Laire shifted his weight from one foot to the other, careful not to disturb the wheat he crouched in. His stomach growled low and menacing, and a bubble rose to his throat. He choked the belch back and grimaced. Perhaps that fifth ale had been ill-advised. At least he hadn’t gone for a sixth.
No matter now. What was done was done. Besides, it had nudged that farmer into loosening his tongue about the odd happenings in Caldrech. Fallow fields giving yield to enormous bumper crops. Sickly trees bearing ripe fruit overnight. Laire had a hard time believing any Ancient Ones would be stupid enough to use magic so openly and chalked it up to wives’ tales, jealousy, or both. But he had to check either way. After a week of unsuccessful elf chase, he was desperate enough to follow any lead.
Crickets whirred in the tall grasses, calling to each other through the night. The noise drove like so many nails into Laire’s already pounding head. He ground his teeth and pinched the bridge of his nose. Mother Night, maybe he should have accepted that sixth ale. He wouldn’t have felt or remembered a thing.
Before Laire could burn the entire field down to shut it up, a glow rippled up the stocks of wheat. A warm, copper color that could have easily been mistaken for sunset light. If there had been any sort of sunset to speak of. Clashed against the moon’s silver, the copper turned eerie, almost the color of dried blood. An image—only a flash—of another silver night painted gruesome copper shot through Laire’s mind like a barbed arrow.
Laire clenched his hand around the hilt of his sword and peered into the night. It seemed that farmer hadn’t been spewing wives tales after all. Somewhere out there, one of them lurked.
It took him a few moments of scanning before he saw it. A tiny figure swaying side-to-side, elbows at its sides, and palms faced upward. The only visible parts of its face were the copper rings around its irises. The wheat shuddered. New stalks appeared and old ones grew plump with kernels. The rapid growth sent hisses of strained stalks through the fields.
Laire set off silently through the wheat, staying downwind as best he could. He used cautious steps, crouched and almost invisible, picking up each foot completely so as not to scrape dust and rocks beneath his boots. He checked for rocks and twigs before letting his weight settle on the foot. His thighs and abdomen burned, but he pressed on. One careless tread spelled the doom of any hunt, and this was not one he intended to fail.
Ancient Races, particularly the small ones, were more skittish than most hares. Smarter than most hares, too, unfortunately. Laire couldn’t get too close without the risk of scaring it. He’d lost too many trophies for that mistake. Let too many monsters get away. Instead, fifty paces away, Laire stopped and drew the serpent root from the pouch at his side. He wrapped it around a crossbow bolt and shot it into the night, just a hair’s breadth away from the creature. The pained squeal and soft thud were all he needed to hear. The fields’ copper light vanished.
Laire straightened on his protesting legs and strode to his whimpering catch. A sprite. A small creature—probably no taller than Laire’s waist if it weren’t squirming on the ground—that had the build of a young man. Tears of pain welled in its wide, black eyes and trickled down its freckled cheeks as it clutched the leg the serpent root had wrapped around. Gold flecks flashed in its mousy brown hair. A thick squirrel’s tail wrapped around it like a security blanket, twitching in agony.
“Please, please!” it sobbed. “I’ve done nothing wrong! I’ve hurt nobody!”
Laire curled his fist around the creature’s tunic and pulled it to face level. The sprite struggled against Laire to tear his grip away. It flailed its legs and dug its sharp, claw-like nails into Laire’s forearm, its tail whipping around it in distress and its chest heaving with the effort, but all in vain.
“Let me go! I’ve done nothing!”
Doors creaked open on fading hinges and candlelight flicked amber tongues across the fields. Drawn by the ruckus, nearby farmers emerged from their homes and peered into the night.
Laire clenched his teeth. “This doesn’t concern you!”
“Who are you?”
“Leave the fields alone!”
Farmers snatched pitchforks and hoes and approached, their wives ushering curious children back inside. “These are our livelihoods. Leave in peace and we’ll forget this whole thing.”
The sprite smiled in relief.
Laire tightened his grip on the sprite, twisting the chunk of tunic until it nearly choked it. “Do not think for a moment that you are saved,” he hissed before turning to the farmers. “I am a General of the King’s Men!”
“The King’s Men?” The creature’s face stretched in utter, petrified terror. “Sister Earth help me.”
Laire ignored it. “Return to your homes before I declare you all traitors for interfering with King’s Men business!”
The farmer’s faces paled. Their weapons went limp in their hands, and they dropped eye contact, though some cast hasty, saddened glances at the sprite. “Forgive us,” they said. Laire couldn’t tell who they were talking to. They retreated to their families and shuttered their doors and windows.
A forlorn sob bubbled from the sprite’s throat. It grimaced as the serpent root inched farther up his leg but looked at Laire with solemn resolve. “What do the King’s Men want from lowly Barley Bushtail?”
