There were older locals and others with a rather stiff gait among us, and we most certainly showed no great urgency on our way out of the town and up the foothills. We also had to stop at both Ham’s clinic and the prodigious alchemist’s shop along the way. I traded a few quick words with Mr Hammond at the previous location. The physicist was a very understanding elderly gentleman and I would’ve preferred to have the master himself instead of the daughter—whose actual name was Elsine. But age worked against the man already, he relied heavily on a cane, and his legs couldn’t make the climb. We had to make do with Ellie.

Though we had left early, sunrise upon us by the time we had the majestic, stone-carved, moss-riddled gate of Baloria in front of us.

And from there, the “situation” began to show itself.

Around the dungeon entrance and below on the trampled slope lay dozens upon dozens of bloodied soldiers on stained blankets or makeshift stretchers. Even now, more wounded were being carried or dragged out of Baloria’s dark maw, as though it were reluctant to give them.

There we stopped without a word, out of a collective dismay.

When two hundred braves pass under a mountain and a “crisis” follows, I knew to expect casualties, but the scope of the scenario still caught me earnestly by surprise.

There was nary a soldier left unharmed of the King’s grand company. Even those still up on their feet had cuts here and there, their surcoats sullied, armors battered and bent, a thoroughly trounced stare in the men’s eyes. Many were missing limbs, arms, legs, ears, noses, fingers, eyes…The casualties had received cursory treatment from their comrades, but having the bones improperly set and wounds wrapped in monster blood was no less a threat to their lives than fangs and claws.

There by the path a blinded man writhed, held down by his colleagues, repeating a desperate mantra. “No, no, no…”

There lay another, still with his eyes, but it was not the rural landscape his glassy gaze was fixed at. He kept waving away invisible foes, while agonizingly repeating, “Get away from me! Get away from me…!”

How could they end up this way? There were supposed to be only undead in Arden, as far as I knew. An organized, trained, appropriately equipped force ought to have made short work of their kind. No, this was not the time to ponder that. A passing officer glowered at us, a ragtag band of women posing in the middle of the road. It was not the sort of attention I needed.

“We ought to begin the treatment with those worst off,” I told Mrs Ridia. “Would you kindly ask their commanding officer for directions?”

We were given our instructions, divided the supplies between us, and got to work.

Those of us who knew how to cleanse and dress wounds showed the others how it was done, and then we were all nurses in labor, struggling to parse together what was left of the company. In an hour, Mrs Ridia passed out, not accustomed to physical labor, and had to be carried to rest in the shade. But young Ellie worked hard the whole day, without a word of complaint, her lips squeezed firmly shut. Suppose the healer’s daughter deserved more credit than I had spared her. Another surprise was Master Vivian, who was unexpectedly little fazed by the sight of blood and gore. She ran around here and there with great vigor, sharing her potions with no regard for the cost, shouting instructions to nurses and soldiers alike with no regard for rank. Her spirit saved many and eased the veil of despair hanging upon the people.

I did what little I could, as I always did, mechanically, methodically, acutely aware of how it indeed was very little.

If only I knew how to heal others with my magic, several lives could have been saved that day—it was an unavoidable thought. But even had I known how to apply my magic in its proper way, it would also have made me a right celebrity, and the fame would inadvertently have exposed me to Argento’s royalty. Talk about a blessing in disguise, that I didn’t have to test my conscience so.

A stone’s throw from the gate, a tall tent pavilion of emerald green had been set up for the leaders. King Pellegryn had wielded his blade as bravely as anyone in the depths, they said, but it had done little to change the outcome of the expedition. At all times, I worried the man or his brother would dash out of the tent and find me, but they showed no sign of themselves. His majesty had supposedly not been seriously wounded. He had his own healer, but soon sent him to help the men. If only he would stay in his tent.

Done treating the leg of one soldier, I looked around for the next victim. At a bonfire by the road sat a lone soldier apart from the others. He had removed his helmet and put it on the ground by him. He looked whole at a glance, but looking closer, there was a long gash going along his right arm that still bled, and he didn’t appear to even notice it. If I had to guess, someone had told him to undress in order to treat the wound, seeing as he had taken off the surcoat, and partially removed the hauberk, but then he had lost interest in the effort, and just sat there unmoving. The man’s flagrant disregard for his own well-being angered me at first, but I swallowed the reproaches and went to have a closer look.

“You’re hurt,” I pointed out to him.

The man looked up at me with a start. Then at his wounded arm.

“Oh,” he mumbled and continued to sit without much of a reaction. He was hardly twenty. A little older than Ray, but more robust. Dark hair cut short and upright, a grim look in his eyes, a small start of a dark beard growing around the chin. Blood continued to trickle down his fingers.

