The Maid Is Not Dead

I left the house after Vera that morning.

As of late, I had made it a habit to give young master Norn a short text to read every morning—now that we could afford paper—and saw to it that she comprehended the contents. I then had her bring a pencil and paper with her to the highlands and write down her thoughts on the text. We would go over and discuss her response together in the evening. In case she failed to do this, the duty of filling the bath would be hers for the rest of the week. I was not a certified teacher, perhaps, but I wanted the child to get familiar with writing, reading, and critical thinking, certain these skills would serve her well someday. I couldn't tell what career path Norn would end up taking in life, but it was clear she couldn't remain a shepherd forever.

The daily exercise out of the way, we headed out together and parted ways at the crossroads before the northern exit of the town, the girl disguised as a boy bound for the mountains with the flock of sheep, and myself for the guildhall in the central township. The streets and grass all about glistening wet from the morning dew, a light mist haunting the more sheltered pockets of the land.

On the outside, that early June morning didn't visibly differ from its predecessors, but it was not entirely the same either.

No. It was not that the world itself had undergone an overnight transformation, only I had.

A most vital personal change had taken place as of late, putting more spring into my step.

In the dimness of the Guild bureau, I strode past the wide quest board on the right and the collection of bills masking its pocked surface. Foraging, or helping the elderly, were not on the agenda. Not wolves either. I went straight to the service desk in the back, where Vera already awaited at her station, clad in her prim and proper Guild clerk attire, which made her inexplicably difficult to recognize.

"The big day has come, huh," the furian woman greeted me in her usual, cynical fashion. "Here are your new tags. Try not to lose them, okay? Just so you know, we charge money for replacements."

Was there anything they didn't charge for?

Vera laid a set of fresh, red-brown, straight-from-the-smithy copper tags onto the counter in front of me. Even the slim metal chain linking the pair of chips was of meticulously polished copper. I removed the old steel tags from my neck and traded them for the identifiers of a D-rank adventurer. Like so, I had climbed one step higher in station.

"How kind of you to hold onto them for me," I said, fitting the chain over my head. "Thank you."

"Just doing my job," the clerk muttered and looked away.

Then, assuming a more somber air, she soon returned her green gaze at me.

"So, you're going there?"

"Indeed, I am."

"No matter what?"

A nod. "No matter what."

Now that I was D-rank, the dungeon doors were at last open for me.

My real work could finally begin.

"On that note," I said, "do you happen to have any available tasks of my caliber that I could handle while about it?"

As if having already foreseen the query, Vera placed a notice on the desk in front of me.

"As you may guess, undead. That's the hot topic these days. Taking down ten will count as one E-rank feat. In addition, a bounty of ten coppers is paid per kill. You need to bring back the right-hand index finger as proof. No ears, please, and no lefties. If the index finger is missing, then the middle finger is fine. If the whole hand is missing, then the right-side big toe. If both the right side arm and the right side foot are missing, then we will assume it was a regular corpse you mutilated, and call the guards."

"Exterminating walkers," I ruminated. "Even though they can supposedly be restored by the enemy? The task having no end sort of robs the meaning in it."

"I've received no special instructions about that," Vera replied with a shrug. "I'll tell you what I'm told to tell you, until I'm told to say something else."

"And it is absolutely beyond you to take initiative and ask for confirmation?"

She had an answer ready for that as well:

"That would mean extra work, for which I receive no extra pay."

"Bureaucracy at its finest."

"Hidden behind there is the reason why I sit here, safe from injury and foul weather, while all the tryhards are on your side of the table. Ah, yes, we'll also gladly take any valuables you may come across in the dungeon. Dwarven gold accessories, in particular, are in high demand. We haven't seen a lot of that thus far. Gold, I mean. Only demand."

"I shall keep my eyes peeled," I said, "and trust you won't needlessly get your hopes up. But the dead should be manageable, at the very least."

"If you say so. Also, you should know this, but we redeem lost adventurer tags too. They pay only two coppers per chip, but it's not about the money. It's about bringing closure to the families and friends of your unlucky colleagues. So collect any you find, will you?"

It was a heavy request, in many ways. Picking up dog tags from the dead was hardly any adventurer's top priority, unpleasant and unprofitable, but it made you feel like a downright villain if you didn't do it.

"Understood."

"Alright. So…What's the saying again? Break a leg?"

"I don't intend to perform on stage today."

"Then...Good-bye?" Vera waved at me, and though she said it in jest, there was an air of finality about her.

"I'll have you know, I've every intention to be back by six."

"I'll keep my fingers crossed," she said and held up her fingers, indeed crossed. But her face was not that of faith. You saw church-burning heathens with greater confidence in tomorrow. But I knew words served no purpose in matters of religion, and faith had to be a monument built on acts. Therefore, I spoke no more but took my leave of the Guild.

