“Okay. The entrance should be somewhere around here.”

  “It’s that off-colored stone three over from your left hand.” Zilara pointed upward, well out of reach for the young girl.

  Jelena tilted her head at an awkward angle to see past her eyepatch. Sure enough, there was a tiny, five-sided brick of a slightly lighter shade that didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the aqueduct.

  “Oh, there we go.” Jelena pressed the brick inwards.

  Further along the aqueduct wall, another five-foot by eight-foot fa?ade of bricks moved up and out of the way. A hidden doorway was revealed.

  Finding it using the Menu would have been easy peasy. But Jelena’s eyepatch highlighted the problem with that.

  “Good job, kid,” the relic thief said.

  Enkidu was at a narrow archway to their left, leaning against the cold stone. He reared up and made for the archway in silence.

  I bet he knew where the hidden switch was this whole time, Jelena thought.

  It was tough, living sans System in the lands wholly controlled by the Church of the Menu. Enkidu’d never been branded, while Jelena had forsaken it. This holy child they’d come to be caretakers for was integrated into the System far more than most. She could read between the lines of the Interface, even edit and perhaps control the Holy Menu, with practice.

  All this made Zilara invaluable – and a perpetual target of the church for the rest of her days, and the days of her entire family line. It was a recipe for perpetual flight – and fight. Good, then, that Jelena and Enkidu lived a very mobile, extremely kinetic existence.

  The trio walked into the damp confines of the aqueduct. Thieves and smugglers built these passageways running parallel and overlapping with the water transportation system of the city. They made handy shortcuts when there weren’t brigands and cutthroats hiding within waiting to knife you.

  “This isn’t our usual route,” Jelena said. “Some pirate-looking guys were at the old cistern. We’ll have to take a detour. No problem, yeah?”

  “It’s your hideout,” Zilara said. “Lead the way.”

  Jelena peered into the dark. The cisterns seemed a bit gloomier than usual.

  “Curious,” she muttered. “Can barely see a thing. Hey, kid, your eyes work in the dark right?”

  Twin silver-colored eyes pierced the dark.

  “Can see a rough outline of everything.”

  “Good.” Jelena waved her companions further inside.

  They wouldn’t need a torch, at least.

  Goal number one in slinking through the cisterns was to lay low from the church arbiters. Enkidu had kept Baldr and Walter at bay for a day and a half until the group had managed to disappear into the swampy wilds of the river delta. The arbiters would still be searching, and they knew Jelena and company went south…

  The second goal was to raid the late Metzger Cross’s old storage rooms for supplies. More food always helped and spare gold stashes were never a bad thing to dig up. But Jelena’s ultimate goal was to find some spare rings of Title Spoofing and Glamour. Useless for herself and Enkidu, outside the Interface such that they were. But the holy child’s two biggest identifiers – that custom class and the twin-eye brands – would be covered up. Now they could move without a constant church presence hounding them at every settlement.

  The trio walked north and west, following the winding aqueduct. While it still flowed down the channels to its lowest level, the waters seemed more brackish than usual. And that smell, a foul stench of decay she’d never quite encountered before…

  Enkidu let out a sniff and a grumble as they walked, slowly, uphill.

  Calaf’s previous experience in the cisterns and his handy map helped him navigate. No sooner had he walked into the dingy channels and narrow confines of the town cisterns were his nostrils overpowered by a familiar smell.

  That stench. Calaf’s mind flitted to his experience in the dark of the lighthouse basement. He’d smelled that before.

  These waterways supplied some small fraction of the city’s water to ritual pools in the church’s reliquary halls. The pools surrounded each statue in a narrow trickle of water, a reminder of the Menu’s life-giving and life-enhancing properties.

  No doubt this was how Metzger and the cabal of thieves moonlighting as bishops made their treks between the cathedral and their thieves’ guild hideouts. If so, it should be a simple matter of following the channels north and west.

  There were plenty of alcoves, side passageways, and small rooms off the path that required investigating. Vines grew arbitrarily, overtaking entire doorways while ignoring other chambers without rhyme or reason.

