Undead that would mysteriously recover even when dispatched according to proper procedures, and were capable of moving strategically instead of merely reacting to direct stimulation…It was a most disconcerting story I had obtained from the good Sergeant. The worst nightmare of any living civilization, you could say. But perhaps it was not the dead themselves that had evolved to acquire sudden intelligence and ambition. There was no learning or growing to be found in death. A more plausible answer was that there existed paranormal methods for a third party to assume control of the corpses.

At Dason's mention of a “terrible will” that might lurk in the halls of Baloria, I recalled again the tale of Mr Klaus from before. His description of the chief instigators behind the dwarves’ downfall provided the most probable answer to the disaster at hand. One of the pillars upholding the dungeon, the pureblooded denizens of the inner earth that had crossed over…

The Dreadweaver. Mithora. The Collector of the Dead.

So that thing yet lived and lurked somewhere in Arden? The King and his company had no idea what they were truly up against, and here was the result.

Because I had withheld the knowledge—no, to begin with, shouldn’t it be their own fault, for not properly investigating the dungeon in advance? How was it my duty to apprehend and forcibly educate anyone looking to go in there? A king, no less. But the result was grim indeed.

Of the around two hundred men that boldly marched into the dungeon, fifty-five were killed in action. A remarkably small number, all things considered. A hundred and thirty received injuries of varied degrees, eighty-seven bad enough to require between days to weeks to recover. Thirty would not hold the sword again. Even those who walked away without significant bodily harm had taken a thrashing in spirit. When violently stripped of his confidence like this, a fighting man became less about fighting and accordingly diminished as a man.

Like so concluded King Pellegryn’s first foray into the dungeon of Baloria.

In his majesty’s honor—or, should we say, in his defense?—he was the first king of man to attempt an organized conquest of the shadowy mountain halls. The role of pioneers was always a harsh one, having no prior example to draw from, learning purely by doing. In courses of this sort, failure was often the attending lecturer.

Perhaps the result could have been different, had the King owned the mindset of an adventurer and referred to the experiences and counsel of the commoners of the Guild. Alas, it seemed he was every bit as I remembered him, as he had been two years ago; not perhaps an utter fool, not short of courage by any means, but needlessly prideful and aggressively impatient. He sought to be the one who was followed and not one doing the following, which was why asking the ordinary man to teach him was an idea he altogether couldn’t stomach.

These characteristics we couldn’t pin entirely on the monarch himself either. It was simply the way the men of the old world wanted their King, and he had grown to answer their wishes. Thinkers were generally perceived as emasculated stallers of progress, whereas the early bird caught all the worms. Which could play a part in why the elder brother had not inherited the throne of Argento, despite his traditional claim and personal merits.

I took the King’s bitter setback as my teacher now and told myself to learn what I could of it. Unfortunately, these were mistakes of a rather basic sort and, as such, not profoundly educational.

Bringing a large, rigidly operating unit into an environment that by design divided and limited the effectiveness of numbers was not great wisdom. Neither was it a bright idea to purposefully seek conflict with so much noise and mayhem while outnumbered to such an extent. Unlike natural animals that fled any sign of man, monsters were drawn to it like bees to bright flowers. I had been taught as much in early childhood and could only view this as common sense.

Since his majesty had insisted on failing to such a degree, he could at least have done so in a more creative way and exposed things we yet didn't know. A pity on all accounts.

But King Pellegryn was not brought up in the mountains and neither did he find any lessons in his defeat. He ironically viewed reality the way an unschooled peasant did; not as a causal chain of switching cause and effect, but merely as a series of random, disconnected events, to the arisal of which he himself contributed little, if any. The loss of his men was not his own mistake but simply bad luck. He failed because malevolent gods had willed it. Then the solution as well was simple: try better and harder and pray to other gods. Evil fled before the righteous and courageous, and in the mind of a proud person, righteousness and courage were often the very same thing. The King was not out of men yet, and neither had he any intention of going home. The past days’ events were but a prelude to the King’s crusade against the mountains, the future of his land and the coffers of his court hanging in the balance.

It was going to create problems. For me, for all.

By early evening, we adventurers had done our part patching up those that we could. It was not our role to revive the reconquista, but only to administer first aid and prepare the wounded for transportation to better care. A more comfortable field hospital was set up on the level field west of the town. Mule carts clambered up and down the hill in a steady, sluggish line till late at night. In the meantime, a force made up of armed adventurers guarded the dungeon gate, in case anything unsavory followed after the troops. But nothing came forth. Yet was not the time for Baloria to reach outside its boundaries.

The Guildmaster’s insistence on secrecy in the morning now seemed downright comical. There was no chance the hospital rides went ignored by the townspeople and I had little doubt every soul within ten miles had already received a full status report. What would it do to the public morale? Thankfully, it was not my business to mind such things.

