Getting to the cavern turns out to be considerably more difficult than looking at it from the ridge. From above, the route looks straightforward. We go through the trees, cross the little stream at the bottom, and climb the other side. There's no obvious reason for any of that to be difficult until I'm halfway down and discover how much of the ground is wet leaves pretending to be solid earth.
I turn sideways and brace one hand against a pine, trying to lower myself onto the next patch of exposed stone. The shield on my pack catches a branch. I lean forward to free it, my boot slides, and the last six feet of the descent happen on my ass.
Cold water soaks through the back of my trousers before I stop moving.
For a moment, I stay exactly where I land. My buckler has twisted underneath my thigh, wet moss is squeezing between my gloved fingers, and something sharp has found its way inside my left boot. I wiggle my toes and feel it again. A pine needle, apparently, because falling over isn't enough without taking a small, irritating part of the forest with me.
DemonsBane won't let me experience the full pain of being dismembered, but it has no objection to making me sit in cold mud with shit in my shoe. I'm sure somebody considers that an impressive level of detail. I'd appreciate their work more if I could stop experiencing it whenever I felt they'd made their point.
“You alive?”
Jing stands a little downhill from me with one hand extended. The hem of his faded blue surcoat is dark with moisture, and dead fern leaves cling to the mail over his thighs. He waits while I free my buckler, which makes accepting the hand easier. At least he isn't trying to pull me up before I've worked out where my legs are.
“Yeah.”
I take his hand and push with my feet. He pulls, I come upright, and the weight of Mark's shield carries a little farther than the rest of me. Jing catches my shoulder before I can fall backward.
“Jesus. What do you have in there?”
“Everything.”
He looks over my head at the pack.
“I think you've got a fucking chair.”
I turn as far as the shoulder straps allow. A narrow wooden leg sticks out beneath the cooking pot, exposed where the canvas around it has pulled loose during the fall. Jing lifts it enough for me to see the seat.
There's a stool tied to my pack.
“I didn't put that there.”
He starts laughing. “I didn't think you did.”
For some reason, that's what finally annoys me enough to look past him. I've spent the better part of the afternoon checking straps and making sure everybody's things are safe, and apparently I haven't even managed to notice all the things I'm responsible for. It's difficult to feel competent about carrying equipment when pieces of furniture can join it without my knowledge.
“Mark.”
He turns about twenty feet ahead of us. “What?”
I point behind myself. He squints, then leans to one side for a better look.
“Oh, yeah. That's mine.”
I wait for him to come back.
He waits for me to say something else.
The silence goes on long enough that I begin wondering whether I'm being unreasonable. He hasn't denied owning it. He doesn't seem annoyed. Possibly he thinks I only wanted to know whose stool it was, which would be a fairly pointless reason to stop him, but I haven't actually said anything that would suggest otherwise.
Finally, he gestures toward it.
“You want me to take it?”
“Yes.”
The word comes out before I can make it more polite. Mark's eyebrows lift slightly, and I immediately want to add that I can manage it, or that it's only catching on things, or some other explanation that will reassure him I'm not suddenly becoming difficult over a stool.
“Okay,” he says.
He comes back through the mud and starts working at the knot. Jing steadies the pack while I stand there with both hands wrapped around the straps across my chest. Nobody argues. Nobody points out my carrying bonuses or asks whether I've forgotten what I'm being paid for. Mark simply unties his stool and finds a place for it on his own pack, which ought to make me feel better about asking.
Instead, I find myself watching his face for signs that he minds more than he's saying.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“No problem.”
He walks away while I'm still deciding whether I sounded ungrateful.
I wish asking for things always came with an answer that obvious. He could carry it, so he took it. There's nothing else I need to do. And yet I'm already thinking about how to sound less abrupt next time, as though the important part of the exchange was making sure he enjoyed being asked. By the time Jing lets go of my pack, I've found three better ways I could've said yes.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
This time I get my feet properly beneath me before moving.
