Chapter 27: The Torchlight City

The word hangs in the humid air, echoing slightly in the confined space of our observation ledge.

"Goblins," Hachiro repeats, his voice a mixture of academic curiosity and disbelief. "Actual, real-life goblins. Not the irradiated, sewer-dwelling kind. These are... classical. Spear-wielding, demon-hunting, city-building goblins. This is a scientific breakthrough!"

"They are not goblins, you oaf," Yogawa hisses, his voice dripping with a newfound, shaky authority. His grimoire may be ruined, but his knowledge is not. "Look at them. The hunched posture is deference, not biology. The spears are tipped with obsidian, not crude flint. And... they are wearing armor. Scraps of it. Leather, cured insect-hide, pieces of scavenged metal. That implies a social structure. A smithy. A strategy."

I continue to stare, mesmerized. Yogawa is right. They are not the cackling, chaotic creatures of fairy tales. They are a people. Small, yes-the tallest among them barely reaches Kizawa's chest-with sallow, green-grey skin that gleams wetly in the torchlight. They are wiry, with long arms and large, dark, bulbous eyes that seem perfectly adapted to this sunless world.

They are organized. The group in the plaza, the "hunting party," is being met by others, who bring ropes to haul the insect-demon's carcass away, presumably to be butchered. Other figures scurry across the high bridges, carrying buckets, bundles, and tools. They are working. Surviving.

This is not just a settlement. It is a fortress. A city, built in the heart of enemy territory.

"They are killing demons," Kizawa states, his voice a low, neutral rumble. He is observing, analyzing, just as I am. "They are fighting back."

"So... they are on our side?" Hachiro asks, his tone hopeful. "Maybe we can ask them for directions? Or... food? I would kill for a non-waterlogged protein bar right now."

"Do not be an idiot," Erima whispers, her gaze fixed on the city. "We are humans. Look at us. We are giants to them. We fell from their 'sky'. We are intruders, anomalies. We do not know their language, their customs, or their allegiances. The only thing we know is that they are armed, and we are... not."

She gestures to me and Hachiro. Her point is sharp as her arrows.

"They are afraid," I murmur, my eyes tracing the movements in the plaza.

"They look like they are celebrating," Hachiro counters.

"No. Look. The ones on the bridges, the ones in the towers... they are watchers. Sentries. Every tower has one. Every bridge entrance. They are not just watching the dark tunnels out of the cavern. They are watching each other. And they are watching the plaza."

The hunting party is moving with purpose, but also with a nervous, hurried energy. They are dismembering the demon with practiced speed, but their heads are constantly turning, looking up at the dark, silent ceiling above us, as if expecting something else to fall.

"This is a city under siege," Kizawa concludes. "They are not thriving. They are holding on."

"All the more reason to avoid them," Yogawa mutters, pulling his ruined book closer. "We know nothing of their politics. For all we know, they serve a different, worse master. We must find another way around."

"Around what?" Erima challenges. "This cavern is the way. The tunnel we came from is behind us. This city is in front of us. The only other paths are the tunnels leading out of this plaza, and they are all guarded by... well, them."

She is right. We are on a cliff ledge, perhaps fifty feet above the cavern floor. To our left and right, the cliff is sheer and slick with moisture. There is a path, a narrow, winding staircase of carved rock, that leads from our ledge down to the city's main gate. It is the only way down.

"So we are stuck," Hachiro summarizes, slumping against the rock wall. "We either go back to the giant lake of 'Nope', or we walk into a city of potentially-murderous goblins."

"They are not goblins!" Yogawa seethes.

"This is... a decision," I say, my voice quiet. I rub my empty palms against my still-damp kimono. The cold is a constant, aching presence. My hunger is a hollow pit. My exhaustion is a crushing weight. "We cannot stay here. We are exposed. Those sentries... sooner or later, one of them will look up."

As if summoned by my words, a figure on a nearby tower-the closest one to our ledge-turns. It is a lone sentry, holding a long spear. Its large, dark eyes sweep the darkness... and pause.

It is looking... near us. Not at us, but near. It tilts its head.

We all freeze. I stop breathing.

Kizawa's hand moves, a silent, centimeters-slow motion, toward his swords.

The sentry stares for a long, agonizing minute. I can see its face, a flat, broad-nosed visage, its mouth a thin line. It is impossible to read its expression.

Then, it turns, its attention drawn by a shout from the plaza below. It looks away.

I exhale, the breath pluming as a white cloud in the cold air.

"That is it," Erima whispers, her voice brittle. "We are out of time. We either hide, or we move."

