Goblin Slayer - Volume SS2.03 - Chapter 8.2

“Shaaaaa!”

The man in black who has become an enchanted sword master unleashes more bolts from his red blade, enough to fill your vision, and each obviously containing instant death, or true power equivalent thereto.

You rush to meet them.

Zwish. You race along the flagstones of the chamber, right, then left, moving at will, striking out with your blade. You no longer quite feel the utter oneness that you did before, but still you are free.

Swsh. The man closes distance with you, moving like a shadow. He does, indeed, need to be nearer than before.

At that moment, something soft comes flying past and wraps itself around your blade. It carries the faint fragrance of beeswax.

“Arma magna offero! Gift magic to weapons!”

With your cousin’s incantation, a pale bluish light of force glows around your blade. There’s something you must do even before you take the time to be grateful.

Give me strength! Give me strength! Give me strength!

You twirl your blade in a circle, deflecting the red blade, parrying it, sliding along it, cutting back, driving forward.

In the darkness of a room that is no more than wire frame, red and blue perform a dizzying dance, sparks flying.

Ha! You laugh. The otherworldly blade, broken. Your own katana, missing a chip. And here they meet, master against master.

It’s fifty-fifty, indeed. Your skill, your body, and the roll of the dice will determine what happens… No.

“Nice work, Captain!”

“You’ve got it!”

You drag your sword up, trusting strength alone, then pull backward, almost rolling, trying to gain some distance.

From the left and the right, two shadows race in. Three silver flashes.

Knives and a holy spear travel in great arcs as they meet the red blade head-on and bounce back.

“Hah! Haaah!”

Too light.

The otherworldly blade—still deadly sharp, though broken—or perhaps the man in black, repels the other two attacks easily.

But in that instant, that beat, you are able to catch your breath.

You take a breath in, let it out. You brush the wax that slickens your blade with the palm of your hand, stretching it, and then you start forward.

“Gah! He’s tough stuff! I mean, we expected that, but still!”

“Yeah! He’s got us beat, and it’s six-on-one!”

Half-Elf Scout and Female Warrior cry out as you pass by. The enemy’s magic blasts are holding them at bay. You stand before them, entrusted with the rest.

Right, left, up. The deadly spells come at you from every direction, but you repel them with swift strokes of your blade. You feel as if you’re letting your body simply move as it wishes, as if your heart’s impulses are your skill—or as if, perhaps, you’re simply lucky.

Whatever. This is another one: another deadly assault you’ve survived. You’ve protected everyone, gotten closer still to the enemy.

Again and again, the red blade strikes, and you repel; each time it withdraws, you fill the space with your own weapon.

“Hey! What should I do?” You hear clacking mandibles. “Healing? Support? Don’t care either way!”

“I’m thinking!” your cousin shouts back almost in a scream.

What you’re more grateful for than anything at times like these is that you are not alone.

In the midst of the vicious sword fight, it’s all you can do to focus on the opponent in front of you and the other frontliners to your sides. But you know there is someone in the back row keeping a vigilant eye on everything, assessing the situation and giving instructions.

Ought to say a proper word of thanks to her before I die.

Sorry for the trouble, cousin—she’ll have to handle it.

Thus you call to her as you square off with your enemy; you hear her taking a breath and, faintly, biting her nails. That’s all the attention you can spare for what’s going on behind you. You know only what reaches your ears.

“Ah…”

That includes harsh exhalations, followed by Female Bishop whispering something. Your cousin listens, asks something in return—then raises her staff and shouts, “Heal her, support us—in other words, both!”

“You’ve got it!”

Myrmidon Monk’s prayer to the Trade God becomes a pleasant breeze, blowing toward Female Bishop. The blessing probably doesn’t do much to restore her enervated soul, but it can give her back some of her energy. The sword and scales ring out, alerting you that Female Bishop has gotten to her feet.

Your cousin shouts to you, “Let’s do it again!”

You know exactly what she means—how could you not? You’ve spent longer with her than anyone.

What can you do that the enemy cannot?

There is something.

Yes, yes there is.

You shout back to her to do it. That tells the other two in the front row with you what’s happening. They know you well enough to understand.

