The Maid Is Not Dead

My fingers firmly on the hilt of the shattered dagger, I crept closer, more disturbed by the minute, and beheld the wide, stout shape hunched over the adamant workbench, still striking away. Then, all of a sudden, the hammer stilled and a low, coarse, guttural voice, like the grind of rusted gears, sounded from the depths of the shadow.

"Come now. Ya needn't be so on the edge. Couldn't we talk this out before ya poke a hole in my back?"

I froze in my tracks, utterly stunned. It—the thing could speak!

"You're...a dwarf?" I ventured to ask, not entirely sure.

"Aye. I've been called that," the thing said. "It should not strike ya as terribly out of place to find a dwarf in an old dwarf burg. Though, I admit the place has seen 'er better days."

Not an unreasonable statement. Even as I felt the issue ran a little deeper than that.

"But, you're——you're dead," I pointed out.

No mistake about it. The face turned partly towards me was blackened, as though charred, burned in the heat of the furnace. The dwarf's hair and beard had lost their natural colors, dyed sooty gray and dark, a sort of melted, dusty webbing that you would not want to touch. From the hardened, cracked face stared forth a pair of eyes that were but misty, milky eggs buried deep in their seared sockets. The thing was a hundred years in the grave, at least, yet moved—moved all the same, and was lucid and intelligible.

Could you fault me for being so gracelessly astounded?

"Ah," remarked the dead dwarf. "I figured that was the case. There was a time in the past when I got mighty tired. My body grew unbearably leaden and I had to lie down for a bit. Had a good, long nap too. Then I got up and back to work again, but...I can't recall having ever felt tired again since that time. Nor hungry, nor hot, nor cold, nor much anything, really. I see. So I must've died then, eh. But no matter. I've yet unfinished business in this world, and cannot allow myself to depart ere it's done. Hope ya don't have a problem with that."

"...No," I said after a brief thought. "As long as you don't plan to add maids to your diet, I don't believe I have a reason to cut you either."

At the end of the day, the lack of a pulse was not the main point, I felt. People exterminated ghouls because they tended to be an aggressive menace to the living, and not because their being itself was somehow inherently lawless. At least, I couldn't recall any clause in the big book that prohibited being dead per se. That would have been difficult to regulate.

I was still unsure if I could write off this particular undead as harmless, but the fact alone that it could act that way proved it was not a standard specimen. This dwarf had to have possessed a tremendously firm sense of self whilst alive.

"Music to my ears," the dwarf ghoul remarked. "The name's Elrig, by the way. A humble smith by trade, as ya can see. Now, what brings ya to my modest workshop? Pardon me, but I don't see human maids here all that often. Indeed, ya might be the very first one."

"I'm looking for a way through the burg," I answered. "Things happened that threw me off-course, and then I heard your hammer."

"I see." Elrig's air grew a notch grimmer. "If it be Vandalia's doors ya seek, I say best throw aside those dreams. To get there, ya'd need to pass through Siezer and Zimmuth. Both are Radobolg's fief these days. Ya don't want to run into that one. Playing with maids is his favorite thing, and he's not alone. There are more gobbos between here and the exit than I've ever cared to try and count."

That was poor news indeed.

"I'm surprised you can get along with such neighbors," I said.

"I've struck something of a bargain with the lot, since the time they first settled in these halls. I sometimes fix up a thing or two for them and they leave me be in exchange—and don't strike up a fuss if I sometimes grab and eat one of their number."

I failed to hide my disgust. "You…eat goblins?"

"One of the perks of having no palate," Elrig replied. "I don't hunger much, but this body doesn't run only on noble intentions. It sometimes needs a...refill. And all the better if yer food comes to ya without having to go look for it. I am loath to leave my anvil any longer than I absolutely must, whilst my work remains undone."

"What cause could possibly be so important that it keeps you bound to this nightmare even in death?"

The dwarf assumed a cooler air at my query. "Now that's something I can't tattle to just any maid that comes asking. Try not to take this the wrong way, but this is a matter of life and death to me. I don't want it made any harder on me than it needs to be."

"Understandable, I suppose. Forgive me for prying, Mr Elrig."

