For an instant, I was paralyzed. Mr Foxbrush wanted me to kill them all; such is frontier justice. The theft of hoofstock can sentence a whole cn to death in the winter, so it's understandable for it to be punished with death in return. I can only kill necromancers, though. Only one in that small group had to die.

  My blood thundered in my ears. My oaths thrummed in my veins, screaming to be fulfilled. If I refused, they'd tear me apart from inside out. A necromancer's life wasn't worth it. I just had to catch my breath and find a way to separate them from the others.

  Before this mere instant was over, one of the raiders pressed her thumb on the edge of a knife and whispered words too soft for me to hear. The gates of the Underworld trembled and opened a minuscule crack before smming closed all over again; but that almost imperceptible crack was enough for a wet glob of miasma to slip through and hurl itself at me. I couldn't see it coming, crossing the barrier between the worlds at the speed of a thought, but I could feel it.

  Did the necromancer know Underworld spells couldn't be shattered with Lauba forms? I didn't believe that for a second. Throwing raw miasma at an enemy was as sophisticated an attack as throwing rocks. Nobody who fell back on that spell would even know what uba forms are. Nevertheless, though the necromancer got lucky, I had skill on my side. A uba form can't shatter an Underworld spell, but it can deflect it with ease. What had been drilled into me, over and over, was to always deflect a spell the way it'd come from. Back to sender. Doing otherwise, my teacher had emphasized, would be immoral.

  As long as I could feel the spell coming, it wouldn't touch me.

  All the raiders hit the ground, spewing oily bck smoke through their nostrils and mouths; what remained of their inner organs.

  Mr Foxbrush glided up to me, glowing in happiness.

  “No need to thank me, but I'd appreciate your help examining the bodies.”

  I was careless. If I'd paid attention, I wouldn't have failed to notice the faint tugging inside my veins, telling me to finish the job. But I didn't. I was looking at Mr Foxbrush only.

  He pointed out the green face painting and tassel-fringed fur coat the necromancer wore. These were the sign of a respected personage among the Rusha people. A necromancer would never be so honored. No doubt that coat had been stolen, possibly after murdering the original owner. Such insolence!

  “Could it be possible for the necromancer to have received such honors years ago?”

  Mr Foxbrush didn't believe so. Why, the necromancer had to be younger than him. That's too young for such a respected person to have fallen so low.

  I wasn't entirely convinced, but neither did I want to contradict my guide and transtor when I had almost no experience in the area. As I pondered this, Mr Foxbrush pointed behind me. Being in a somewhat morose mood, I'd missed a child of ten or so hiding in the bushes not too far away, which goes to show morose moods shouldn't be indulged on.

  The tugging inside my veins increased.

  “We can’t leave them here. Where can we take them, though?”

  Silent tears slid down the child's face. They gred at me with such hatred, you wouldn't have been surprised if if stopped their heart.

  In Mr Foxbrush's opinion, the tiger's cub should be killed while its fangs were small.

  “This is a human child, though.”

  The roaring of my own blood grew louder.

  The child wiped their face with a sleeve and stood up, shaken but holding their head high. I couldn't understand what they said, but neither could I hear them over the blood rush.

  This is why I've made sure to master a spell that can kill someone before the brain registers any pain—one I would've had to kill anybody else for wielding, because it comes from the Underworld.

  I caught the child's dead body before it hit the ground. I set them by their mother's side, straightened the entire family a bit, closed their eyes.

  Mr Foxbrush told me not to feel bad, as the child had admitted to learning necromancy from their mother and had just sworn to kill me when they were old enough to do so.

  “As if a mere necromancer could.” I sighed again. Unfortunately, this morose mood was shaping up to be an inescapable one. “Are there any traditions I should be mindful of?”

  In all honesty, Mr Foxbrush was quite unaware of the burial customs of the Rusha.

  To take my mind off of these events, I went looking for the raiders's encampment, which wasn't very far away. I found the felt tents first; next to them, the remaining sheep pastured on the sparse grass, along with ten or so solimecs. The raiders seemed to have owned little more than the necessities—pots, bnkets, knives—though the quality was good.

  What leads someone to reach into the Underworld and let a creature drooling for human flesh into the world of the living? It happens that some necromancers are simply greedy and selfish and uncaring. But other times, someone will simply get sick of seeing their children starve. If that's you, and someone else has a few fat sheep and a patch of nd where crops grow, the day may come when you wouldn't mind to see that other person torn apart limb by limb.

  Mr Foxbrush was pleased to know his family would recover the missing sheep, and also acquire enough valuables to make up for the devoured ones. After dismantling every tent in search for any books, crystals, or any other spell-carriers, I told him the Big-Seashell cn was welcome to pick the encampment clean.

  As I'd suspected, this necromancer was only an amateur; all I found was a bit of felt, carefully rolled-up inside a pillow. I showed Mr Foxbrush it carried several tightly-written lines in the same Underworld nguage we'd seen before—instructions to write that barrier spell, and summon a lesser maw, and a few other things that made it difficult for me to mourn the necromancer, especially when I remembered the child had learned them.

  “They're written in blood,” I told Mr Foxbrush.

  He thought that was needlessly dramatic.

  I chuckled—it's difficult for me to show amusement, but his remark had genuinely lightened my mood, and I wanted him to know that. “Not quite. See, Underworld nguages corrode paper and dissolve ink. Blood fixates them better.”