“Right-o, we’re on it!”

“Yeah, sounds pretty good!”

“What in the blazes—?”

He’s the only one who doesn’t get it.

Then again, even you and your party hardly understand everything.

You don’t need words. Your cousin has had an idea. You’ve chosen to go with it.

All that’s left, then, is for everyone to help out. That’s all there is.

And it’s enough.

“—are you talking about?!”

You parry his strike with your sword. There’s a crack as the blades come together, and you find yourselves locked in a stalemate, each pushing against the other. The man in black shoves mightily, trying to cut clean through you. Your katana creaks—but it doesn’t break, doesn’t bend.

And therefore, you…

“Hrn?!”

…abruptly relax. The otherworldly blade that was pressing toward you whips upward as the man stumbles.

In that instant, you raise your sword with all the strength you can muster.

“Gnnggh!” The man groans and leaps backward, hoping for a moment to regain his lost footing. Of course.

If this were a one-on-one fight, that would be a safe move. But it isn’t.

“…Heh-heh!”

Female Warrior’s laughter, somehow simultaneously innocent and alluring, tickles your earlobe. She brings her lips to the tip of her holy oaken spear, gently, still smiling. Then she kicks the butt of the spear, twirling it once. It seems to dance in her hand.

“Watch close,” she whispers, her voice like honey. “Here I…go!” You hear the snap of her sabbatons.

It’s like the Valkyrie’s own javelin; the spear becomes a beam of light racing through the darkness.

By the time he sees it, it’s already too late. He can no more avoid it than he could a strike of lightning.

“Hrraaaaahh!”

The man in black, disbelieving, coughs up fresh blood, and only then does he register the spear that has pierced him through the belly. There’s a clang as the spear strikes the wall, pinning the man against it.

“You…you bastards…! I’m not…done yet…!”

He claws at the shaft of the weapon with blood-slicked hands, trying to pull it out, but to no avail. The blessed oaken spear bears the grace of the Trade God. And here, a believer in that god stands.

“O my god of the roaming wind—”

A breeze starts up. It comes from nowhere, here in this deepest place in the dead space, and brushes your cheek. The pure wind blows away the shadows that lie over the chamber, dancing around the two young women, Female Bishop and your cousin. They hold hands like sisters, standing there.

“—carry our hearts there and their hearts here!”

When Myrmidon Monk’s blessing is complete, the Transfer Mental Power miracle occurs. The young women, exhausted from using so much magic themselves, are revitalized by the support of Myrmidon Monk’s non-human heart.

A short staff is held up, the sword and scales are raised aloft. Three words of true power, intoned together in the service of one spell.

“Ventus!”

Wind!

“Lumen!”

Light!

““Libero!””

Release our prayer!

The two voices overlap with one another, filling the room along with the light and the wind.

The result is an overwhelming, destructive heat, unleashed directly…

…at you.

You catch the blue-white fireball with your blade. It takes the heat into it, a spark burning.

The explosive force envelops you, threatens to fling you backward. You let your feet slide, brace yourself against the flagstones.

You even out your breathing. Take the burning air into your lungs. Keep a firm grip on your katana. One more breath.

Suddenly, you think you can hear the sound of dice being rolled in the heavens.

The gods are holding their breaths, leaning over the board; you can feel it.

At this moment, this is the center of the Four-Cornered World.

‘Eeeeeyyyyaaaaaahhh!!’

You howl as your nameless blade traces a silver arc, slicing through the chamber.

A ball of energy, neither phoenix nor dragon, tears through the dungeon in the blink of an eye.

The man in black brings up his broken blade to ward it away, but it’s a useless gesture. As you know.

This man cannot cut magic.

“Hrrraaahhh?!”

The man reels backward, spraying blood as black as ink.

You feel something as you cut. Not just the bones and flesh of the man—the Dungeon Master. You slice through the shadow that lurks behind him.

It is the feeling of death under your blade.

A trace of heart, however, still remains in him.

You lock eyes with the man. Even soaked in gruesome gore, his eyes still shine, still burn. He glares at you. His mouth opens, twisting in a leer; his lips move to pronounce some curse upon you…

“Gotcha!”