  Waters were low in the dry season. Many passages were high up and inaccessible. Others required ladders that had rusted away or were entirely missing. Still, the fetid vines and tendrils hung low, lapping up water and skirting the walls and ceilings of the lowest levels.

  Far above, this cistern was open to the air. All the better to collect rainwater in the rainy seasons. The flash of the lighthouse passed by, but did not illuminate, the shaded cistern at regular intervals.

  Two entrances waited ahead. The furthest away was covered so thickly in vines that the passage was inaccessible. The other, off to the right, was untouched by the rot.

  Calaf exhaled. If his bearings were correct, the quickest path back to the thieves’ guild cistern was right through that thick coverage of vines and fungus. Fell spores wafted out. He certainly didn’t want to breathe that in, and burning the obstruction away would be too time-consuming.

  He thought that this path to his right would take him east a ways. According to the maps, some channels looped back around north and west. He would have to try this alternative route.

  No sooner did Calaf refresh his flame buff on his spear did he make out the distinct sounds of leather boots on the wet stone coming from up ahead. The Squire knelt, focusing his ears as much as his off-class Agility stats would allow.

  The sound of a swinging axe off stone came from up ahead. More footsteps, fleeing further away.

  Scowling, Calaf advanced. Mal’s pirate posse was already attempting their rescue mission.

  It also sounded like this posse required rescuing themselves.

  Calaf picked up the pace.

  No signs of battle were found in the next cistern. Even the din of flight and combat receded far into the distance.

  Only a few dropped hatchets were discovered in the shallows. Of foreign make, these hand axes were not compatible with the Interface; Calaf couldn’t give them a proper swing in combat if he tried.

  More footfalls from near a far passageway, up a damp set of stairs. These were fast and furtive. Panicked.

  Calaf followed. Sounds wafted in from all directions, whispers drifting through narrow grates and shouts echoing off waterfalls and drainage pools. Navigation grew near impossible amidst the cacophony. There was little in the way of plant growth here at least, so Calaf traveled forward toward the next reservoir to get his bearings.

  A figure lay doubled over on his back at a crossroads in the narrow corridors.

  “Are you hurt? What happened here?”

  The sailor did not respond, merely gazed up at the cold stone ceiling in a state of shock. He said something in a foreign language.

  Unbranded, there was little information to be gleamed as Calaf stood over him. It wasn’t Mal, at least Calaf didn’t think it was Mal; hard to tell between the low light and the lack of identification and status windows, admittedly.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  This unconverted sailor’s body had been… torn apart, with bones broken by hand. As if mauled by a particularly vicious dire-gorilla.

  “I can’t heal you without a Brand,” Calaf said.

  Healing items could have some nominal effect, but he needed to get this man back to a priest. Proper healing spells required a Brand. Priests at the cathedral would need to convert the man for the poor fool’s survival.

  Again, the sailor said something in a foreign language. Perhaps a prayer. With a shudder, the man doubled over and then remained still.

  That was it. This man was dead. HP would be at 0 were the foreigner Interface compatible. But as a non-convert, he was just… dead. No chance of being commended to the crypts. No promised resurrection in the far-off promised future.

  “Whatever faith you have across the sea, I hope it has some better end for you,” Calaf said, then closed the dead man’s eyes in a fashion he’d heard was favored in foreign lands.

  Calaf rose and continued onward. He had mere minutes left on his silent-walking buff and wanted to cover more ground before he started alerting the entire cistern network every time his heavy metal boot splashed against the water lapping at his shins. The Squire advanced, shield raised.

  No sooner had Calaf took five steps beyond the fallen sailor, the corpse lurched upward. Its shoulders slouched and angled downward as if it were held aloft by strings.

  “Here we go.” Jelena rooted through an old treasure trove. “Courtesy of the thieves’ guild.”

  The former church sister and current relic thief provided Zilara a Bronze Ring of Title Spoofing and a Gold Ring of Glamour. There were some Silver Rings of Level Spoofing but the kid hardly needed that so long as she had the other two.

  “Looks like there’s quite a few of these. The whole chest is full of them,” Jelena said. “Guess it’s their official ring storage. At least Metz was organized.”

  “What’s in the others?” Zilara asked, already equipping her new rings.

