Calaf walked through the hinterlands, south of the Battletower but well north of Deepwood. He traveled in a fugue state, barely registering anything beyond the next step of his heavy metal-studded boot.

  Signs of the late hinterlands uprising waited just off the beaten path. Cultivator camps sat, abandoned, barely hidden behind elements of camouflage. Many still had supplies, their garrisons having fled overnight once the church’s crusading call brought the regular army into the region. Many camps still had supplies, and Calaf helped himself to any spare water or foodstuffs – fully abandoned and without owner, it was hardly stealing; taking them only prevented the supplies from going bad.

  It was late summer. Even in these high hinterlands, the humidity hung close like a shroud. Trudging along in full armor proved stifling. No wonder pilgrimage mostly took place in Spring.

  Still, onward Calaf trudged.

  Wonder what Gorman’s up to around now, Calaf thought. They’d last met back near the Battletower. Maybe he’d braved the upper levels to collect mage material in advance for his eventual rank change to Battlemage.

  Ah, the ideals of Paladinhood never felt further away than it did now. Traveling the pilgrimage route – well, that was what he was good at. He certainly wasn’t going back to Riverglen, or returning to his position as sewer guard, and certainly not continuing his betrothal to Charlotte. Not after she’d charmed him and sent him off to murder Jelena.

  Calaf still had the knife…

  Way too much Agility for a Squire to be expected to wield. He vaguely recalled being handed the dagger in a trade. Easier to get off a sneak attack with a knife than with his signature spears. Still, his lack of skill with knives saved Jelena all manner of trouble.

  There’d be no going back to Charlotte after this. Calaf had tried bringing up his reservations. Not only was he rebuked, but his will itself was overridden and subverted. That would ruin any engagement. Indeed…

  Betrothal Severed.

  The plain text appeared on Calaf’s Interface. Far to the south, Charlotte would be seeing that as well. Even Calaf’s Menu designation changed:

  Yes, it was official now. Engagement revoked. Years of steadfast commitment to churchly values, wasted.

  Calaf still dared not face Jelena. Shame provided more motivation than any fear that he’d be charmed and try to kill her again. Having been controlled against his will left Calaf feeling vulnerable and in need of some alone time to cool his head.

  The knife remained in his inventory, a sub-weapon that could be off handed in place of his shield. He took the knife out and selected [Drop], in this case burying it deep into the trunk of a squat tree on the roadside.

  The offending knife removed, Calaf equipped his spear and shield once more, and carried on into the hinterlands.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Sounds like your wannabe boyfriend’s cut things off with that Deaconess lady.” Zilara stared out at the rocky landscape, looking bored.

  “He is not my-” Jelena began. “… oh, never mind. Look, he’s in a vulnerable state. We shouldn’t just let him run off by himself.”

  “So, we’re going to engage in babysitting again?” Enkidu asked.

  Zilara giggled. “Hehe. Boot’s equipped on the other foot now.”

  “It’s not babysitting.” Jelena frowned in concern. “We’re going to… just, have him join the group. Like he agreed to before all this.”

  Tracking their quarry would be no problem with Enkidu’s enhanced senses. She just needed the wild man’s buy-in to go looking for Calaf’s trail.

  A group of random traders passed by the road. It was the only other group they’d seen today in these late summer doldrums.

  “I say we go get him,” Zilara said. “It could be fun. Also, I want to see how far Hoss and the new guy can get.”

  “Thank you, Zilara.” Jelena had her arms crossed and nodded, self-satisfied.

  Enkidu exhaled, fatigued. “Very well. I’ll get his scent.”

  “Thank you so much for saving us from those horrible bandits!”

  Calaf walked a full day to the north. He arrived at a no-named settlement under continued ‘occupation’ by about a dozen Cultivators. They’d taken over the town during the late unpleasantness and held on as no crusader forces ever bothered to liberate this minor outpost.

  When Calaf arrived in town donning full heavy, Paladin-aspirant armor, the remaining Cultivators fled madly to the West, towards Firefield. Calaf had performed another chivalrous deed without even trying.

