5 : 263 : 16 : 31 : 29

My body is weirdly leaden. I wake up to find I can’t move my arms or legs. I’m having trouble breathing too, like there’s a heavy weight on me. It's also unnaturally warm—almost hot—though there’s no fireplace in my Spartan bedchamber.

Oh god, have I been poisoned? Did someone put a curse on me? Panic starts to set in.

I slowly peel open my stiff eyelids and try to see what’s wrong. Just raising my head a little is unreasonably difficult. My fleshly shell is disturbingly unresponsive. Even stranger, the cave has no lamps but it's somehow lit bright with lights of many colors. This has to be terminal. No, no, I’m too young and beautiful to die!

Then, when the grogginess finally lifts, I can see the cause of the madness.

Even though it takes a minute for my brain to make sense of the view.

I’m covered in pixies. A pile of winged little elementals is strewn over me and around me, all of them sound asleep and cutely snoring. Some clutch my arms and legs and reach near very awkward places. A few are rolled up in my hair, like it’s a blanket. One is hugging my neck, effectively choking me. Each pixie glows faintly with its own color, a shade of green, yellow, gold, orange, purple, or blue, like we’re in a techno club.

It wouldn’t be a problem, if they were Tinkerbell-size, but the local pixies are a solid foot long, and not completely weightless. To make matters worse, being covered in scantily dressed, prepubescent-looking humanoids does unwanted things to my pulse and blood pressure. This could be pretty bad.

“Uhh, excuse me...?” I try to wriggle out from under the crowd, as gently as I can, to not crush anybody. “Wakey-wakey. Rise and shine.”

The pixies shift a little, yawning, but only to fix their posture before going back to sleep. It looks like they don’t want to let go of me. It's so hard, being popular. I might be able to wake them if I shouted loud enough, but somehow, that feels like an unlawful move. What if they’re shocked so bad they get a heart attack and die? I heard it can happen to hamsters.

“It’s morning~!” I try again, gently. “Time to get up and—go do whatever it is that little pixies do. Don’t you have pig tails to steal? Wells to poison?”

Then I look up and see the flame-haired lancer stand silently at the chamber's entrance.

She’s got that look in her eyes, like staring at garbage.

“Oh, hi,” I greet the woman. “Before you ask, no. This is not what it looks like. I’m not a pedophile. I’m like the old classic animations—all ages.”

“...”

The lancer lifts her weapon and knocks the rock floor with it. A heavy, resonant gong! rings out along the bedrock and deep into the earth. The pixies spring up all together in a flash, like a flock of startled sparrows, and zip out with great flashing of colors and blinking lights. I free the last one from my hair and toss it on its way, and then sit up, feeling a lot slimmer. Ah, I can breathe again!

But for how long?

“So you were a magician,” the redhead remarks, her appearance like a shadow from hell.

“Huh?” I freeze.

“Elementals are drawn to the purity of mana,” she continues. “They find the scent of it irresistible. You’ve used magic recently. That must be how you survived the crash too. How kind of you to hide your abilities from us.”

Crap.

The words ring calm and collected, but her whole figure is tense like trapwire with barely restrained fury. It would seem magic-users hold a special place in our hot-blooded friend’s heart. And the day of my execution just got a lot closer.

I quietly weight my options. Playing dead, or showing belly might not help in this case. She doesn’t seem the type to warm up to sniveling and groveling. In that case, what else can I do but grab the bull by the horns?

I get up and face the menace directly.

“Okay, so I may know a trick or two,” I admit. “But instead of using that to stab anybody in the back, I’ve played nice and fair this whole time, haven’t I? I didn't run away and I answered all your trick questions too. That’s got to count for something, right?”

The lancer glares at me but says nothing. Not disagreeing is practically agreeing, right?

I take a step closer.

“I’m not your enemy,” I tell her, calm and steady. “I'm here to help. We've all got better things to do than killing each other over so much timber and hides. Isn't that right? At least, I do.”

“...” No response. I take another step.

“So why dont we set aside our differences and work together to solve the actual problem?”

The scowl on the lancer's face grows grimmer.

“Yeah. The so-called necromancer,” I continue. “I heard. Nobody wants a rogue wizard in their backyard. But maybe I can do something about that? The enemy of my enemy is my friend, right? And, depending on the circumstances, may be someone you have steamy hate-sex with.”

“—Who told you about the necromancer?” the woman sharply interrupts and steps up in front of me.

I pause and aim my eyes at the ceiling. “Uh, little birds?”

Would be poor journalism to disclose my sources.

But it’s no use. Ms Spiky's not entirely stupid. She breathes in the air of the chamber, and it doesn’t take her long to identify the scents of my few visitors. Some hell of a sense of smell.

“That fool of an elf!” she growls and looks away. “I knew it was a mistake to let him live.”