"Hide where?" Hachiro gestures. "This ledge is bare rock."

"We move," Kizawa says. The decision is made. "We cannot go back. We cannot stay. We go through."

"Through?" Yogawa repeats, his voice cracking in panic. "As in, 'Hello, Mr. Goblin, please do not poke us with your spear'?"

"They are not... goblins," Hachiro mutters, almost disappointed.

"We do not fight," Kizawa commands, ignoring them both. "This is not a battle. This is infiltration. Or... diplomacy."

"Diplomacy?" I look at him. "Kizawa, we are four half-drowned teenagers and one very grumpy magician. What diplomacy do we have?"

"We have... this," he says. He reaches out and gently touches my hair.

The single strand of silver-gold that has remained since my fight with the Miasma Heart.

It is faint, barely there, but in the dim orange light of the torches, it seems to pulse with a weak, internal luminescence.

"They hunt demons," Kizawa says, his voice low and intense. "They live in a demon-world. They will recognize power. They will recognize an enemy of their enemy. You... you are carrying a sign. Your power-it may be low, but the stamp of it is still on you. That is our diplomatic passport."

"And if they see it as a threat?" Yogawa counters.

"They already live with threats," Kizawa says. "We show them we are a different kind of threat. One that is not aimed at them."

"This is an insane plan," Yogawa whispers.

"It is the only plan," Erima says, her voice firm. She stands, brushing rock dust from her clothes. "I am with Kizawa. A straight line is the fastest path. We walk in. We show we are not their enemy. And we find the tunnel that leads out the other side. We are ghosts. In and out."

"Ghosts," Hachiro scoffs. "We are about as ghostly as a stampede of rhinos. We are five times their size!"

"Then we are gods," Kizawa says, his voice hard as the stone beneath us. "We are anomalies. Either way, we do not skulk. We walk. Confidence. No sudden moves. Let them see us."

He turns to me. "Mizuki. You and I will lead. Your light, my swords. They will see power, and they will see the means to use it."

I nod, my throat tight. I am terrified. But he is right. Hiding here is just a slower way to die.

"Erima, Hachiro. You walk behind us. Hachiro, keep your hands visible. Do not look like you are about to punch something."

"My hands are always visible," Hachiro grumbles, but he nods.

"Erima. You watch our backs. But keep the bow low. Not threatening."

"Understood."

"Yogawa. You are in the middle. Try... try not to look like you are about to bolt. They will smell your fear."

"It is... it is not fear," Yogawa protests weakly. "It is... tactical... apprehension..."

"Right." Kizawa takes a deep breath. He steps out from the shadows of the tunnel exit and onto the head of the stone staircase that winds down to the city gate.

The light of the hundreds of torches washes over him. His blue hair seems almost black in the flickering orange light. His two swords are sheathed at his belt, but he rests his hands on their hilts.

I step out beside him.

The change is instant.

A cry goes up. Not from one throat, but from dozens. A high-pitched, reedy shriek of alarm that echoes off the cavern walls.

"GAAAAK! VORR! VORR!"

In the plaza, the hunters drop their tools. On the bridges, the workers freeze.

And on the towers, every single sentry turns.

Their dark, bulbous eyes, all reflecting the torchlight, fix on us. A sea of tiny, glittering, terrified-or hateful-stars.

Dozens of spears are leveled. Small, armored figures begin to swarm from the towers and buildings, converging on the plaza, forming a phalanx at the bottom of our staircase.

"Kizawa," I breathe, my hand instinctively reaching for the daggers that are not there.

"Do not stop," he commands, his voice iron. "Walk. Slowly."

He takes the first step down.

I take a step beside him.

We are completely exposed. Fifty feet of narrow, winding stairs, with a hundred spears aimed at our chests.

"They are... not... attacking," Hachiro murmurs from behind me. "They are just... shouting."

The wall of "goblins"-Yogawa's people-at the gate is growing. It is a mass of leather scraps, bone-armor, and obsidian spear-tips. They are shaking. Some are chanting. Others are just screaming that one word.

"Vorr! Vorr!"

"That word," Yogawa whispers, his voice trembling. "Vorr. It is... it is old. It is from the First Tongue. It is... a very, very bad word."

"What does it mean?" I ask, forcing my feet to keep moving, one step after another.

We are halfway down the stairs. The air is thick with the smell of their torches-a resinous, acrid smoke.

"It means... 'Hollow'," Yogawa whispers. "It means 'The Empty'. It means... 'The ones who eat the world'."

My blood runs cold. Colder than the lake.

They do not think we are gods. They do not think we are ghosts.

They think we are demons.