"Why, asking doesn't cost a thing."

Miraculously coming across a smithy still in business reminded me of the sorry state of my weapon. There were plenty of replacement arms to be found in our dangerous world, perhaps, but this particular dagger meant far more to me than its nominal value in coins. On the handle was impressed the symbol of the family that had taken me in when I was still a nameless country bumpkin, and who had bestowed me with an honorable purpose. It also served as a tangible proof that hard work could at times pay off even in human society and earn you both rewards and recognition. Call me shallow, if you will, but I was not above material needs and wanted my work appropriately repaid.

All of these feelings and much of my identity were encapsulated in this tool, of which now barely half was left on my palm.

Therefore, I went on to ask the undead blacksmith,

"Pardon me, but do you by chance still accept commissions?"

The ghoul looked at me with its misty eyes and I got the impression it was not pleased by the proposal. Any work done for others was naturally work away from its personal project, which had kept it from passing on for who knew how long. But blacksmith was a service job at the end of the day and old habits were hard to die. The option of turning away a formal request offhand was probably entirely blocked from its ancient head.

"What do ya need?" it finally asked.

I showed him the broken instrument.

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"It so happens, I have lost my main weapon. This makes leaving here rather difficult for me, surrounded by enemies as we are. Do you think you could mend it for me?"

Elrig gave a brief look to the dagger (could he actually even see with those eyes?), but made no move to take it, and shortly answered,

"No."

"No?"

"No. I may be dead, but I still have my crafter's pride. I'm a blacksmith, lass, not a carpenter. Patching up toothpicks is not my line of business. But if ya like, I can toss that scrap into the Vein for ya, free of charge."

"Mind your words." I narrowed my eyes at the old ghoul. "It was a gift from an Emperor!"

"Then ain't empires what they used to be," it replied, unfazed. "Well, if it's a sharp edge ya need, feel free to take yer pick from the pile. I have no use for any of these. I only made them for warm-up, to not lose my touch. Better a human has them than goblins."

A little better, he appended.

I could see it was a very generous offer, regardless of the way it was dressed, and I would only have made myself a fool by arguing. Every sword, axe, spear, and other tool in the vicinity was a masterwork that even a novice could recognize as such. Simple in design, but powerful in execution. Still, I couldn't help but give one more mournful look to the blade in my hand, which had served me so well, and to which I would now have to bid goodbye.

Elrig seemed to perceive my mood and attachment to that lifeless object, and perhaps it kindled some semblance of forgotten emotion in its cold heart, as it soon spoke again in a more flexible tone,

"Tell ya what. I may not be able to repair the thing—but I can make ya another one like it. But one which is a real blade and not a glorified letter-opener. In exchange, I ask not for coin, but only a small favor."

"A favor?" I asked, a little surprised. "What can I do?"

"If ya'll want metal that's pallid by nature but holds an edge, then it'll be ivorite yer looking for. Ivorite is among the hardiest of metals—on top of being an excellent magic conductor. In truth, I need some for my own needs also, as I am—alas—fresh out. I need someone to fetch me a new batch. Bring enough, and I'll use what's left over to forge ya a replacement of truly imperial grade."

The offer sounded suspiciously straightforward and big-hearted, considering we were in the bowels of a deadly dungeon.

"I expect there is a twist?"

"A sharp one, aren't ya?" Elrig replied. "Sharper than the dagger, I would say. Unfortunately, ivorite happens to be exceedingly rare and hard to come by. I've scoured every old shop in Mawé by now, but not an ounce is left. Ivorite was never handed out nilly-willy, even back in the day. Needed a master's degree to order a nugget. I fear there is only one place where ya can get it now, and that'd be the royal treasury of Kilzen. I could bet my cracked arse there are heaps of the stuff still left after those damned hoarders ran off. All the better for us. In the absence of the red tape, all ya need is go pick it up."

"What has kept you then?" I asked. "Surely not the distance?"

The dwarf sighed hard in displeasure.

"Alas. Kilzen is where the Taurus Demon has its lair. The damned thing is ever on the prowl in search of fresh meat and a way out. My dead stumps are too stiff to outrun such a menace. But mayhap ya'll have better luck, sporting some fresher shanks—and yer maybe a tad taller too."