“You should be glad you did,” I object. “It takes a mage to beat a mage, you know? I’m your gal. Let me take care of it.”

The only problem is that no one knows where the evil bastard is hiding. Mages have their tricks. If he doesn’t want to get found, then you could look a thousand years in a forest this big, and come up with nothing. But I have my Third Eye, and if all the animals pitch in, I think we could get it done within my lifetime, or at least narrow it down a little for future generations—

“—No.” The lancer laconically shoots down my plans when I'm barely getting started.

“...Could you at least pretend to think it over?” I request with a heavy sigh. “Even if you don’t know where to find the guy, that doesn’t mean there's no hope whatsoever—”

“—I know where he is,” she interrupts me again.

“Eh?” The sudden reveal throws me for a loop. “Could you run that by me another time? Because it almost sounded like you already know where the bad guy is? Which would basically solve all of our problems right now?”

“Yes. I know that,” she repeats.

I can only raise my hand and call for a timeout.

“Hang on, I’ve lost the plot. Then what exactly is the issue? Why haven't you just—”

“—Because I can’t,” she cuts me off yet again. “The enemy's magic is formidable. It is not difficult to find him; a foul miasma surrounds his lair at all times. Its reek has spread far and wide. But he has raised impenetrable walls of vile sorceries to protect himself. Anyone who so much as lays a whisker on his traps is turned into a raving fiend. Those affected will attack anyone they see, unable to tell friend and foe apart, until they've burned out the flame of life left in them. No one knows a way to remove the spell. Only death may release the victim.”

“Really?” I cringe at the story.

So Ofir was telling the truth about the zombies? That doesn’t sound very nice.

The lancer turns away, wearing a bitter face.

“Many have tried to challenge the villain,” she says. “All of them in vain! Whoever goes near his den meets only a fate worse than death. So I forbade the Fey to approach the place or tell others where it lies, on the pain of death. If they must seek their doom nonetheless, it is better I give them one that is swift and hurts no other.”

Okay, this might not be as easy as I thought.

Elementals and demifiends have their own naturalist ways of magic too. They may not be as versatile as the adepts who go to school, but what few tricks they know they spend a lifetime honing, and they can get decently powerful too. The fact that none of them ever managed to stop the bad guy, or even breach his defenses, means we’re dealing with one tough cookie.

Can I actually do any better?

Well, to be able to judge that, I need to see the place with my own eyes.

Whether she likes the idea or not, I have to ask.

“Take me there. Let me try.”

In her usual frank style, my hostess doesn’t take long to mull it over.

“No.”

Can’t say I’m surprised. But it’s still more than a little frustrating.

“And why not?” I ask. “You’re going to kill me anyway, right? What do you have to lose? If I fail and get cursed, you can still kill me, with a good reason—but if I somehow pull this off, your crusade with the colonists will be over. No more Nam. And many fluffy forest creatures will live a little longer.”

“There is nothing you can do,” she objects. “I couldn't sense your potential sooner, because it is too pathetic. I've seen deer with higher capacity for mana than you have. Creatures more powerful have tried and failed. Your value is still greater to us alive. I know the Dominion lacks war-ready mages, and how they would accept a non-elf means you must be somehow rare. They will want to trade for you. Until we hear how much they are willing to give up for you, you are not going anywhere.”

I’d temper my expectations, if I were you. I’m not so sure my buddies even remember I exist anymore.

No, that choice is absolutely not going to fly.

“And how come you get to call the shots?” I ask when the lancer is about to leave and brazenly step even closer.

My head barely reaches the level of her collarbones, which makes my tough act kind of lack weight. But I can’t back down now. We lock gazes, unflinching.

“I thought the Fey had no king?” I press on. “Why don’t we go and ask what the others think about my plan? Yeah, why don’t we have a democratic vote? Maybe they’re sick and tired of your way of running things? All this endless slaughter and death? Feasting on their own dead! Maybe they want real change? Maybe they’ll like my idea better? Let them have their voices heard! What are you afraid of? It’s starting to look to me like you don’t even want this war to end! Why? Are you even here to help the forest, or do you just want an excuse to run wild?”

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

The lancer’s scowl sharpens. Heat radiates through her skin, intense as a furnace. The burn I feel on my face isn’t imaginary or metaphorical anymore. I have to steel myself to not turn back by reflex. The damp air in the underground chamber starts to steam.

She isn’t even using any magic. Mana in her body surges automatically in reaction to her anger. She's full of the stuff. It gushes forth with no apparent limit, as naturally as sweat to normal people.

“The Fey owe me their lives,” she says, her voice ringing deep and cold like an earthquake in the mountains. “Without me, they would have perished long ago. Who I go to war with and why is my business and no other’s. The beasts obey me, or they return to the dust they came from! Get in my way, and I’ll give you too the death that you so desperately seek.”