  “Counterfeit gold,” said Enkidu.

  “While we’re here, might as well go knock off the rest of the treasure troves.” Jelena turned, then found the darkness of the cisterns a bit too gloomy to navigate by. “Hey, kid, mind using those magic eyes of yours to navigate us?”

  Only, Zilara was staring at the lone door out of this chamber.

  “Who’s that?” the child asked softly.

  “Who?”

  “The lady by the door.”

  Jelena froze, then reached for a knife.

  “She’s gone. Left before I could read her Interface. Think it said she was a maid.”

  Impossible. Jelena hadn’t heard a single footprint.

  “Enkidu, keep watch, buddy. You’ve gotta tell us when we’re being tailed.”

  “I neither heard nor smelt a thing,” said the wild man.

  “Shit. Ominous!” Jelena reached for her other knife. “Okay, weapons up. Zilara, stick near me, tell me when someone’s coming. We’ll… head back to the treasure troves near the old cistern, then take the secret passage out. It’s the fastest way to go.”

  The trio ventured back into a narrow crawlway. Enkidu had their back. Jelena took point, with Zilara hiding behind her legs directly behind her. She had Zilara check each corner before proceeding onward.

  “Something comes,” Enkidu said, his ears nearly twitching.

  “There!” Zilara pointed off to the right.

  A rushing horde, moving so fluidly it was like storming floodwaters, hit them from a blind turn.

  Calaf tumbled backward into a drained cistern. He fell from a high ledge into water up to his knees. His spear landed in the reservoir and was extinguished.

  That nameless sailor wailed against the Squire. Each punch was harder than it ought to be, even for a particularly muscular unbranded human. The first hit dissipated his blessing-based shield from Deacon, and then every additional jab and punch shorn hit points off the Squire.

  With shield in hand, Calaf provided a mighty bash that sent the walking corpse flailing backward. The sailor fell into the water… then was hoisted as if picked up by the scruff and was placed back on his feet. Hands flailed about like they were on wires.

  Another shield bash, this time angling the sailor into the wall. Calaf bashed and bashed again until the sailor was embedded into the solid brick.

  With a sigh, Calaf went fishing for his spear. No sooner did he pick it up than he was beset by a new opponent rushing on surprisingly silent feet despite the fact they were ankle-deep in water.

  The duo, a man in wanderer’s robes and a woman in a torn and dirty maid outfit started tearing into Calaf with the same surprising brute strength. He held his shield forth, but some claws and jabs inevitably got through.

  Both corpses were covered in vines, dull-orange flower petals, and the odd fungal growth.

  “Welcome back,” said the trio all at once.

  Even the maid’s voice came out deep and guttural like heavy globules of fat were insulating the vocal cords.

  Calaf struck out, stabbing the maid square in the abdomen. The corpse took another thirty points of damage but proceeded to continue to advance, sliding down the spear.

  “I missed you,” said the three possessed corpses.

  A swift kick sent the maid flying. Calaf saw a glow down the nearest hallway. That meant fire, which presumably meant life.

  The sailor he’d bashed into the wall was peeling himself out. Rather than stick around to get overrun, Calaf made a fighting retreat. Soon his shield was taking up the narrow corridor, keeping the reanimated corpses at bay.

  A group of foreign sailors, nine out of ten unbranded, fought their last stand in a cistern with a built-up wooden platform over the water. They were beset by other walking corpses, both Branded and unbranded.

  Calaf could hear the sounds of battle. But he still had this entire hallway on lockdown, the three corpses unable to get past his shield.

  “Is anyone there?” Calaf yelled back.

  “They’re everywhere!” Was the only response.

  “Fire. Use fire!” he said.

  The corpses pushed Calaf back to the edge of the hallway, his feet in the cistern where an open battle raged at his back.

  “We’ve got a couple that way,” said one sailor. “They get up from literally anything else we do to them! Hack their arms off. Hack their legs and heads off…”

  Calaf relit his spear with Flaming Sword of Faith and stabbed the nameless sailor’s corpse currently bearing down on his shield. The corpse went up like dry parchment, despite waterlogged clothes and skin.