Elrig begrudgingly acknowledged the difference in altitude. Though I didn't think this racial advantage helped my case against the beast in question.

It rather forced me to re-evaluate the whole arrangement, in fact.

"Surely you do not expect a maid to outmaneuver what has to be at least a B-rank foe, which all your people and heroes across time have been unable to lay low?"

Elrig answered me with a nonchalant shrug.

"Kill it, sneak around it, play ta-ta with it. Makes no difference to me. Yer free to go home too, of course, if ya like. Could be smarter if ya did. But unless someone goes and picks up that ivorite, ain't neither of us getting what we want. And I reckon yer odds at it aren't flat zero, seeing as yer the first non-monster to make it this far in over two hundred years. Naturally, yer free to help yerself to whatever else there may be left in the treasury, so long as ya don't overreach and die a fool's death. I've never met a human who said no to a mountain of gold."

Although the ghoul was not mindlessly hostile, I could tell it didn't exactly possess the standard sensibilities either. Was it because it was a monster, or because it was a dwarf, that was up for debate, but Elrig clearly felt no noteworthy concern for me and found nothing unethical about deploying a maid to a place that it personally rated as too dangerous to approach. All that mattered to the artisan was the completion of its work, which it sought to forward by any means available.

But was I any different from this ghoul?

"May I think about it?" I asked.

"Think all ya need," Elrig answered. "I doubt the vault will grow legs and run off any day soon, being carved into the root of the mountain, behind Ten Gates."

"Thank you kindly. I will also need to rest for a while. May I stay here under your roof?"

"So long as ya keep out of the way."

I had no intention to put myself between a hammer and anvil, to be sure.

The forge was not the most comfortable of inns, but it was warm. At least, notably warmer than it was outside in the desolate streets. Where else in the world could you feel as safe as there, surrounded by a million swords? Elrig returned to working the anvil, beating the million and first into shape. Watching the ghoul labor, I found myself, surprisingly, feeling hungry.

Nothing too heavy seemed it would stay in, but I did have a craving for something sweet. I took off and set down my backpack, and dug out the skillet. When Elrig next opened the furnace, I passed the skillet through the industrial flame, which rendered the bottom in a lively strawberry glow in a blink. I waited for the pan to cool a little and then threw in a good fistful of mushed-up cracker paste, nuts and dried berries, and tossed the mixture around with a spoon until it had pleasantly browned throughout and gave off a sweet, wheaty scent.

Elrig made a wry chuckle, watching my activities.

"Cooking on dragon's breath. Ha, just like in the good old days."

"Perhaps you'd like some?" I offered. "I'd prefer you had real food than a piece of my leg when I'm not looking."

"Nah. I still have half a hobbo hanging in the backroom. Bird-food ain't cutting it for me no more."

I poured the improvised granola into a cup and sat down on the edge of the ring of steel and for a time focused only on chewing. What an effort it was, to eat. Maybe it was the hunger helping, but I found the product tastier than many of the palace patissier's finest creations, though she was by no means bad at her job and acclaimed across the land.

"Do you have a real dragon trapped under there?" I asked, referring to the infernal furnace.

"No," said the smith. "Only a magma drake's heart. But calling it dragon's breath carries much more oomph, ya see."

I could not tell why it mattered, as both objects were equally abstract to me and refrained from commenting. I washed down the meal with water, then drank a spirit supplement, and felt like I actually had a shot at living again. But what about the quest? I had barely survived a bout with one fiend, and now would have to go dance with a legendary demon? For what? For a handful of gold and a dagger? Neither of those things appealed to me greatly right now. No, I didn't want to even think about it.

I pulled the still slightly damp blanket from my backpack, and laid down on the obsidian floor, my knapsack for a pillow, back turned to the warmth of the furnace. Each time it opened, it sent a hot, lulling wave over me, and I relaxed a little more. The beat of Elrig's hammer repeated loudly but regularly, like a church bell, and as long as that hammer kept striking steel, I knew I had nothing to worry about. So thinking, I drifted off into long, black sleep.