Ahead, Zachariah pushes through a curtain of wet branches. Pine needles drag across his mythril pauldrons with a metallic hiss, then spring back into place behind him.
“Move your asses. We're burning daylight.”
Jane looks up from the stones she's testing beside the stream.
“You're the one who wanted to violate the contract. So shut up.”
“That's not what we're doing.”
“What would you call it?”
“Exploring.”
She watches him for a moment, apparently waiting to see whether he intends to improve on that answer. When he doesn't, she turns back to the water.
I follow the narrow space they've opened between the trees. Down here, the wind barely reaches us, although I can hear it moving through the canopy far above. Water gurgles between black stones. Tiny blue flowers grow in clusters around the roots, and when I brush a patch with my boot, a sweet smell rises through the heavier scents of earth and mushrooms.
Despite everything, I like it.
I'd probably like it a great deal if I could stop long enough to look around without worrying that everybody else would disappear uphill. There's something pleasant about a place having this much happening without any of it needing me. The water keeps moving. The flowers grow wherever they can fit. I don't have to say anything interesting or explain why I'm standing there, and nobody expects me to have brought a better version of myself along.
When I was doing lessons at home, getting outside was something that had to be arranged around everything else. Here, I'm already outside, and the part I'm finding difficult is getting anyone to slow down enough for me to enjoy it. That should count as an improvement. I remind myself of that while lifting my wet cloak clear of another thorny branch.
Then Mark passes close enough for me to smell the padded gambeson beneath his armor.
Three days.
Apparently the game has been keeping track.
I give him a little more room and hope whatever my own clothes are doing isn't worse.
The stream is wider up close than it looked from above. Clear water runs over rounded stones, gathering speed where the banks narrow. Jane crosses at an angle, following the shallowest section, and the others use her route. I watch where their boots land before stepping in.
The first few inches are unpleasant. By the time the water reaches my knees, the cold is sharp enough that I gasp.
Alluoah looks back from the far side.
“Cold?”
“Little.”
He grins. “Should've gotten human. Dwarfs hate the cold."
I smile, because he's looking directly at me and that's apparently still my first response even when he's making a joke I've heard far too often. He knows I didn't choose to be a dwarf. Everybody knows how race assignment works. Correcting him would only make it sound as though I hadn't understood the joke, and I don't particularly want to be the person who needs a familiar joke explained to her.
I'd rather say something that makes him keep talking.
That's the irritating part. I'm annoyed with him for the comment, but I still like the way he smiles, and for a second I'm paying more attention to that than to the water pushing against my legs. In my head, I'd answer easily. Something mildly rude, perhaps, enough that he'd laugh and stay beside me when I got across. I can imagine that version of the conversation without any difficulty. Actually starting it requires choosing the words while he's waiting, and I spend too much of that time wondering whether my expression makes it obvious that I like having his attention.
“Stone on your left moves,” he says, pointing.
“Thanks.”
He turns away, and I put my foot somewhere else.
I can privately imagine kissing somebody without much trouble. Apparently being cold in front of an attractive man still requires practice.
Something silver darts past my ankle. I jerk my leg back before the little nameplate resolves above it.
A fish. Level 2.
At least there's something down here I could fight without needing the guild to supervise. I let it disappear between the rocks and concentrate on crossing without giving Alluoah another reason to turn around.
By the time I climb the far bank, Mark and Jane have started arguing again.
“I'm just saying,” Mark says, wringing water from the edge of his glove, “if we find something worth more than the contract, I want it established now that I'm not taking some bullshit support percentage.”
Jane wipes moisture from her cheek.
“You mean like the support percentage Bekah gets?”
I stop reaching for my boot.
Mark looks at me, and I immediately wish she'd used literally any other example. I know she's trying to make a point, and I agree with the point, but now he's going to explain why I deserve less while I'm standing close enough to hear him. There's no version of that conversation I particularly want to participate in.
