Chapter 58: The Red Lights

The red lights are not a destination. They are an interception.

They ascend from the infinite, oily blackness below us, rising with an unnatural, uniform speed. They are not the flickering, smoky Miasma-light of Torchlight. They are sharp, predatory, and precise. They are eyes.

I am Erima. I am the Arrow, and I am the only one on this platform with a ranged weapon. I stand at the very edge of the crude iron lift, the obsidian Grak-ta bow heavy and alien in my hand. It is a brutal, artless thing, a curved slab of volcanic glass strung with a thick, sinewy cord. It is designed for a nine-foot warrior with four times my strength. Just holding it at half-draw makes my arms burn and my bruised ribs scream in protest.

"They see us," I state, my voice a flat, dead thing in the rushing wind of the descent.

"Obviously." Kizawa's voice is a low rasp beside me. He is braced against the iron railing, a silhouette of stubborn pain. The Rekka-moss on his back glows faintly through his ruined shirt, a cold green fire. He holds 'Silence' in his right hand, the blade pointed down, steady. He is conserving every ounce of his energy for the inevitable.

"What- what are they?" Hachiro pants from the center of the platform. He is huddled over the catatonic, shivering Yogawa, acting as a human shield. His shattered arm, now bound in a crude Grak-ta splint, is a useless weight, but his one good hand is clenched into a fist. He is a brawler with no one to punch.

The red lights are close now. They are not just rising; they are swarming. They move with a fluid, three-dimensional grace that means only one thing.

"They are airborne," I say, nocking one of the Grak-ta's heavy, obsidian-tipped arrows. The arrowhead is the size of my hand. "Kizawa, they can fly."

"Good," he breathes, his voice devoid of all emotion. "It saves us the trip."

A shriek cuts through the air, a high-pitched, tearing sound that drills into our ears. The first one bursts into the dim, green-black glow of our one remaining light-moss.

It is a horror. It is a thing that should not exist. It is a Hunter, but one adapted for this endless, vertical world. It is a Shrieker.

It has a lean, skeletal body, like a Stalker, but its arms are vast, leathery, bat-like wings. Its legs are nothing but a set of hooked, razor-sharp talons, and its face is a single, massive, glowing red eye set above a mouth of needle-thin teeth. It is a nightmare of teeth, talons, and wings.

It dives.

It is not aiming for Kizawa, the obvious warrior. It is not aiming for me, the one with the bow. It is aiming for the center. For the weak. For Hachiro and the comatose Yogawa.

"HACHIRO, DOWN!" I scream.

Hachiro flattens himself over Yogawa, his back exposed.

The Shrieker hits the platform with a clang of talons on iron. It is fast.

Kizawa is faster.

He does not charge. He pivots. In a single, fluid motion that must cost him agony, he spins, his blade, 'Silence', flashing in a horizontal arc. He is not the raging, desperate boy from the Spire. He is a cold, precise scalpel.

His blade cuts not the creature's body, but its wing.

The Shrieker screams as its leathery wing is severed. The sound is a wet, choking gurgle. It stumbles, its balance gone, its red eye swiveling in panic.

Kizawa's second blade, 'Storm', is already in his left hand. He stabs. Upward. A single, brutal, efficient thrust that plunges the sword hilt-deep into the creature's thorax.

The red eye dims. The Shrieker convulses and then goes limp, its black blood pouring onto the iron grate.

Kizawa wrenches his sword free and kicks the corpse off the platform. It vanishes into the darkness below.

He is panting, his body shaking with the cost of that single, perfect maneuver. The green moss on his back is steaming from the exertion.

"More... are coming," he pants, not looking at me.

He is right. The air is full of them. The red lights are a cloud, a swarm of angry, crimson hornets.

"Erima," Kizawa grunts, his voice tight with pain. "The bow. Now."

I raise the Grak-ta weapon. It is too heavy. I cannot aim. The string is too thick. I pull, my muscles screaming. I can barely get it to half-draw.

"I... I cannot..." I pant, my arms shaking.

"YES. YOU. CAN." Kizawa snarls. "You are the Arrow. Aim."

I look at the swarm. A dozen Shriekers are now circling us, their red eyes like hell-lights in the dark. They are cautious now. They saw the first one die.

"They are... waiting," I whisper.

"They are learning," Kizawa corrects.

One of them shrieks, an order. And they dive.

Not one. All of them. From all sides.

It is a tactic. A coordinated assault.

My mind fractures. I cannot target them all. I am too slow. We are dead.

"HACHIRO! YOUR LIGHT!" Kizawa roars, a sound of pure, desperate command.

Hachiro, seeing the incoming storm, screams. It is a scream of pure, terrified rage. His Miasma-chi, the power he thought was empty, ignites.

A furious, uncontrolled nova of green light explodes from his body.

It is not a heal. It is not a splint. It is a flare.

A blinding, beautiful, debilitating flare of pure life-force.

The diving Shriekers shriek in agony. The light burns them. Their red eyes, accustomed to the total blackness of the Abyss, are seared.

They flinch. They veer off. Their attack is broken.

"NOW, ERIMA! SHOOT!"

Kizawa's command cuts through the chaos.

They are blind. They are exposed.

I do not aim. I react. The strategist is gone. The survivor is here.

I pull the obsidian arrow. I let it fly.

The Grak-ta bow thrums, a deep, brutal chord that nearly dislocates my shoulder.

The arrow, heavy as a javelin, slams into the nearest Shrieker.

It does not pierce it. It obliterates it. The creature explodes in a shower of black ichor and shattered bone.

"AGAIN!"

I nock. I pull. I fire.

My mind is empty. There is no thought. Only muscle memory.

Thwack. A second one dies.

Thwack. A third.

Kizawa is a blur. A fourth one, recovering from the light, dives at him. He meets it, not with a block, but with a spinning cut that takes its head clean off.

Hachiro is on his knees, the green light fading, his body limp. The flare has cost him everything.

But it worked.

The swarm... is broken. The survivors, their eyes burned, are fleeing, shrieking back into the depths.

Silence.

Only our breathing. My panting. Kizawa's ragged gasps. Hachiro's sobs.

Kizawa slumps against the railing. He slides down until he is sitting, his swords limp in his hands.

"Good... shot... Arrow," he whispers.

I stare at the obsidian bow in my hands. It... is a good bow.

I look down.

The red lights are gone.

But... something else is below us.

A new light.

Not red. Not green.

A faint, cold, silver-white glow. Like moonlight... on a spider's web.

"Kizawa," I whisper, pointing.

He looks over the edge.

The lift is still descending.

We... are approaching the bottom.

We... are approaching his parlor.