  Once more, he was back to being a Folk Hero. This offered no rewards beyond his personal sense of self-respect and satisfaction.

  “Well, is there anything else I can do for you while I’m here?” Calaf asked. “Where is here, anyway?”

  “Oh, this town ain’t got a name,” said a local peasant. “Too small. Only hamlet on this road. Folks from all around just call it the Town.”

  Not unlike Vault. That it was on this side of the river canyon may well be why this village was Of the Menu while Vault was only recently converted. There was no church or even a mission. This town must have been brought into the Menu’s fold decades, maybe centuries, ago, and yet never integrated into the nearby pilgrimage route.

  “Ay, you can stick around and we can get your pose for a statue.”

  Calaf shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”

  The Paladin mindset died hard. He still couldn't accept such accolades even as his faith was at a nadir.

  “Oh, please, we insist.” The peasant threw his hands open wide. “We haven’t gotten a real true crusader through these parts in ages.”

  “I’m not.” Calaf stepped back. “Not a crusader anymore.”

  “But it says so in your title history.” said the peasant. “Why everyone, this here’s a major crusader. Real hero of the church, he his!”

  “Harold! Tell ‘em about the dungeon!” cried a woman from a nearby hut.

  The peasant laughed. “Surely an upstanding hero of the church would know all about the dungeon.”

  Calaf had never heard of a dungeon in these parts. Dungeons were official church-sanctioned spaces on the scale of the Battletower or Fort Duran. It made no sense for a dungeon to be set up somewhere without even the most rudimentary Mission or monastery.

  “Have ‘em clear it out. They can turn it into one of them reliquaries!” said the woman from the hut.

  “Gimme a second, Martha!” Harold The Peasant smiled.

  “Tell me more about this ‘dungeon,’” Calaf began, curious.

  “So, over a year ago we met a kindly contractor who promised to build us a dungeon grand enough to draw in pilgrims off the route. Y’know all routes to the Battletower bypass town, here. Worked fast, excavated the old barrow right quick. We were hoping we’d be the next stop on the route, yeah? But it’s been over two pilgrimage seasons now and haven’t gotten more than twelve visitors come to see the ol’ dungeon. And ain’t none of them ever come out!”

  Harold the Peasant had led Calaf to a shaded burial mound behind the local haberdashery. A single stone archway waited as an entrance.

  “Ay, it’s got traps and monsters and the like. Like that humble merchant promised. Not sure what rewards are at the end of it; again, nobody’s ever come back out.”

  “What were the level ranges of the people who tried to brave this dungeon?”

  Harold shrugged. “Level twenties thereabouts. A few level thirties coming backward down the pilgrimage trail. One level fifty in full knight armor. Again, none ever returned.”

  At-level for the forests and hinterlands. Well below what could be expected from any true dungeon. But there was that level fifty Squire, stronger than Calaf was now. The Squire renewed his grip on his spear. It would be perilous, even suicidal, to brave this unknown barrow alone.

  One last mystery remained…

  “This dungeon. Who’d you commission this 'dungeon' from?”

  “A kindly merchant named John, of course.”

  Calaf froze where he stood.

  “Honest John?”

  “Aye, that sounds ‘bout right. He was a right and upstanding merchant, said so right on his Interface!” Harold puffed up with pride.

  “This was a year ago?”

  “Yeah. Set us up with all sorts of sundry goods from Port Town too. Real lifeline for the town, he was. Pity all those dire-bananas he sent our way were rotten by the time we got them.”

  Even now, the not-so-humble merchant/cult leader/cultivating uber-mage continued to plague these lands. A year before the min-maxing bauble incident, Honest John was scamming hamlets out of their savings and livelihoods with a murder-dungeon. No doubt John was out there somewhere, far out in the eastern plateau, cackling as his villainy went unpunished.

  “If I ever get my hands around his neck,” Calaf muttered through gritted teeth. “He’s losing the other half of his face.”

  “What was that, noble hero?” asked Harold.

  “No matter.” Calaf took a step forward. “I’ll handle this."