Master Vivian had worked hard the whole day and when the soldiers finally gave the small alchemist leave to go home, thanking her for a job very well done, she fell asleep on the spot. Her potions and spare energy both were spent to the last drop. If there were any true heroes to be found this day, she was undoubtedly one, though it had cost her a handsome sum with no guarantee of repayment.

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I volunteered to carry the hauflin home, as that gave me a sound excuse to retire also and avoid any possible questioning. It was better to let the officers assume I was the alchemist’s assistant, or something similar, and so explain my existence.

Master Vivian's body was light to carry. Much lighter than the warg’s head. She hardly weighed as much as the pelt alone.

But in that frail body burned a most tenacious spirit. Truly, there was no judging a book by the cover.

We were in the town proper when Master Vivian stirred from her sleep, very confused why I was carrying her, and where precisely did I mean to take her. I told it was her own residence I was bringing her to and that kidnapping children—or individuals resembling children—was not on the agenda. Learning this, she swiftly took every advantage of the arrangement. Lamenting her sudden weakness, Master Vivian made me not only deliver her to the destination, but also had me draw her a bath, help her get changed, brew a cup of tea, and lock up the shop before leaving.

Were all hauflins so devious?

Thanks to the distractions, it was well past five before I was able to report back to the Guild.

I did want the task on my record, after all.

Vera sat at her usual station, face down, looking appropriately burned out and dispirited. Not for a moment could I trick myself into thinking it was concern for the soldiers’ well-being that weighed on her. More likely, having to answer so many concerned locals’ repeated, simpleminded questions had put out her flame.

“Oh, you’re back?” The furian raised her face and greeted me. She appeared to have recognized me by the sound of my footsteps. “How was it?”

“Most unfortunate,” I answered.

“Huh. Are you all right?”

“Yes. I should be still in the clear, for now. Narrowly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean…?”

“Only the literal meaning of the words.”

“That so?” Recognizing I had no intention to elaborate, she quickly lost interest. “Whatever. A job well done, is it? I’ve already marked today’s task as completed, by the way. See how high my faith in you is? You can just go home now. Fill up the firewood rack while you’re there.”

She gripped her pen anew and returned to work. She had a lot of records to make today. I didn't leave quite yet, though.

“On the matter of my promotion, I would...”

But Vera interrupted me before I got further than that.

“Oh. Didn't I tell you? Aunt Mim signed it yesterday. Your rank has already been updated in the register. Grats. You're D now. It will take a bit of time to make your new tags, since the numbers need to match, but they should be done by Friday. I'll pass them to you then.”

“That is a rather easygoing way to manage things...” I mentioned in murmur, slightly disapproving.

Vera regarded me with a sneer. “What, did you expect a moonlight ceremony before the church steps? What are you, a kid? Too bad! It's just D, get over it, hero!”

Then, returning to her somber, world-weary self no less soon, she brought her gaze back down to the books.

“That's where the fun ends. You're going to need the Guildmaster's signature for rank C. Good luck with that. He hasn't signed for anybody in five years, as far as I know. One reason why the good guys left.”

“I see...”

It was a worry for another day. I turned to go.

However, after a step, I thought again, stopped, and looked over my shoulder.

“...Changing subjects, does the Guild still house archives?”

Vera looked up at me, puzzled.

“Sure we have archives. Every bureau has to keep them. Down in the basement. Why?”

“...I have it in confidence that the records from around the bureau’s founding days may contain valuable clues regarding the dungeon and what can be found therein. Regarding the opposition, in particular. It could be worthwhile to have someone look over the documents.”

Her frown grew heavier. “Are you kidding me? Do you think anybody here has the time to go digging through dusty old papers right now? We’re short enough on hands as we are. What could be down there that we don’t already know?”

“I wonder. Maybe there’s nothing. I wouldn’t know any better. But I am certain, given the situation, that the higher-ups would appreciate any tips that might help avoid setbacks of today’s kind in the future. Neither would it be too far-fetched to expect monetary rewards for whosoever uncovers such vital information. It could be a major perk for an active Guild attendant looking to advance her career.”

Vera sighed long and deep.

“And is there any reason why you won’t just report this vital knowledge directly to me now and claim the rewards?”

“Why, there is. I may report nothing, since I know nothing at all, and so I intend to tell to anyone else who might come asking. I am merely a maid, a person of no importance to anyone, and very determined to remain that way.”

She ruffled her hair in annoyance. “Fine, I get it already! Guess I’m doing a lot of unpaid overtime this week, eh. Here's to hoping Pip picks up the slack.”

“My condolences. Then, I shall be going ahead.”

Old Augustine would often tell us that an imperial maid had to do her duty to the utmost each day—and just a little more. Feeling like I had done precisely so, to the letter, and accordingly fulfilled, I returned home. But though the work day had ended early and been somewhat light on the body, I couldn’t allow myself to relax too much.

What happened to the King’s company was unmistakably a warning issued by the dungeon itself. It would not give up its secrets willingly.

From here, my real work was about to begin.