Half-Elf Scout darts in like a shadow and sends the man’s head flying.

Not with his butterfly-shaped knives. Instead, it’s a sharp strike with the side of his hand that does the deed. The head goes bouncing like a ball, boink, boink.

Even as the head rolls away, the awful grin on the man’s face bespeaks the certainty of his own victory until the bitter end.

You let out the breath you were holding. Finally, you flick the blood from your blade and return it slowly to its scabbard. There’s an audible click as it settles.

With that, the room returns to silence.

“Is…is it over?” Female Warrior whispers, almost unable to believe it, from where she crouches.

That whisper is enough to bring you back to yourself. You look around at the others, all of you standing there in the chamber. Everyone is on the brink of exhaustion. The gods’ miracles have healed the party’s wounds, but they’ve still survived a battle to the death.

You let out a breath. Your legs want to give out, but you force yourself to stay standing. You’re the leader. If you must collapse, you have to do it after everyone else.

“Probably…I think,” Half-Elf Scout says, almost under his breath. “I was so totally focused, I’m not actually sure.” He moves languidly, with none of his usual quickness, approaching the body of the man in black. The scout was pouring all his attention into the brutal battle. No wonder he doesn’t look as sharp or dexterous as usual.

Half-Elf Scout grabs the oaken spear, still sticking out of the man’s corpse, and somehow manages to wrench it free. “Here ya go, Sis,” he says.

“Mm… Thanks.” Female Warrior takes the proffered spear and, still sitting, hugs it. You leave her to herself and turn toward Female Bishop. She’s the one who worries you more than anyone in terms of having spent herself.

She brought the Supreme God into her very body.

The flare that had filled the chamber has long since faded, but you know you can’t imagine the burden it must have laid on her. You call out to her, and she looks vacantly up at you from where she’s sunk down in a corner of the room.

You ask whether she’s all right, and in a voice like she’s only half-awake she replies, “It still feels…floaty in here…” Her pale, slim fingers brush the blue ribbon at her slight chest, and she nods. “It’s warm… Yes. I think…I think I’m all right.”

You tell her that’s good. Then you pat her on the shoulder and say she did a good job.

She appears to ponder your meaning for a second, but then she replies, “Thank you,” and a smile like a flower’s bud appears on her face. As exhausted as she is, it still somehow reminds you of the smile you once saw her smile at the temple.

You’re sure that at that moment, her friends were there, too. You’re not sure how you’re sure, but you are.

“Words of true power take a fair amount of enduring,” Myrmidon Monk clacks. He’s judged his entry into the conversation perfectly. He seems the least tired of anyone in the party, but no doubt he’s exhausted, too. He leans against the wall, arms folded; he taps his head with an antenna and mutters, “It feels like everything inside your head’s been scrambled. I’m impressed the girl could take it.”

“Since it’s the words of the gods, it’s a blessing… No different from a miracle. That’s why,” Female Bishop says. She smiles again and laughs.

The aptitude for magic, ultimately, must vary greatly with talent. The same way you feel that, no matter how deep your faith was, you personally would never be able to make requests directly of the gods. Your dalliance with magic, with the words of true power, has taught you that much.

Cousin’s got to be under a serious burden, herself.

Speaking of her…

“…”

Well, she isn’t speaking. She says not a word.

She’s still biting her lip hard, her face pale, her staff at the ready.

It doesn’t feel to her like it’s done.

You feel the same way.

You only feel like you swung your sword wildly and raced ahead.

Even if it turns out this is it—you can hardly just come to a screeching halt.

You’re about to say something, about to pat your cousin on the shoulder, when—

“It’s not over…!” she exclaims.

Thoom. The dungeon shakes. Not the chamber, but the dungeon itself, thrashing as if it were a living thing.

“Eek…!”

The floor becomes like a bucking beast. Someone just screamed—Female Warrior?

You dive to cover her, positioning yourself on one knee in front of her. You look around, trying to figure out what’s happened.

“The dimension, the space… It’s shattering!” your cousin yells.

What?