“That's different,” he says.
“How?”
“Because she's Level 99.”
He doesn't say it cruelly. If anything, he sounds confused that Jane needs the distinction made at all.
I look down and loosen the strap around my left boot.
“She carries half your equipment.”
“Which is support.”
“So is keeping her dumb ass alive.”
“That's why healers get healer shares.”
Jane stares at him.
I brace my pack against a tree and pull my boot off, carefully keeping my sock out of the mud. It's a useful thing to do while they discuss the different ways I'm not qualified to stand beside them. I know Jane isn't calling me stupid in any serious sense. She's angry with Mark, not me. Still, I'd rather she defended something I'm good at without immediately reminding everyone that I need looking after.
A thin stream of dirty water spills from my boot. The pine needle lands in the grass beside it.
“I'm not saying she doesn't deserve money,” Mark continues. “Jesus. I'm saying loot should be distributed based on build usefulness. That's how we've always done it.”
He has a point, which makes listening worse. If something attacks us, his equipment and levels will matter more immediately than mine. I've agreed to that distinction often enough when it gets me into a party. But when he says usefulness, I want to ask whether we're measuring it before or after someone needs the potions, because the answer seems to change depending on who's explaining why I should be there.
I don't ask. Jane is already annoyed enough that she might insist on an answer, and then everybody would be waiting to see whether I wanted more money. Of course I want more money. I just don't want to have to argue that wanting it is reasonable while standing with one wet foot in the air.
“Loot rules aren't changing,” Zachariah calls from ahead.
Mark raises his voice. “Great. That's all I wanted.”
“You could've said that ten minutes ago,” Jane mutters.
“I did.”
“No, you started explaining capitalism.”
“I was giving context.”
“You were giving me a headache.”
I pull my boot back on and tighten it. When Jane glances toward me, I check the oilcloth bundle beneath my cloak.
“Silverheads are still dry.”
“Good,” she says.
Her eyes stay on me for another moment, but I bend to fasten the last strap before she can ask anything else. Eventually her boots turn uphill.
The climb on the other side is slower. Roots offer better footing than the slope we came down, but they're slick, and I have to lift my knees high enough that the plates of my skirt keep pressing into my thighs. The cavern disappears behind the trees, then returns in pieces as we approach. Each time I see it, it's larger than I remember.
By the time we reach the cliff, the opening rises at least forty feet above us.
From the ridge, I'd been thinking of it as a crack in the rock. Up close, there's enough space beneath the fractured overhang for the entire party to stand out of the dripping water without crowding together. Thick roots crawl down the gray stone, some as wide as my arm, and moss covers the lower walls in deep green patches. A steady fall of droplets lands just beyond the shelter, marking the boundary between the forest and the entrance.
I step beneath the overhang, grateful to be somewhere I can stop adjusting my footing.
Cool air rolls out of the darkness and presses my wet trousers against my legs.
The smell is different here. The forest is still behind me, close enough that I ought to smell it, but there's dust beneath the damp stone, and something metallic that stays at the back of my mouth. I breathe through my nose, then try my mouth and discover that makes it more noticeable.
Copper.
I don't see blood. I look anyway.
“Zach.”
Jane is crouched near the entrance, brushing wet leaves aside with one hand. Zachariah comes over, his armored boots grinding against the gravel.
“What?”
She clears another handful.
There's a straight edge beneath the leaves.
Alluoah kneels beside her and pushes the dirt back farther. A second edge meets the first at a right angle.
“That's masonry.”
“Yeah.”
Mark moves closer. “So it's a dungeon.”
“Maybe.”
Once I know what I'm looking for, I can see more of it. Fitted slabs continue beneath the dirt toward the opening, cracked apart where roots have forced their way through. The forest has covered most of the surface, but the lines are still too regular to be accidental.
Somebody built a floor here.