  On some unseen signal, the maid and Yalo ran off.

  “These are retreating. Hold on, I’m coming to help you!”

  In the cistern at large, pandemonium reigned. Sailors hacked at Branded corpses, shaving off HP and slicing off limbs to no effect. An unbranded sailor was slain by two of his repurposed fellows. No sooner did they move to the next, nearest living body did the dead man get back up and join them.

  One sailor went wild with a torch, frying three foes at once, who all went running off deeper into the waterways to find a pool to dive into.

  Successful use of flame seemed to give the army of puppet corpses pause. They all slunk away through corridors in the compass directions, even the dead sailors whose corpses were fresh kills got up and ran off.

  “Is everyone okay?” Calaf asked.

  A handful of sailors remained standing. Many more were on the floor, doubled over with various injuries.

  “Is Mal still here?” Calaf cried.

  His voice echoed through the damp cistern.

  “Aye, over here,” groaned a man on the floor. “One of those things grabbed my stomach and just… just started pulling things out.”

  The sailor’s shirt was pulled up, revealing some grizzly black and purple wounds around the man’s midsection.

  “I think they broke some of my ribs with their bare hands.” Mal grimaced in pain.

  “I can’t heal you without a Brand,” Calaf said.

  Maybe six other sailors remained with any ability to fight. There were many injured but no corpses, save for a single dead Branded.

  All the other dead bodies had gotten up and shambled off.

  “Can any of you carry that man back?” the Squire asked.

  The sailors looked at him like dire-salmon were swimming out of his ears.

  “Why?”

  “To commend to the crypt… oh, never mind. It would leave you exposed. Allow me.”

  Calaf ensured the fire enhancement on his spear was still burning and plunged it into Garth’s corpse. Better to burn than be allowed to decay and join the rotting undead swarm.

  “How many people did you come down here with?”

  Mal had by now been helped up to his feet, leaning against one of his fellow sailors.

  “The entire ship. We’re all that’s left.”

  Six were still capable of fighting, and maybe ten could still walk. This was no army.

  “How many torches do you have left?” Calaf asked.

  Three remained, two unlighted from having fallen into the water. Calaf relit them with his burning spear.

  “Retreat. Leave this place,” Calaf said.

  “I’m not going anywhere until I find my wife,” Mal said. “She’s one of you Branded. Works as a maid.”

  “A maid?” Calaf exhaled. “I… encountered a maid earlier. She was rotting, covered in this fungus.”

  The cistern grew quiet.

  “Her name.” Mal scowled at Calaf. “You can see names with that Brand thing, right? What was her name?”

  “Mary… Marianne.”

  Mal grimaced. “Damnit. That was her friend. That was the only maid you’ve seen? Barbara went looking for her straight from a shift at some trade conglomerate’s manse. She would’ve been wearing her maid’s apron.”

  “I have seen no others.” Calaf put his hand on Mal’s shoulder. “If I find this Barbara, I will get her out of here. You have my word. And if she’s already taken…”

  Mal swatted the Squire’s hands away.

  “Don’t you dare torch my wife! I don’t care how bad a condition she looks like she’s in, we’re gonna get her back!”

  The unconverted didn’t see the Interface like Branded did. They didn’t see the Menu designating that these shambling fungus-addled corpses were listed as ‘Dead’ clear as day. They didn’t see that these were corpses that were attacking them and not friends and allies bewitched by some foul magic.

  They were at an impasse.

  A low rumbling came from a platform midway up the cistern. Something was barreling down a corridor at high speed, bringing with it a whirlwind sound of metal against stone and flesh. And ahead of this stomping deluge, another pair of fleet footsteps… they grew closer, closer, until…

  Jelena Turandot ran into the cistern from a ledge two stories above. She held a small child in her hands. She looked down and immediately spied Calaf out of the crowd.

  “Jelena!” Calaf’s eyes widened the moment she came into view. He raised a hand to wave to her, to warn her that there was something foul in these tunnels and that she should flee for her safety.

  “Incoming!” Jelena shouted.

  She dived out of the way, while Enkidu was pushed out of the corridor at high speed, a stream of Branded and unbranded corpses rushing out in his wake.