“I need to treat your arm,” I said.

I knelt by the man and rolled the shirt sleeve out of the way. He didn’t resist. He looked fatigued, but not outright extinguished, like many of the others. There was still a will to live to be sensed in him, though his mind was elsewhere.

“What is your name?” I asked, to call him to the present.

“Dason,” he answered reflexively. “Son of Taylor. Sergeant of Bryggford.”

“This will hurt, Dason,” I told him and rinsed the cut with cold water. But he didn’t seem to even feel it.

“I lost my best friend last night,” he said and gritted his teeth. He squeezed his hand into a fist and tensed his muscles, though that only caused it to bleed faster. “I watched him die in front of my eyes, unable to do anything to help. This much pain is…nothing.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” I said and poured more water onto the wound.

He fell back to silence. I took a clean cloth, pressed it against the wound, and glanced around to see that we weren’t overheard.

“Can you tell me what happened?” I asked him.

It took a long time to answer. Right as I was about to repeat the question, he began to speak in a hard voice,

“It was the undead. Swathes of them. The first day, we would laugh at the dead men’s trot. We cut down lines upon lines of them. They are not a force to be reckoned, not as they are, one by one. But—these dead are not normal! They come back! No matter what you do, they always come back. Every night, those laid to rest on the previous day are restored. Nothing keeps them down, no method that we know. Beheading, burning, holy water...If there is but a scrap of the body left, even from empty armors, they are summoned back by whatever unholy power.”

I held the cloth firmly against the wound, but the cut was long and deep, and the cloth became soon stained vermilion.

“They are relentless,” Sergeant Dason said. “Everyone they bring down adds to their numbers. Everyone. It makes no sense! How could the undead curse have a perfect conversion rate, regardless of protective equipment? We laughed no more when the tide turned. His majesty’s order to retreat came far too late. We were in too deep already, near the fourth floor of Arden, our casualties piling up around us. They are not like your run-of-the-mill walkers down there. They move with cunning—with strategy! They have teamwork! At each turn, they maneuvered ahead of us to block our way, to keep us in. As though there were some other will guiding the husks, unseen. We could only carve our path through their hordes by force, street after street. Gods! I still see them, when I close my eyes! I was sure I wouldn’t see the sun ever again.”

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

I listened to the soldier’s account in silence. He seemed more observant than a standard foot soldier. It would have been a pity if his arm had to be amputated and he was sent away from Faulsen. I realized now that I had too few informants among the locals. I maybe couldn't put the King in my debt, but maybe it was worth it to try my luck with this man? I made up my mind and, with slight reluctance, took out my sewing kit.

“This is going to hurt more, but I must ask you to bear it.”

I washed the needle and heated it on the fire to sterilize it, then threaded it, and proceeded to sew close the cut on Dason’s arm. I didn’t have enough twine for the whole company, but I could at least spare this one man’s sword arm. Though Dason sat still and kept his gaze on the flames, making no sound, I could tell he felt the needle. Still he stoically gritted his teeth, his face hard, and agonized sweat pearled on his brow.

Soon finished, I put away the needle and the kit and stood to go.

“You are a brave man, Dason of Bryggford,” I told him. “For now, the best thing you can do for your fallen companions is rest and restore your strength.”

There was a lot to be learned in Dason's tale, but no time to meditate on it now. I went looking for the next patient, and didn’t need to look very far. A short distance uphill from the fire was an older soldier seated with his back against a rock. He clutched his chest, seeking help with his troubled eyes.

“Are you all right?” I went over to ask him.

“It hurts to breathe,” he wheezed, barely able to whisper.

There didn’t appear to be anything dramatically wrong with him on the outside, save for a large sort of spot of dried blood on his side.

“You need to undress,” I told him.

“I can’t move,” he protested, “it hurts too much.”

“Can you unbuckle your belt, at least?”

I helped the man out of his surcoat and found the hauberk struck apart near the end of the ribs by a blunt instrument, the smashed rings of steel embedded deep in his flesh and buried in coagulated blood.

“That is some blow you’ve taken,” I said.

“It was a dwarf,” the man gasped. “A blasted undead dwarf...A berserk thing! Nothing works on that bastard! It mowed us down…Like we were blasted toys! All we could do was...run!”

“I see…”

The injury was beyond my skill level to treat. Mr Hammond would have to operate it. The best I could do was make the man survive the transport. But the hauberk couldn’t be removed while a patch of it was welded with his flesh. The only option was to cut the armoring around the wound. But how? I needed something stronger than tempered steel for that. My dagger? No, it was too large for such a delicate operation. The sheath and the handle were also decorated with the emblem of the imperial house. The soldier was too lucid, he could recognize it. Drawing the blade here would mark me their enemy.