That interests me more than I want it to. I'd been prepared for a cave full of monsters, which at least sounds like something I can sensibly refuse to enter. A ruined passage suggests there might be rooms, and things left in those rooms, and some reason the mages wanted this particular place found. I lean slightly to see past Mark before remembering that curiosity is how Zachariah got us off the ridge.
He looks pleased.
Jane notices.
“Five minutes.”
“I know.”
“You said five minutes.”
“Timer hasn't started.”
She straightens. “What?”
“We haven't entered.”
For a moment, nobody speaks. I look back toward the slope, where the stream is no longer visible through the trees. My trousers are soaked, we've climbed halfway up a valley, and apparently none of that counts toward the amount of time we're wasting.
“You slippery motherfucker,” Jane says.
Zachariah laughs. He brings his shield around from his back, settles it onto his arm, and steps past the last roots into the darkness.
Jane closes her eyes briefly.
“I fucking hate him.”
Mark follows. Alluoah gets to his feet and goes after them, and the others begin moving beneath the overhang. I stay near the drip line, looking at the clean edge of one of the exposed slabs.
I could wait here. There's enough shelter, and the route back is still visible on my map. It wouldn't even require a speech. I could tell Jing I'm staying with the packs, or watching the entrance, although nobody has asked me to do either of those things and I'm carrying most of the supplies they'd need if something went wrong.
Jing pauses beside me.
“You coming?”
I'd like him to ask something slightly different. Whether I think we should go inside, perhaps, or whether this is still the job I agreed to do. But that isn't fair to him. He's checking that I'm not being left behind, and I'm standing here hoping he'll turn it into an opportunity to object because I can't seem to make one for myself.
“Yeah.”
I check that my sword is clear of the lower pack strap, then step onto the fitted stone.
The temperature drops within a few paces. Outside, moving uphill kept me warm enough to ignore my wet clothes. Here, the fabric clings coldly behind my knees, and each step squeezes water around my toes. Our footsteps change too, losing the soft scrape of leaves and becoming separate, hard sounds that come back from farther ahead.
An orb of white light rises above the middle of the group with a faint electrical hum.
The passage appears around us.
Huge pillars emerge from the walls at regular intervals, their bases broad enough that I have to move around one when Mark takes the center of the floor. Worn reliefs cover the stone. I make out kneeling figures, a row of spears, and something with wings before the moving light throws the details into shadow again. Water gathers in shallow channels along either side of the sloping floor, black beneath the reflections and almost still except where droplets disturb it.
Mark whistles.
“Okay. That's fucking cool.”
His voice comes back in pieces from the passage ahead.
I look up despite myself.
He isn't wrong. The light catches the edge of a carved face high above us, then slides away before I can decide what it belongs to. It's one thing to see ruins in a recording, where somebody else has already decided what matters and where the danger is. Standing beneath them makes me want to know what's just beyond the light.
I've spent enough time watching other people find things. I always imagine I'd pay more attention if I were there myself, rather than running straight through to whatever drops equipment. Now I'm here, and I'm checking every dark space for something that might notice me first.
Jane looks back toward the entrance.
“We've got about four minutes.”
Zachariah runs a gauntlet over a pillar.
“Anybody recognize the architecture?”
Alluoah studies the relief beside him. “No. Doesn't match anything around here.”
“You've never been around here,” Jane says.
“Nobody has. That's the point.”
“Exactly.”
Zachariah keeps walking.
I move around the pillar after them, turning enough that Mark's shield clears the stone. The corner scrapes anyway, and I wince at the sound. Nobody comments. They're looking ahead now, their attention moving between the carvings and the darkness, and I find myself checking the same places even though I don't know what any of them are expecting to find.
My confirmation window still waits at the edge of my vision.
I bring it closer long enough to read the objective again. The cavern's coordinates haven't changed. Neither has the instruction not to enter. I don't know what I expect from looking, except that it would be convenient if the wording had somehow become less definite now that we're inside.