  The only other thing I took with me was the necromancer's knife; it looked like a regur knife, but I'd rather not leave it around.

  I requested Mr Foxbrush's guidance one st time. He agreed happily, as he wanted to see his family once more.

  On the way back he asked me if I'd be interested in marrying a woman.

  I had to turn around and look at him. “Do you really want me as a son-in-w? Me? Or is it your widow?”

  Mr Foxbrush could tell I had a steady job I was skilled at and which paid well. All of these are the best things you can ask in a son-in-w.

  “Well, I'm fttered.” I had to say something else, hadn’t I? Well, fuck. “But, well, marriage would complicate things too much. I don't want any children right now, either.”

  Mr Foxbrush respected my wishes, but reminded me one shouldn't wait too long for these things. Why, at my age he had three children already!

  “I might've met someone.” Oh, Vanth Umbra. You speak of wishful thinking.

  Mr Foxbrush took me at my word, and so he was happy for me.

  Wisely, the Big-Seashell cn hadn't assumed I'd get rid of the necromancer, or that my crystallized spell would be enough to protect them if worse came to worst. They’d retreated behind the palisade surrounding their vilge and barred the gates. Indeed, as I approached I could distinguish a couple of heads rising over the palisade; they sank down as they saw me. The children, Mr Foxbrush expined, would've been sent down to the beach to hide in one of the seaside caves with the flocks. As long as they had the sheep to look after, the children would feel important and worry less.

  “That's smart.”

  I brought Menthe to a stop. The palisade gates crashed open, pouring out a stream of Big-Seashells; in fact, more people than this small farm seemed capable of supporting. Mr Foxbrush pointed out people from neighboring farms who'd come to lend their strength. They greeted me with cheerful shouts and much waving of arms. Again I asked Mr Foxbrush to transte my words, and with his help I managed to expin the raiders had been dealt with and their encampment awaited the Big-Seashells. My st few words were almost drowned by a wave of cheering. If anybody heard me it was Poppy, who stood quietly with her sister-in-w's arm around her shoulders.

  Mr Foxbrush looked at her, and then at the other faces in the crowd, without being seen. He felt I'd already done more than enough—I hastened to disagree—but he wondered if something couldn't be done to change this state of affairs, even for a short moment.

  “It can,” I said, “though I can't give you much more than a moment. It's perhaps the biggest irony of ghosthood. If it's easy for the living to perceive you, they likely don't want to.”

  Mr Foxbrush took my proferred hand so that I could perform a brief spell. Sometimes, the people who've known a ghost in life can see them just as they looked as a human; something about the way the Big-Seashells and their neighbors pointed at him and hugged each other told me this was the case.

  Now Mr Foxbrush was happy to leave. His people think it unlucky for ghosts to linger near the living, and I can't say they're wrong; the ghosts who do that are rarely ever untroubled ones like Mr Foxbrush. It's not impossible even for someone like him to attract worse presences, for that matter. I wielded the bone dagger and opened a path of blood for him. He waved at his family and friends one st time and left.

  I had no reason to linger, but my exit was prevented by a mob of Big-Seashells and associates, the tallest of them barely reaching my nose. Next thing I knew, the children were running back amidst many woolen white backs. The terror and grief of the st day had exploded into etion. And though the grief would return soon enough, they'd mourn in peace. Knowing this, I had to stand there and let them cp my shoulder and pat my back. They ughed and cried and told me things I had no hope of understanding with my transtor gone.

  Someone of Mr Foxbrush's age shouted their suggestion, or perhaps order, and bottles and bowls were brought. That's how I ended up toasting Mr Foxbrush with the peach wine he so enjoyed. I managed to convey it was very good indeed. At some point I ended up hugging Big-Seashell Poppy, whose eyes were bright as if she was waiting for the right moment to shed tears. I was prevented from being forced to attempt comforting words, at least.

  Someone—Mr Foxbrush's widow?—took a baby one of the oldest teens was holding and bestowed them on my arms. By the energetic gestures of my hosts I understood that they hoped I would bless this child.

  I had no more power to bless than the next shepherd, but these people had trusted me to hold a baby and bring them good things, and I wished I could. I told them, “May you reach the Underworld after a fulfilling life,” which was at least a safe pleasant wish. After repeating this with the two remaining babies, the tide of Big-Seashells finally receded.

  I returned to Menthe and drove away. Someone blew a surka at my back. I wondered at first if that was meant for the recently deceased, to welcome them on the other side, though that seemed counterproductive. It was only after I'd left the farmhold far behind that I wondered if it might've been meant for me. After all, it wasn't unreasonable to assume I was going home.

  Was it time for Azul to be awake already? I thought of holding his terrified dream-self, heart hammering like a bird's. But I didn't want to; he looked his best shining in the sun, skin satiny with sweat. I wanted to make him glow like that in my bed, make him shiver in a way he'd welcome. I wanted him to look at me with that taunting smile, so that I could bring him slowly and exquisitely to his knees before I fucked him.

  The sheep and solimec had crowded in a sheltered corner to share each other's body heat, and were happy to ignore me. The corpses awaited me in silence. I carried them to bare ground before using a silver-cast fire spell to cremate them. In a few moments they were a pile of ashes. When the Big-Seashells returned, perhaps the wind would've carried away even that.

  Eleven ghosts looked at me from across the grey ash of their bodies.

  It doesn't matter who or what someone was in life. The dying sun casts the same light over everyone.

  I sat on the ground. “Tell me your stories.”

  broccolifloret