Warning lights fill my head.

Their messages lack precise form, but the point carries across loud and clear.

Stop what you’re doing. Don’t say another word. Any more and you’ll die. You'll die, you'll die, die, die, die.

Annoying this duck squeezer too much won’t end with only a catfight. I’m aware of that. But I don’t have Ofir’s patience. Not decades to wait. It’s come clear I won’t leave this wood without a few calculated risks along the way. Not without staking the wholeness of my body.

Every day, I feel it in the very marrow of my bones. That while I dork off here, counting pixies, there are people out there who need me. People I need. And unless I hurry the hell up, it’ll be too late for them.

I fear that more than I fear death.

Which is why, one way or the other, I’m going to have to get past this tomboy.

How do I do that?

Ruffle her feathers a little and more magical energy comes pouring out than I can dish out on a good day. I don’t even want to imagine what would happen if she decided to go all-out. Mana covers her figure, thick like jelly. It buffers any rituals aimed at her. There’s nothing I can throw at her that could give her a pause.

And then there’s that apparently invulnerable body that seems to happily ignore the laws of physics. Swinging the stupidly huge spear-axe-club-thing would be needless effort. When Dalek said she could kill me with a touch, it wasn't an exaggeration. If she so much as poked my head with a finger, my skull would collapse. The gap in strength is too damn wide. My gut feeling tells me I’m dealing with a disaster past even core-boosted Hume.

Fists aren’t the answer. But that's not all I have, is it? There's always a way.

So what do I do? Think!

To start with, would be helpful if I even knew what the hell she is.

Know thy enemy—I don’t know who coined that one, but it was clearly a professional at making mischief. If only I knew what species I'm dealing with, I’d have a lot more options going forward. But I can only say this one thing for sure: despite how she looks, there’s no bleeding chance this monster is human.

Then what is she?

I can't stake everything on a good guess. I need to make sure.

Only my eyes can give me the honest truth.

So I bite my lip, open the goggles wide, and take a good look at the stone-faced lady.

The chamber melts from view and I dive fully into the colorless, borderless realm of raw information, where even light and heat and sound are reduced to naked numbers. I swallow the existential dread carried by that abyss of equations, shut all else out of awareness, and focus solely on the creature in front of me.

My remaining lifespan is now counted in seconds.

Doing this to someone sensitive to magic is essentially a declaration of war. What would you do if you found a camera in your bedroom and the cord goes next door? If our friend realizes I’m invading her soul itself, she’ll lop off my head on the spot. I have to uncover the answer before that. What am I looking at?

“Urk…!”

The headache I had when we first met comes back now, a lot stronger.

It's not a counterspell; only a physical manifestation of the awful strain that falls on my mistreated coconut.

Nothing about what I see makes any sense. Where I expect to see skin, I see a jumble of contradictory placeholder data. Where I expect to see hair and cloth, starkly different values pop up and then flee like startled mice, exposed for fraud.

It's all wrong. It's all so completely fucked. Everything about our femme fatale from the topmost strand of hair down to the toes is a lie. She’s wrapped up like a larva in a cocoon of magically reinforced falsehoods, knit dense as sheets of silk.

Are you telling me a real, living being can have readings like these?

What is it? An enchantment? A camouflage?

My eyes burn. Where to even begin unraveling such a clusterfuck of overlapping bands of noise? Most of the data is purposefully meaningless, there only to throw you off. The analysis runs into one dead end after another. All the while a sharp, searing pain rends my head, like a white hot needle driven through the gray stuff.

ERROR: unable to parse.

ERROR: Unidentified parameter.

The value requested does not exist. Invalid linking. Null reference.

ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR Out of Memory

“……”

I’ve struck a slim crack into a living wall that actively seeks to close itself. Maintaining the foothold and pushing any deeper both require heavy calculations. Too many simultaneous processes. The divided data load exceeds my processing power. My mortal body can’t keep up.

This biology evolved to farm land and pick up berries, not crack puzzles on par with Divine Mysteries. The working memory capacity runs out first and when one process falls short, everything else starts to jam too.

I can't do this. I have to stop. Forcing it is going to wreck my cerebrum. I’ll be a vegetable for the rest of my (short) life.

“——You, what are you doing?”

Barley two seconds have passed since I got started. Two seconds too long.

Fire is lit in the lancer’s eyes. Enmity flares like the beacons of Gondor.

I’m not using mana, so she can’t tell if I’m casting spells, or what, and it confuses her. But she can sense the abnormal processes unfolding inside my head and understands something very underhanded is going on. And I have the gall to try and bamboozle her right in front of her nose. As expected, she doesn’t like that one bit. She was miffed before, now she’s turning fucking livid.

I can still back out.

