that surprised him every day. He watched as the bony figure loped away into the field and looked around for a bit with its eyeless sockets. It didn't seem to find anything, but it bent down and picked something from the ground.

  “What do you have there?” Malachar asked. The skeleton placed the bizarre object into his hands. It looked like a tiny, mummified human. But calling it human was stretching it. The six-inch thing had a head that was an asymmetrical cone that ended in an irregular point. Its fleshy lips were peeled away from its narrow jaw, and its limbs were much too long to be anything wholesome.

  He was glad he didn't have a dog. It would have devoured the macabre find before returning to its master.

  “Thank you,” Malachar said. He was about to toss the horrid little thing away when he caught sight of a design on the back of its too-long head. It glowed with a faint magical energy, one of a restorative nature rather than necromantic.

  It was a rune. Another ancient sigil meant to praise him. The ragged symbol was the shorthand prayer that he knew too well. He had heard it sung enough times atop piles and piles of corpses.

  Ash take the sun, ash take the stars.

  Let all crowns break before the Black Throne.

  We are Yours, until the world remembers to die.

  Malachar frowned. There was obviously someone who still remembered him out there. Perhaps a scavenger who recalled tales of the dark lord. They were skittish and superstitious, little more than animals, but they remembered the old ways if nothing else.

  Malachar gave one last look to his field but saw nothing suspicious. He finally decided it was time for bed. He entered his outpost, deciding that if the scavenger was too cowardly to show himself, he wasn't worth worrying about. He wasn't going to lose any sleep over it, at least. He had a big day of backbreaking labor tomorrow.

  And, despite his aches and pains and the perpetual dirt under his fingernails, he was happier than he could ever remember being. As he lay in his bed, he hoped that his crops would flourish. He hoped that at least one of them would survive in the land where nothing grew. And, if his plants didn’t grow, there was always time to salt and burn the fields. In previous lives, it had been a relaxing pastime after a hard day of crushing his enemies. But now the very notion disquieted him. How many farms had he destroyed during his various conquests? He didn’t want to think about it.

  But still. Salting and burning was always an option.