“Just think of the gold,” Kala told herself. “You can do this. Just think of the gold.”

Her sword was a blur as she dove into the thicket. She slashed to the left and right, hacking at the trees before they knew she was there. She pressed her advantage; it was likely to be the only one she’d get today.

The trees shook themselves awake. Their limbs groaned and strained, still groggy from sleep. They were nocturnal hunters: that’s why Kala attacked just before noon.

Fifty yards in, the woods grew denser, the branches hard to avoid. They clutched at her, scratched her, striped her skin with a dozen red ribbons. But she was too fast for them. She danced away from each branch, snipping it off with her sword as it reached for her. A carpet of twigs and sticks twitched in her wake.

Kala allowed herself a tiny smile. This wasn’t as bad as she remem —

Something was on her leg.

A small root — a sapling out to make a name for itself, perhaps — was wrapping itself around her calf. Without thinking, she tried to jerk her leg from the root’s strangling grasp, but that only cinched it tighter… just like the old man had told her it would.

“Stop,” she told herself. “Stop and think.”

The thing on her calf was pulling her foot down, gently but firmly, literally rooting her to the spot. The other branches sensed she was trapped and moved in to claim their own bits of flesh. Wood scraped on wood.

Kala held firm. She breathed deeply, her sword at the ready. She ignored the growing pain in her calf. The branches were within striking distance, and yet she waited… waited… waited…

Now.

She lashed out, hacking off the two closest branches, then turned to chop three more. Turn and cut, turn and cut; she was a whirlwind in the forest. Turn and cut, turn and cut; she couldn’t tell how long she’d been at it. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. She couldn’t feel anything beneath her knee where the sapling was still pulling.

And then there were no more branches. Those that remained were on limbs too high to reach her.

Kala looked down. Her flesh was oozing out from between the coils of the clenching root. One last slash and her leg was free. It tingled and stung as the blood returned.

“Stupid,” Kala muttered. She rubbed her calf. “Careless.”

The trees thinned overhead as Kala pushed on. They thinned around her as well, giving way to red and purple wildflowers.

Kala kicked and trampled the red flowers. They were larger than their purple counterparts; the further she walked, the larger they were. When she found the first flower as tall as she was, she stopped and pulled her sword.

She was eye to eye with the sharp tips of the flower’s thick petals. She saw brown stains where those tips had caught previous prey – squirrels, rabbits, maybe a bird. Small meals. She knew they would be hungry for something larger.

Overhead, larger flowers loomed, their blossoms the size of her torso. She imagined them leaning down, snapping her up like a bird plucking a worm from the ground. Already, they were starting to stir. She’d taken too long; they’d caught her scent.

Kala charged for the tallest flowers. She skirted the smaller flowers; they couldn’t reach her. They strained at their stalks, snapping their petals together. She smelled rotten meat.

A towering flower bent its neck-like stalk, swinging its blossom side to side, trying to get a fix on her location. Kala didn’t give it a chance; she swung long and flat, slicing through its stalk. It bled green, and the snapping head fell to the forest floor. But now there was an opening; the others could see her now. She dove deeper into the flowerbed, slashing to either side, felling flowers as she went. The big ones were actually the easiest; by the time they knew where she was, she had already cut them down.

Now there were only the small ones left. They hissed at her. Kala resisted the urge to hiss back. She approached at an angle, so only one of them would be able to reach her. It was a matter of timing.

Sword at the ready, Kala slid closer to the flower. She controlled her breathing. The flower slowly pulled back its head, coiling itstelf to strike. Still she came closer, now in striking distance.

The flower shot forward; Kala slipped to one side and brought her sword down on the thing’s exposed stalk, neatly beheading it. She didn’t let herself pause, but found another target and moved to engage. No cat-and-mouse games now; the dragon flowers struck like whips at her, their snapping blooms flashing in and out. They fought for their dinner; she fought for her life.

But they were tethered by their roots. Slowly, methodically, Kala worked her way along the edge of the flowers, keeping only one or two in range at a time. Any closer, and she would be overwhelmed; any further away, and she wouldn’t be able to reach them.

“Kala.”

The voice carried strong and sweet over the sound of splitting stalks. Despite herself, Kala looked up.

A hundred yards down her path, just beyond the last of the dragon flowers, was a shining, beautiful figure. Its mere presence offered peace, contentment, and rest. It was neither male nor female, but something better. Its glow was near-blinding, rendering its face and outline indistinct and unimportant. Something like a robe flowed gently around it.

“Kala,” the figure said again. Her name was an invitation, and spoke of delicious repose.

“Not yet,” Kala muttered to herself. She focused on the flowers at hand, hacking and dodging, but couldn’t block out the voice.

“Why all this effort, Kala? Why all this pain? Is any compensation truly worth this suffering?”

“Shut up!” shouted Kala, swinging.

“You have done enough, Kala. Your work is done. Rest now, and know the peace that you deserve.”

Kala grit her teeth. That last flower drew blood; she was getting slower. It was the voice. She knew it.

She shouted again, and her words became an inarticulate roar of rage. She let the roar fill her ears, and the rage fuel her arm. She heard nothing but her own voice, saw nothing but the final flowers fall beneath her blade.

She glowered at the glowing figure hovering above the tall grass.

“Now you,” she said.

Kala sheathed her sword and sat on the ichor-streaked ground.

“Kala, you can find peace –”

She jammed her thumbs into her ears and hummed to herself, just the old man had taught her. The voice vanished. She shut her eyes and thought of gold: dozens of fat, round coins with scratched and faded faces stamped on them, clinking together in a song of joy and triumph.

A minute passed. When Kala opened her eyes, the beautiful figure was gone. The voice was silent. There was only a field of tall grass. It waved hypnotically, but its spell was broken.

Kala strode through the field, slashing to either side as she went.

At the end of the field was an old stone keep. It was small, little more than a tower surrounded by a wall, crumbling in places, and largely overgrown with vines. There was a shallow ditch that might have once been a moat, filled with shrubs and bees. Birds nesting in the bushes squawked at Kala as she walked past.

The wooden door in the wall was closed, but unlocked. Kala heaved it open.

“Caliban!” she called as she stepped into the keep’s small, weed-infested courtyard.

“Caliban! It’s the week of the full moon, and I have come as promised!”

A door in the tower opened and a tiny, white-haired man scurried out. He shut the door quickly behind him. He smiled, but Kala found his ancient, almost toothless maw more grotesque than welcoming. She smiled back.

“Kala!” the old man wheezed. “So glad you could make it. So glad! To be honest, I was beginning to worry…”

“Nothing to worry about, sir,” said Kala. “I’m just running a little behind this month. Had a job in Norwick that turned out to be a bit trickier than I expected.”

“Of course, of course.”

Caliban fumbled with his robes. A wizard by trade, he prided himself on the large number of pockets he wore at any given time. “You can tell a wizard’s worth by how many pockets he’s got,” he’d told Kala when they’d first met. Kala judged his worth by how quickly he could find his purse in all those pockets.

“Ah, here we are.”

The old wizard pulled out a small leather bag, opened it, and shook out six coins. They gleamed golden in the sun.

“Here you go,” he said as he handed the coins to Kala. “And thank you again for helping an old man with his garden. I was much younger when I planted it, but just don’t have the energy to tend it myself anymore.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” said Kala. “And please be sure to tell your friends about my services.”

“Oh, I will,” said Caliban. “Say hello to your mother for me, and I’ll see you again next month.”