I had prepared as well as I could. Mr Klaus's map was too big to bring along, but I had— despite my lack of worthwhile artistic skill—sketched a smaller copy of the burg of Arden I meant to visit today. I had restocked on supplies, including a rope, lantern, lighter, bandages for lesser scratches; a compass; a spare knife from the blacksmith, flat enough to fit in the neck of my boot; less experimental potions from Master Vivian's alchemy shop: spirit supplement that restored Power, and a potion of accelerated natural recovery. These commonplace medicines failed to inspire their brewer, perhaps, but she could make them all the same, as attested by the King's men. Alas, I could only afford one vial of each.

I had my healing magic, but the basic rule of exploration was to conserve Power as much as possible and refrain from using it at all, if there were non-magical alternatives. It was not well to wind up drained right when spells were most desperately needed.

Assuring myself I would do better than on the previous attempt, I hiked up the beaten path over the grassy foothills onto rockier ground, which by now had grown very familiar to me.

The guardsmen posted at the dungeon entrance had built themselves a small, low-effort log cabin on the slope, a stone's throw from the steep, weathered stairs taking up to the gate. The cabin sported one cyclopean window in the wall facing the lower land, through which the sentries could survey inbound traffic while protected from the elements.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Out-coming traffic—no one held hope for such after so many weeks.

On the days when the weather was fair, you would find two pikemen sitting on the mighty stone steps from which centuries of winters had rounded off the edges. I made a brief show of my new copper tags, but it didn't seem they had genuine passion for their duty.

"What business do you have in the mountains?" the older of the watchmen said, for formality's sake, without even bothering to stand from his seat of rock.

"Work," I answered, as I stuffed the tags back under my collar.

"There is no work for maids past this spot. You should find employment among the living."

"It is every grown adult's own business how they employ themselves, I believe. Do I have your permission to go?"

"Go all you like, if you insist. But know that you may never see the sun again. Or, if you do, it'll be as a woman forever changed."

"I appreciate the warning," I said with no appreciation, and went to climb the stairs.

Debating idle guards was not a good use of my energy, especially when the long rise had already taken more of me than I was comfortable spending at once.

As it had been several weeks since my previous visit, I didn't plan to go very far this time. Rather than an adventure, you could call today's excursion a rehabilitative hike of sorts, to get a feel of the dungeon, how the King's visit had affected it, and thereby attune myself for future endeavors, the way musicians adjusted their instruments.

The long month of running odd jobs down in the country had taught me that seeking quick success tended to result in twice the labor. I would tackle the dungeon from hereon with the care and prudence it demanded. My overarching objective was to identify a path through the district of Arden to the district of Mirth, where Mr Klaus had suggested I might find another bridge across the Vein to the south side. Making plans beyond that was premature, not knowing if there even were any bridges left. I would only be setting myself up for disappointment. If there were quests I could do along the way, I would, but my priority now was gathering information and preparing for the future.

The keyword being, sustainable progress.

Thusly resolved, I walked under the shadow of Baloria once again.

The high entryway remained littered with traces of the knights' hurried exit. Miscellaneous scattered belongings, hats, shoes, gloves, an occasional piece of armor, of too little worth to come back to retrieve. Deeper in, I found whole abandoned backpacks and camping equipment, cast off in a rush to lighten the flight. These were too tempting for an impoverished maid to pass.

I salvaged what I thought I would need and could comfortably carry, including a clean sheet of tarp, a pack of crisp-dry waybread, a spindle of tin wire—and a good cast iron skillet. It was not a valorous deed, perhaps, but anything you picked up in the dungeon was yours, as long as the original owner wasn't nearby to dispute the case. I was pushing the spirit of the law, but still abiding by the letter of it.

Certainly, no criminals here.

Stains of blood in the dust, trails of soot-black drops marking the wavering passage of the wounded. Vital fluids had been spilled with such a generous hand, a clear route could be seen painted across the streets leading all the way to the gate of Arden. The casualties themselves at least had been carried away. I came across no corpses on the way.

Before long, I stared again into the mouth of that forbidding trap, which so nearly had swallowed me whole on that unlucky day of April. Summoning the adventurer spirit in me, I passed through the regal, vaulted portal of stone and the following long, lightless passage, and came to stand on the guarded overlook, the familiar, round, tidily cobbled town plaza some yards below me. But the street view was changed dramatically from the last I saw it.

In the pallid light coming from the lofty gap in the ceiling, I could see the formerly vacant township now crowded to the limit.

Dozens upon dozens of people occupied the clearing, silently staring up at the exit with unseeing eyes, as if waiting for an imperial parade to come by. The natives of Arden were a great deal less hyped up than they had been inVandalia back in the day, what with none of them having a soul, bodies shrouded in varied stages of decay. The twinkle of vitality was gone from their dimmed sclera, skins drained of the warm tones of life. They were but empty husks of humanoids now, reduced to guard the dwarven burg at the heartless bidding of a monster's will.