She's not all evil. She's let me live this long. She let Ofir live too. See, a total softie.

If I make myself as pitiful as possible and grovel and apologize, she might show mercy...

——No.

Knock it off. Don't give me that crap.

I can’t bail here, not now. I might never get another opportunity as good as this.

So what if I screw up? I'll just die then. As if death were the worst there can be!

Come on, me. For once in your life, show some real guts...!

I grit my teeth and force on.

The illusory webbing is convoluted enough to seem random, but certain routines repeat. It can't be completely abstract, to achieve a cohesive output, there must be limited origin and end vertices. If I exclude the information strings already processed and found as irrelevant, it’ll free up processing power to tackle the still unknown regions of the eidos. But that means maintaining a running record. I have no predefined, automated methods for that. I'll have to do it manually, at will.

Aah, committing all that pointless junk data to memory is painful. Too much work! But I have to do it.

There’s no choice but grin and bear it.

I get to it.

My eyes sting and burn, but I can’t afford to blink. Waves of multi-channel noise rend my cortex in rippling tides. Layer by layer, I tear down the illusions and distractions and peer deeper. Deeper and deeper.

The being in front of me is dressed in disguising enchantments as old as the earth. Rituals repeated thousands upon thousands of times like a desperate prayer, only to hide her real face. A mask woven from pure existential dread.

Cognition. Smell. Light. Object dimensions—even mass is affected. Why? What could drive a lifeform to such extreme lengths to deny its own self? What could someone so hilariously overpowered be afraid of in this world?

Then, at long last, the veils are worn thin enough. I catch a brief glimpse of the truth and stop there.

When all the disguises are torn down, all thats left is a lonely flame.

A flicker of primordial fire from the dawn of time.

The answer I arrive at strikes me dumb. As I thought, she’s not human. Not emiri either. Nothing I’ve ever encountered before. Something older than mankind. An ancient ruin of a being even by the Immortals' standards. An existence the world pushed away and forgot. A name spelled only in old tomes, heard in passing through sleep in droning lectures.

How?

How did I not realize this before?

Now that I’m staring at the truth in the face, it was so painfully obvious all along, I want to cry.

Resists magic. Is full of magic. Never forgets. Never forgives.

Ayascuhero.

Who is like flame.

—The Great. Red. One.

“Holy shit,” I exhale, done holding my breath, back in my own skin again. It’s just me and her left in the earthen chamber. “I know what you are.”

“What?” the lancer grunts and recoils a step, as if struck.

The roiling inferno dissipates.

Who would’ve thought I’d bump into one of her kind in these backwater woods? I’d hoped figuring out her identity would tell me how to best deal with her, but I never expected success of this level.

When the headache fades, I clap my hands and start dancing.

“Haha! So that’s the deal! Now I get why you’re not a team player! Oh, because you were the spy all along! How funny is that? The Fey don’t know it, do they? No, no way you could tell them. Fear for your kind is built into their very DNA. Animals may not make the best of soldiers, but your war effort would go up in smoke on the spot, if they ever found out. Ohohoho! But wait, it gets even better! If the Dominion ever learned who's actually dropping their ships down here—Damn, they wouldn’t be sending peacekeepers anymore! Oh no, they’d roll out the big guns then. Because you, my friend, really shouldn’t be here! There might be an issue with your visa.”

“Why, you...!” The lancer grinds her teeth, looking increasingly upset.

“Now, now, let’s not get hasty, burarum!” I shake my finger in front of her face. “Before you start throwing hands, I should tell you I'm still full of surprises. Sure, I’ll lose, eventually—but I can put up a fight. Enough a fight that everyone in town can see just what you’re made of. You wouldn’t want that, would you? It’ll take a few decades before they forget again, if ever. You sure you can afford to wait?”

“...”

“But don’t worry~!” I resume with a warm smile and pat my flat chest. “Your secret is totally safe with me—for a price. Want to know what that is? Oh, I think you already have a hunch, since you're so clever. That’s right, my fence-hanging friend!”

I assume an appropriately serious air as I state the terms,

“No more farm. You’re going to take me to the necromancer, gently, holding hands, the first thing tomorrow morning.”

She frowns at me. “...Only that?”

“Yep. Only that.”

It seems she didn’t think I meant any of what I said before. Maybe she thought I was only plotting escape? Small wonder. Someone has you under her thumb and then asks to be thrown under the bus. What else can you, but assume that person is a few bears short of a circus? Anyone sane would ask to be let out.

But that's not how we heroes do business. We plan long-term.

“Oh, and one more thing,” I add on top of the deal.

“What…?”

I step closer in front of our peppery co-heroine’s nose and look her in the eye, before stating the final condition,

“You’re going to tell me your name. Your real name. Not because I’m that desperate to get hitched, but because working around it in the narrative is getting old. Do we have a deal?”