Agrathea, being a creature of naturally evil tendencies and disposition, saw the signs of Mycail’s plotting everywhere. It was like wood to a woodpecker, or ants to an anteater. She was drawn to it, lured by it, and the Shrooman’s budding wickedness was plain for her to see.

The weak attempt to frame Mycal by leaving broken eggs around his resting place. The infected Twiglings and their dead comrade. The crude drawings he’d made in the dirt detailing his plans to dominate the forest, perhaps even the world. All very amateur, she thought. He might have made a good disciple if he hadn’t already gone off the rails and prematurely begun his Quest For Power. Chances were he’d become a minor obstacle in the path of some Hero’s Journey, relegated to the role of a mild yet amusing challenge. But he obviously had some level of gusto. She wondered if he had perhaps even tried to find her real phylactery egg. That was something she couldn’t let slide. Well, it couldn’t be helped now. Evil is as evil does, as her mother always said.

The Twiglings were a bigger problem. Mycail’s fungal corruption had sunk deep into the hardwood, and they were rapidly turning into a completely new and annoyingly assertive species. Grey and brown fungus covered most of their bodies, as unsightly as it was unsanitary. It was behaving more like a mold than a mushroom, spreading rapidly to other plants in the garden. Worst of all, the stickmen were neglecting their duties and allowing weeds and pests to run rampant, while at the same time blockading the garden and preventing the few remaining uninfected Twiglings from doing their work. It was time to send in the stick-breakers.

She thought Monkey and Goblin looked quite good in their uniforms. She’d used a clever combination of curses and spells to bewitch a nest of sinspiders, turning their natural desire to weave into a commercial enterprise. Granted it took them months to make a single garment, a fact that greatly limited her ability to scale up the operation, but at least she’d acquired a few new outfits for herself and her lackeys.

Goblin kept throwing off his little cap, forcing her to tie it on. Monkey was more accepting of his new attire, and she’d even caught him posing in front of a window a few times, flexing his muscles and grinning like a maniac. He practically beamed when she issued the batons.

“Alright, lads. You know the drill. We’ve got a group of malcontents attempting to seize the means of potion production. We can’t let this stand. Who knows what else they might demand if they’re not put back in their place. You have one job, to break their spirit! And their bodies, actually. Two jobs. You have two jobs! Now get in there and sort this out!”

Monkey charged in, eager for a chance to vent his general upset at the state of the world, while Goblin was more cautious. He was only two or three times larger than the average Twigling, and didn’t share Monkey’s natural inclination toward violence. Still, he made an effective wingman, pouncing on any of Monkey’s victims that were not quite dead, finishing them off with a frantic barrage of blows, all the while wailing in distress at the sheer horror of it all.

Mycal had watched the whole thing from the porch. When it was over and Aggie was burning the bodies in a firepit, he came to stand by her and watched the flames consuming the corrupted wood. “Was that really necessary? Couldn’t you have just…like…let them go or something?”

She scoffed. “Let them go? Do you have any idea what might happen if an infection like that escaped into the forest?”

“But you don’t even know how bad the fungus was. It might have been benign.”

“Oh…no…not the fungus. That wasn’t the real infection. The true blight here was their ideology. Can you image what the dryads and treefolk would do if they got political? They’d all be like, our bodies fuel the fires of industry yet what do we receive for our sacrifices, or something like that.” The fire crackled and spat as she fed another body to the flames. Mycal started to say something, then stopped himself. Aggie looked up at him and saw what she had come to recognise as a disapproving frown. “What?”

“Umm…it’s just…”

“Come on, man. Spit it out.”

“Ahh…so…politics...well…do you remember how I told you about the Fatcaps, and the Clusterists? Sometimes, the things you say sound kind of like what the Morelists preach. About, like, working and not complaining. I mean…it’s not really fair…”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“Fair?” Aggie tossed the last few sticks into the pit and stood up. “Mycal, look at me. I’m a funking witch! People want to burn me at the stake for no reason other than that very basic fact! What about that is fair? And it isn’t just witches! All monsters get the same treatment! Humans push us out of their villages and cities, while at the same time they beg us for our magic and whatever else they think we can provide. If you went into a human city you’d be sliced and diced and boiled in a pot before you could say…” she put her arms above her head, claws touching, in an attempt to mimic his headcap, “Hi, I’m Mycal and I think everyone should just get along!”