Death knew no boundaries.

There were the King's men, fresh in a standing grave, as well as adventures gone under a hundred years prior; generations from across the dungeon timeline, merrily united in the afterlife, heedless of race or culture or the barriers of nations. Was there any might in this world that could release the wretches from their undying agony? If I knew anything for sure, it was that my dagger could not make the cut. Not this many, not in the days I had.

The dead population appeared focused on the entrance and thinned out deeper into the burg. It was as if they had been summoned to that particular spot in anticipation of another raid, or perhaps to preemptively as a deterrent to hold it out. This was very uncharacteristic behavior of ghouls.

By this point, I could only believe the tall tale.

A monster existed that could exert control over the dead, a necromancer.

Moreover, the fiend was here, somewhere in Arden. No strategist could direct such numbers so precisely unless they knew the location well, all the exits, and major pathways. I had never heard of a monster like "dreadweaver" before, but this one evidently possessed both high intellect and experience at command, and was a force to be reckoned with.

Yet, considering how easily I was able to infiltrate the first time, it seemed the fiend didn't have its eye on the burg at all times. Neither did it seem aware of my presence now, seeing the lack of active pursuit. This suggested more noise than my shoes made was needed to lure it out. The corpse general had assembled the mob to scare off intruders, and then withdrew back into whatever crevice it had chosen as its lair. When it wasn't there to command them directly, the walking corpses behaved no different from the standard.

I had learned a lot on this trip.

Still, I didn't have nearly enough information to challenge a named monster in its own domain, and would rather avoid that fight altogether. I was but a humble maid and not a slayer of demons, and I would shake hands with every ghoul and goblin out there, if that let me pass through without trouble.

But how was I to get around the reception?

Thankfully, there was another path, which shortly showed itself, if only your eyes could follow less conventional tracks.

Close alongside the district wall rose a line of slim stone houses, accessible from the raised overlook that rose close to their level. It was not a real challenge to climb onto the roof of the nearest one, purely a matter of healthy effort.

Thanks to the frequent exercise of the past weeks, my body had grown positively light and easy to operate, and putting a foot on a window sill here and a hand on the air vent cover there, I elevated myself to the rooftop in no time at all.

The dwellings stood close to each other, in more or less cohesive lines that wriggled their way deeper into the burg. I was able to circle around the corpse-populated plaza by passing from rooftop to rooftop. The dead weren't so agile as to climb after me, if they could even perceive me at all, blind, deaf, and mute as they were. Only the nearest ones raised their hollowed faces to follow my passage, but my spirit was too distant and faint for them to locate with precision. They lost interest as soon as I was out of the range of their preternatural senses, and resumed their dull guard duty.

The other advantage of the higher ground was having a broader view.

I could safely study the district and take my time to plan the best way through.

Perhaps as a side effect of trade, this burg had absorbed clear architectural inspiration from the outside human lands. The walls were sculpted of rock here as well, the same as in the other burgs I had seen, but they had more windows, gabled roofs, and the roofs had comely shingle coatings.

It perhaps went without saying, but there was no rain expected underground and no reason to board up the topside of houses. In the other burgs, the buildings tended to have flat, open roofs, skywalks to connect an apartment to another, or broad terraces, or workshops. But wood was favored in the construction of Arden beyond roofings, with various boarded addendums affixed onto the dwellings, balconies, canopies, store sheds, and porticos, which lent color and variety.

Mr Klaus and his family had clearly kept busy in their time. I wondered where the old dwarf's family had had their shop, thinking he would doubtless be pleased if I brought him back a memento of his old home. Or maybe it would only pain him more? I could subtly ask for the address whenever I next saw him.

The irregular waves of apartments unwound into the dim distance like petrified waves, filling that dark mountain shelf from its gate to the far shadows. What I beheld was only the very topmost level of this town, with more floors mined below it. It came fast clear to me that I wouldn't be charting half of this district today, or this week, and had best prepare myself for the long haul, so to speak.

In the limited light coming from the wide open canyon side, I could see some half a mile ahead, where a high wall rose to prevent access deeper westward. The wall seemed whole, with no gaps or such features that suggested the proximity of a gate. That could only mean that the gate to Mirth was somewhere on a lower floor. Hopefully not at the very bottom. Before the gate, I had to look for a stairway, which were not as easy to spot from afar, but required a closer investigation.

I had come far enough for the first day.

I returned to the street level and marked the path I'd taken onto the map. The next trip was sure to go a little faster.

The dead were known to become more active at night, and the same probably applied to their handler. I was better off returning home before sundown, but I wouldn't be going back empty-handed. The landlord appeared to have an ample stock of puppets, so certainly he could spare me a few.

There was coin to be made.