Laire sneered at it and tossed it to the ground. It hit its head and tried to sit up in a daze, but Laire pressed the tip of his sword to its chest. “I’m looking for someone.”
Barley shook its head, laughing in disbelief. “No one here but farmers. Can’t imagine what you’d want with any of—”
Laire dug the tip deeper into its chest. “I will decide what I need.” He waited a moment and watched for the gulp of fear and resignation that signified the sprite knew who was in charge. When he got that signal, he relaxed the sword by a fraction. “Ancient Races can sense when others of your kind are nearby. Have there been any that have passed through here recently?”
Barley’s eyes widened. “How do you know that? No one should know but—”
“Brahmon,” Laire said with a sneer, the word a dagger across his tongue.
Barley froze with a gasp. “You…you lived in the half-blood village? Then why work for the Flameslayer? Why go after your own kind if—"
Laire pressed his sword deeper. “You are not my kind.”
A trickle of blood welled from Barley’s chest. His face went white and he screamed in the pain only a cursed sword could inflict. “It hurts. It hurts!”
Laire withdrew the blade slightly.
“That sword,” Barley tried to inch away. “I know that sword!” The color drained from his skin, and his body shivered with fever. “The Demon Queen’s sword, made to steal souls and—”
Laire flicked the blade and traced a gash across Barley’s cheek. Barley screamed again. His eyes nearly rolled all the way back from the pain. “I have no interest in whatever superstitions you ascribe to my weapon,” Laire said. “All I know is it kills and kills well.”
Barley’s eyelids sagged. He bowed his head and said nothing.
“Have any elves passed through as of late?”
Barley swung his head from side-to-side with great effort. “None…that I’ve sensed. Only a sorcerer.”
“That is not good enough!”
“P-please don’t kill me!” Barley’s face crumpled. “I’ll do anything. Anything you want! These people depend on me! They have poor soil. If I don’t help them, their crops will die! They’ll starve!”
“And why do you care so much?”
Barley’s face softened. “These people are good people,” he said. “They may fear me, but if I can help them…no one deserves to go hungry.”
The look on his face reminded Laire of a look he had once loved from someone that spouted grand dreams of love, coexistence, and happiness. White-hot rage welled in his chest. He smacked Barley across the face with the flat of his blade and sent him sprawling. “You say you would do anything to live?” The ale roiled in his stomach and burned the back of his throat. Instead of the sprite, he saw a woman with long, silky tresses the color of chestnut. He saw the blood on her shaking hands and the treacherous tears rolling down her face as she tried to explain herself, as she begged for her life. He kicked Barley’s ribs. “You say you want to make the world better? Tell me this—” he put the blade tip at Barley’s heart. “Can you bring back the dead?”
Any hope fled the sprite’s face. “The dead must remain with the dead,” it intoned.
The words rang hollowly in Laire’s ears. They echoed with her voice as she cradled Laire’s shattered world in her arms.
“It’s one of the Three Ancient Laws. I… I cannot break it. It’s impossible!” Each of Barley’s words became more desperate than the last.
Laire hauled Barley up so their eyes met. “How sad for you, to be so helpless against a world that never loved you.” He ran the sprite through.
Barley choked. Its eyes bugged from his skull. It fell limp, its eyes still wide as they reflected the moon’s silver. Copper drizzled from its mouth. The crops withered in their fields, heads bowed low in grief. Laire’s sword hummed a keening, eerie note as blood dripped from its edge.
Laire let the body drop. A tremor ran through the earth, likely an aftershock from the quakes that had plagued the front lines as of late. Laire cleaned his sword on the sprite’s tunic and sheathed it. He left the sprite in the field in its own blood and stormed away. Once he was out of the villagers’ earshot, he punched a tree until his knuckles bled and screamed. Another dead end. Another wasted night. He wasn’t even sure he was on the right path anymore. All he knew was that Vinea and Linae’s lives hung in the balance, and he was failing them. Again.
He drew his sword and swung it a few times against the tree, gouging massive wounds in the trunk before he fell to his knees, leaning heavily against the sword. His knuckles throbbed. A stitch in his side ached. “What am I supposed to do now?” he asked no one in particular. The gods. His son. Mother Night. Sister Earth. He didn’t know. Didn’t care. Just anyone that would listen.
I hear you.
The voice from the inn came again—buzzing, hissing, filling his mind until there was nothing left except for its presence. Laire was too tired to push it away again. The sword glowed sickly gray.
The blood sacrifices you have offered the many years you have wielded me are acceptable, the voice—the sword—said. I will help you.
“How?”
Go to Vastet. I sense blood there. It is there that you will find what you seek.
With no other options, Laire followed the sword’s advice. Anise’s words rang in his ears. I had no other choice.