There’s a rumble in the earth, somewhere deep. As one cataclysmic crash follows another, you’re amazed you can still hear your cousin’s voice.

“If we don’t get out of here right now,” she says, “this place is going to swallow us all!”

“Get out? Great idea! Any plan for how to do that?” Half-Elf Scout shouts back, bracing himself against the shaking and looking in every direction. “I don’t see an exit!”

“Isn’t there any kind of passageway that man was using?” Myrmidon Monk asks.

“…I don’t know!” Female Bishop responds with a shake of her head. Rubble is starting to fall from the ceiling, clickety-clack. She looks around, desperate. “There might have been, but it’s broken, warped! Gone!”

What to do, then?

Female Warrior looks at you pleadingly. No plan occurs to you, but you don’t want to say that. You squeeze her hand and force yourself to think as fast as you can.

Crossing dimensions. Warping. Transcending space. There’s a way to do that, just one—

The Gate spell.

“Yeah… That’s the only way.” Your cousin sounds as despairing as she does determined.

Gate.

One of the lost, forbidden spells—there’s no one left in the Four-Cornered World who knows how to use it. The last people to do so were mages who teleported around the world at their whim. They could chant this spell as easily as flicking through a hand of cards, planeswalking where they wished…or so you’ve heard.

The stories have made Gate one of the great ambitions of spell casters in the Four-Cornered World.

Perhaps the mage who created this labyrinth was one who could bend space to their will…

It isn’t simply that the spell’s words of true power aren’t recorded anywhere, nor that the spell is advanced or difficult to cast. Once upon a time, a certain necromancer, in his arrogance, chanted this spell and disappeared, never to be seen again. He met the same end as the unfortunate souls who ran into Gate traps in ruins like this one—you saw them yourself on your way here.

You must know where you want to go, where you want to appear. Holding the coordinates in your head is profoundly difficult.

After all, people can hardly put into words exactly where they are at any given moment.

“Aw, tell me you’ve got a scroll or somethin’!” Half-Elf Scout shouts.

A scroll—that would be a different matter. A scroll written by one of those ancient mages would allow you to leap from here to there in an instant.

Your scout is yelling that if you have one of those, he’d appreciate if you’d use it, and fast.

Already, the wire frame in one corner of the room is crumbling away like dust. You don’t want to think about what will happen if it reaches you.

“No…,” your cousin says, and her expression is as taut as a bowstring that’s about to snap. “But I can chant it.”

You suspected this might be the case. On the way here, she was always the first to notice when space was warped. And you saw her reading desperately through one of her spell books when the demons appeared, looking for some kind of solution.

It shouldn’t be that surprising if she’s figured it out.

After all, the most accomplished magic user you know is—who else? None other than her.

“…Will you let me handle this?”

That’s what makes it so funny when she turns to you and asks you this question in an unsteady voice. You’re about to ask how she can even wonder at this late date—but when you think about it, you realize you never really told her.

So you laugh, and say that if she can’t do it, no one can.

Your cousin blinks.

“Got to admit, I’ve never seen you defeated in a contest of luck,” Myrmidon Monk comments, his mandibles clacking like he’s chewing something over. He places a hand on your cousin’s shoulder. “So I’m betting on you. I don’t want to wind up in some gods-forsaken dimension somewhere.”

Before your cousin can fully comprehend the meaning of what he’s saying, there’s a tug on her sleeve. “I trust you, too. With you, I’m sure we’ll be okay,” Female Bishop says, smiling at your dumbfounded cousin. She’s made it back to where everyone else is, veritably crawling, supporting herself with the sword and scales.

Compared with her, Half-Elf Scout’s movements look light and easy as he sidles up to the rest of you. “What other choice have I got? You pull this off, Sis, and I’m gonna worship you from now on!” Then he crosses his arms, winks, and even puffs out his chest importantly. “All right, let’s do this before we chicken out!”

Gods above! How many times has his laid-back attitude saved you and your group? He does it, even though he might be the most frightened of all. You grin, and your scout grins back.

Yeah—doesn’t matter either way.