“I don’t sound like that! And anyway, the Twiglings were monsters too…kind of. And just because the humans are like that doesn’t mean we have to be!”

“Oh, so I’m as bad as a human now, am I? I’m just trying to make a living! Not all of us had Fatcap parents, you know? Some of us have to work for a living! It’s not easy, being a single witch out here in the middle of nowhere, with no one to talk to!”

Mycal took a step back and put his hand over his mouth. “Oh…no! No that’s not what I meant! I was just trying to say that…you’re better than that! I know you are! You’re not evil at all, Aggie. You’re wonderful.”

Aggie put her hands on her hips and quickly turned away, trying to hide the very unexpected trembling of her lip. Damn him. Why was he always so nauseatingly good. Just like Raul.

“Aggie?” She felt the blood welling up around her eyes. “I’m sorry, Aggie, I didn’t mean to…”

“No, no, it’s fine,” she sniffed, and tried to wipe away the bloody tears but only managed to smear it over her cheeks. “I…ummm…I have to get back to work. Special potion order.” She hurried away, still hiding her face and almost tripping as she went up the porch steps. Once she was inside she slammed the door and bolted the lock. She took a long, deep breath, resisting the urge for a full-blown tear tantrum. Why did this keep happening? Why did this stupid, unfair world keep sending people like Mycal and Raul to her doorstep? Why did she care so much about what they thought about her?

Regaining her composure, she tried to forget about Mycal while she washed and dried her face. With that done, she picked up the list of potions Raul had given her the night before and started scouring her pantry for ingredients. The sigh of a neglected child for Invisibility. Blood of a grieving widow for Strength. Disguise, Leaping and Shrinking all needed various frog parts. Nothing too complicated. He obviously had a heist of some kind planned. Her sweet, lovely Raul had apparently turned into a daring thief, and he needed her help. She’d play it cool, of course, acting as if he were just another customer, but the thought of him leaping from rooftop to rooftop, sneaking into some pompous idiot’s treasury, stealing away into the night with his ill-gotten gains…well, it wasn’t just her eyes getting moist.

“Oh my gourd. Focus, girl. Focus.”

* * *

The rack of freshly forged spearheads gleamed in the forge light as the Subdeacon inspected them. He touched a finger to the edge of one and abruptly withdrew it, a thick welling of blood already blooming. “Ah…very sharp indeed. Very good.” He turned around to face Louisa, openly admiring her bare arms and heaving chest, barely hidden beneath the leather apron.

She had been working almost without pause ever since Raul had left the night before. The brutal heat had her gradually stripping down as her clothes became so soaked in sweat that the ash from the coals turned to mud as it settled on her. Now, in just the apron and her undergarments, she was probably committing a whole raft of sins that the Church could punish her for, if not for the fact that most of the senior clergy were stepping over each other to be the next official assigned to, as they put it, “examine her wares.”

“Yes, indeed, very, very good. I’m sure this will be sufficient to…err…extend the Church’s stay of execution for maybe…another two days? Yes, two days. Two big, large days. Mmm yes.”

Louisa rolled her eyes inwardly but kept her face carefully blank. She even performed an overtly jiggly curtsey while making the Sign of the One, being sure to let the apron slip off her forward leg. “Thank you, your worshipfulness, and thank the One for his mercy.” Gods how she hated the sound of her own voice when she grovelled like this. “Perhaps your benevolent self would be so kind as to grant a humble request, and allow me to see my husband?” Please hurry, Raul, I can't keep this up for long.

“See your husband? Hmm…yes…I suppose I could arrange that. It would be under careful…ah…scrutiny though, you understand? Yes, scrutiny. And you would have to be thoroughly searched, of course, to ensure you’re not smuggling any contraband. No need to be alarmed, though, it will just be a thorough, thorough pat down. I would, of course, perform the search myself. Mmm yes.”

You'll have plenty to be alarmed about soon you ugly, smug, disgusting old bastard. “Of course, Subdeacon. It would only be right and proper for you to take such important matters into your own hands.” The old man quivered so vigorously she though he might fall over. “I’ll wash up and get changed right now, then you can search me here and I can accompany you back to the cathedral.”

Before he could say anything, she untied her apron and flung it onto the workbench, disappearing into the back room while the Subdeacon held onto the rack for dear life. The spearheads rattled furiously as he shuddered, trembled and quavered like an excited leaf anticipating a very energetic storm.