It hasn't.
I move the window back without sending anything. Zachariah told me to wait, and I still don't know what he'd do if I completed the report while he was investigating. Probably tell me I should've listened. Possibly nothing. Either way, pressing the button now wouldn't put us back on the ridge, although I keep looking at it as though it's the last part of the original job I can still finish properly.
A scraping sound comes from ahead.
I stop.
For a moment, I think it's my shield against the pillar again, but I'm clear of the stone. The cooking pot swings once, knocks softly against the pack, and settles.
There it is again.
Lower. Slower.
Everyone else takes several more steps before Jing notices I'm no longer following.
“Bekah?”
I lift one hand.
I want another second to listen before I say anything. It could be somebody's equipment, or a rock shifting in one of the water channels. Stopping the whole party because I've mistaken a boot scraping the floor for a monster would be embarrassing, especially after the conversation by the stream.
But the sound is coming from beyond Zachariah.
“I hear something.”
The talking stops.
“Where?” Jing asks.
“Ahead.”
Stone grinds against stone.
This time, nobody needs me to explain.
Zachariah draws his sword. Jane's bow is in her hands almost immediately, an arrow resting against the string. Mark brings his kite shield forward while Alluoah draws his curved blades and moves far enough aside to see past him. Jing unfastens his long spear from his back.
I pull my buckler free from my right hip and take it in my left hand. My sword grip is damp beneath my glove. I close my fingers properly before drawing, suddenly very aware that everybody else has finished getting ready.
Ahead, the passage widens beyond the last pair of pillars. Zachariah steps onto the first clear stretch of floor while the light orb drifts farther into the chamber.
Something moves beside the wall.
At first, I can't separate it from the surrounding stone. A dark slab shifts upward, exposing a narrow orange line beneath it. More lines appear as the shape unfolds, pieces of granite turning against each other with the same scraping sound I heard from the corridor.
Then a hand plants itself on the floor.
The golem rises from its crouch.
Dust spills from its shoulders as it straightens, easily twelve feet tall. Irregular slabs form its chest and arms, bound together by glowing orange seams. Its head is a blunt wedge of stone with a single horizontal slit where a face ought to be. The slit turns toward Zachariah.
A nameplate appears.
ANCIENT STONE GOLEM
LEVEL 417
My mouth goes dry.
I'd been hoping, stupidly, that the first thing we found would make the decision for us. Something obviously beyond the party, far enough away that we could see it and leave without an argument. This is more than enough for me. I look at Zachariah and realize it isn't enough for him.
Mark says quietly, “Well.”
Jane turns her head toward our leader.
“Five minutes.”
Zachariah raises his shield.
The golem takes a step. I feel the impact through my boots, and a little ripple runs along the water channel beside me. I move away from the edge so there's room to retreat without stepping into it. Behind us, daylight is still visible through the passage.
Zachariah laughs.
He actually sounds excited.
“Yeah,” he says, planting his feet. “Timer starts now.”
The golem swings.
Its fist is larger than my torso. Zachariah bends behind his shield just before the blow lands, and the impact fills the chamber so completely that I feel it in my chest. Dust jumps from the floor. His boots skid backward, carving two grooves through the stone as he slides nearly six feet toward us.
I step sideways before he reaches the passage.
He doesn't fall.
For one frightened second, I can't look anywhere but his health bar.
It barely moves.
Relief comes before I can question it. He's still standing. The shield has held, and when he lifts his head, his expression gives me something familiar to trust. I know what happens when Zachariah looks at an enemy like that. The others spread out, he keeps it occupied, and I stay where I can reach whoever needs me. It's a plan I understand, which makes it easier to accept than turning around and admitting we should never have come inside.
“That's it?” he asks.
The orange slit brightens.
Zachariah adjusts his footing and grins over the rim of his shield.
“Oh, we're fucking this thing up.”
And just like that, everybody charges.