“…At least if we end up somewhere we don’t like, we’ll be there together.” Female Warrior grasps your hand and pulls herself to her feet. Among all the rumbling and roaring and shaking, the support she turns to is her oaken spear—and you. She grips your hand, leaning on you, supporting herself on you, and then she looks up at you and winks. “So I’m not scared.”

Well, there it is.

So you summarize everyone’s opinions, then shrug at your cousin. The rest is up to her. You’re all counting on her. If you have anything to say to her, it’s only that.

It’s enough, though. Yes, if you have to add anything at all, it might be—

Won’t give you any grief even if you screw this up.

That, and not much more.

Your cousin’s eyes, which have been fixed on you, waver. Perhaps with anxiety or fear, or perhaps self-doubt. She blinks several times, and the look passes. What’s left is only her usual answer, as full of self-confidence as ever:

“…Right!”

The wire frame of the chamber is almost completely gone. You stand in the middle of sheer darkness with only the floor beneath your feet to tell you where you are. But the six of you are the first, and last, people to defeat this Dungeon of the Dead. So whatever happens, you have nothing to fear. You need only hold your heads up high and adventure.

You all look at each other and nod. That’s the signal.

Your cousin holds up her short staff, and then intones the three words of power at the top of her voice: “Z! E! D!”

Blue.

That’s the first thing you register.

The next, that you’re floating. Falling. A shock.

You go numb all over, as if your whole body has been struck, but you’re embraced by something sticky.

Sinking.

It’s cold; you can’t breathe. Your surroundings are dim, and your body feels as heavy as lead.

You’re being pulled steadily downward by whatever has a grip on you. You open your mouth and something rushes into it—it’s enough to make you think you’ve been caught by a slime.

You struggle; someone grabs your arm, clings to it. It’s Female Warrior. You clasp her hand back.

As you try to pull her up, suddenly your arm breaks through the membrane. All at once, you heave yourself up.

Immediately, your senses are almost overwhelmed by bright light, fresh air, a breeze.

It’s the surface.

“Hkk… koff! Hrgh…” Female Warrior hacks furiously. You rub her back and look around. It wasn’t a slime after all. It’s water.

You seem to have fallen into water surrounded by stone walls.

More importantly.

What happened to everyone else? Are they safe?

“The—the heck…?!” yelps Half-Elf Scout.

“Shit! I can’t swim!” says Myrmidon Monk.

“Eeek…?!”

There’s a series of noisy splashes as, one by one, your friends burst through the water’s surface, looking like soaked rats. They each cough or expel water from their lungs just like Female Warrior did, but none of them seem to be drowning.

At that moment, you hear a voice.

“Wh-where in the gods’ names did you come from?!”

You look up, past the stone walls, to see an utterly baffled soldier looking back at you. Your eyes meet.

You ask where you are and receive the perplexed reply, “The moat.”

The already lively situation becomes livelier. You presume it’s people coming to gawk. They start peering into the moat—townspeople, like you could find anywhere. Among them, just for an instant, you think you spot the shadow of the informant girl in her cloak.

You’re in the moat surrounding the fortress city…

“…My mistake!” exclaims a relentlessly cheerful, innocent voice. Your cousin finally surfaces, letting out a precious “pfwahh” as she gulps in a breath. “It turns out if you go up ten floors from the tenth floor, you wind up in midair!”

She sounds so…unbothered. There’s only one thing you can possibly say.

‘Stupid second cousin!’

“You promised you wouldn’t give me a hard time!” she cries. “You’re the worst!”

That finally prompts your laughter to overflow, and once it starts, you can’t stop it. She looks at you in disbelief for a second, but then she starts giggling, too.

There’s no way to stop it now. You six adventurers, floating drenched in the moat, look at each other and break into gales of laughter. Female Warrior wipes tears from her eyes; Female Bishop holds her hand to her mouth as her shoulders quake, and still she laughs.

Half-Elf Scout finds time amidst his guffaws to call to the onlookers for a rope, while Myrmidon Monk clacks his mandibles.

It hurts; it feels wonderful. Will you ever laugh harder than you’re laughing now?

And the sky. It’s bluer than blue and clear as far as the eye can see.