In my sewing kit I had scissors. Like the dagger, they were crafted of weisteel, a metal entirely different from genuine steel despite the name, and significantly stronger. The scissors had cost me three months’ salary. They were made for cutting fabric and thread, not ring mail, and the edge would be utterly ruined by the job. But which was more important, my sewing kit, or human lives?

Damn it. I would mail the bill to the King of Argento later, when I was safely home again.

Once again I took out my kit and the scissors and bean to cut the hauberk. I neared the end of the treatment, when I noticed a group of men come towards the road from the King’s pavilion. My heart was halfway up my throat, thinking the King had found me, but looking again, the King was not with them. It was Prince Theodor, the King’s brother, and with him his adjutant, two bodyguards, and common foot soldiers. The Prince could recognize me just as well as his majesty, if not better, but he was at least somewhat less eager to draw swords. He might even be willing to hear out an explanation.

Not that I had intentions to provide him any. I pulled the hood of my cloak deeper on. Thankfully, the Prince seemed too occupied by his business and wasn’t there sightseeing. Or maybe he was too ashamed of their failure to even look at the wounded crowding the slope? The group passed very close to where we were and I caught some of what they were saying.

“Silas,” Prince Theodor said and passed a sealed letter to one of the soldiers. “I want you to take this to Gladdenbury. Tell the Monastic Order we have a need of their templars. As many as they can spare, as soon as they can be mustered. Tell them a sizable donation in gold awaits, if they pull through. Though their ilk should need no excuse to deal with the dead.”

“Gladdenbury, sire?” the soldier repeated with doubt impossible to miss.

“They are not grand, I know, but closest to here. His majesty wants back in within the week. I will try to delay him till the reinforcements reach us, but...You know how he is. He has less and less ear for my words these days.”

“Very well, my lord.”

“Go now.”

The troop called Silas departed running down the slope. The remainig crew stopped a short distance from the fire where Sergeant Dason still sat. The Prince had two more letters, which went to the second soldier.

“Marcus, ride back to Bryggford with due haste. Call the rest of my guard, tell them to ride here as soon as they are able. Then go to Sain Michel. We need more priests with healing skills. But not so many that it becomes a burden on the citizens. I lost Tomas in there, and his father must be informed. This letter is for him. See that he gets it, with my deepest condolences. I fear Tomas's body has to stay where it is.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“This letter is for my wife. You needn’t know what it says. Just see that she gets it.”

“Will do.”

“Godspeed to you.”

The other soldier went chasing after the first. The Prince and his retinue watched them go for a time in somber silence.

“Sire,” an adjutant spoke. “We lost a lot of good people in there and the King is…Will he not stop until we are all dead? This isn’t our end, is it?”

Prince Theodor glanced at the man. “No. That is why I hustle like this, like an old woman—so that it wouldn’t be! But damn, does my brother make it hard…”

Then he noticed Sergeant Dason sitting at the fire. I had left the sleeve rolled up and the soldier’s scar was clearly in view.

The Prince parted from the road and went to him. I sensed trouble and put away my scissors.

“There,” I muttered to the soldier, “unbuckle the hauberk now. I must go get water.”

I circled around the large rock upon which the wounded was leaning, and laid quietly down in the grass in the rock's shadow, so that I couldn’t be easily seen from the bonfire or the road. From my hiding spot, I could still hear the voice of Prince Theodor.

“Sergeant,” he spoke to Dason.

“My lord…?” It seemed the latter had only now noticed the Prince and rose to his feet with effort.

“At ease. There. Let me see your arm.” A moment of silence. “…Who patched you up?”

“Huh?” Dason made a daft sound and I could virtually see him look at his arm. “I...I don’t know. Some woman. I’m not familiar with the locals, my lord.”

“Are you certain she was a local woman?”

“…Who else could she be, if not from the town?”

“I have seen string this fine and black only once before in my life,” the Prince said, admiration in his voice. “Spun of the fur of the steelwolves of Tataria. Those beasts shrug off crossbow bolts and bite through swords. Cloth made of such a twine couldn’t be ripped by a grown man’s hands.”

His voice hardened as he continued,

“The importation of materials from monsters above C-rank is against our law. It was on the markets of Valengrad where I saw that twine sold. No local could get her hands on it, nor afford it. And no shephard's wife has handiwork this clean. That woman, what did she look like? Describe her.”

“Forgive me,” Sergeant Dason stammered. “I wasn’t looking so closely. She had a hood on and I—I had only the dead in my eyes.”

At this, the Prince left the soldier alone without further questions, and went striding uphill with his followers, back to the pavilion, an ashamed air over his broad shoulder.