Chapter 13 – Whispers and Screams
The group broke camp and continued their descent further down the caldera’s outer rim. As the landscape grew flatter, the signs of human presence became more apparent. They started out subtle, a few discarded tools, rusted and rotted, lying half-buried in the dirt. Then the rough paths gradually widened into muddy roads. More and more sets of wagon ruts, wide enough to swallow Sylven whole, criscrossed the mud. The Shy and kobold were taken aback by the first field of wheat that came into view, never having seen such a vast patch of land planted with one crop so consistently. The farmhouse and barn that loomed over the field were, up to that point, the largest built structures they had ever laid their eyes on. By the point that layers of gravel began to replace the mud the humans were treading on, they had both seen enough farms to stop gaping at them.
Sylven stared through the gaps in his cage, his sharp eyes darting to every fantastical object or structure they passed. He had no frame of reference for most of them. Sylven traced the deep grooves in the mud with his eyes. What monstrous creature could pull a load heavy enough to leave such scars in the earth?
They eventually passed a neatly fenced enclosure, where enormous beasts grazed lazily on the sparse grass.
Sylven’s eyes were wide, and his brow furrowed as he studied the creatures. They were easily twice the size of the humans, with broad shoulders and long tails that swished against their haunches, shooing away flies as big as his hands.
“Even their mounts are monsters among giants!” he muttered under his breath. He also noted the lack of any Arclith on the huge animal’s saddle and reins.
Through the bond, he felt Whisker’s curiosity mirroring his own. Vikka, crammed into her box, shifted uncomfortably but didn’t react.
The boy walking alongside them noticed Sylven’s wide-eyed gaze and smiled. “Horse,” he said first in their own tongue, then continued in rudimentary Shyspeak. “Big animal. Strong.”
Sylven’ craned his neck to check on Whisker, who twitched his nose indignantly as he lorded it over the party from his perch. “Big, sure,” Sylven muttered, a trace of defiance in his tone. “But is it faster than a pika?”
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As the sun began to dip behind the caldera, they reached the outskirts of a proper human settlement. The roads widened further, gravel giving way to cobblestones, wooden fences leading to iron gates, and the buildings rising to two, three or even more levels. The occasional human strolled or rode by, casting curious glances at the group and their captives.
The human-made sounds and smells of the town took over from those of nature. A cacophony of clattering metal, rhythmic hammering, the grinding groans of massive wheels, and the deep bellowing of human voices assaulted the caldera captives’ senses, along with the mingling scents of wood smoke, animal dung, and cooking food, and a host of totally unfamiliar aromas.
“This is all… human?” Sylven muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief as he craned his neck to take in the towering structures.
Whisker, perched on his padded platform, squeaked softly.
Vikka’s claws flexed against the wooden slats of her box. “Giants,” she hissed, her voice low. “They build big because they’re big. But why is it all so dirty and smelly and crowded here?”
Sylven didn’t answer. His attention was fixed on a pair of humans leading a massive beast through the street. This one had curved horns and a broad, barrel-like body, its hooves clopping against the dirt in a steady rhythm.
“A giant plowhog?” Sylven wondered aloud, his voice uncertain.
The boy walking beside them overheard him and shook his head. “Ox,” he corrected. “Pull… heavy things,” he explained in halting Shy as he mimed yanking on a rope.
A grin tugged at the corner of Sylven's lips, despite his best efforts to remain stoic. The boy's earnest attempt at communication was almost endearing. “Strong, sure,” he piped up. “But can it plow better than a plowhog?”
The boy grinned back, although it was unclear whether he fully understood the Shy’s jibe, he was clearly pleased by Sylven’s openness to communicate.
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As they went deeper into the town center, the bustling streets were lit by lanterns and lined with shops and stalls. If not for all the smoke and iron, Sylven could almost close his eyes and pretend he was back at the Mossgrove market. Despite her earlier protestations, Vikka realized that she much preferred the ordered rhythms of the kobold hive, and so was thoroughly unimpressed by the chaotic human activity.
The party paraded their captives through the town like trophies, drawing curious stares and murmurs from the crowds. Whisker attracted numerous admirers, his fitted harness and tameness marking him as a novelty.
Sylven and Vikka, however, were the subjects of loud taunts and rowdy speculation from the townsfolk who crossed the party’s path. The human’s speech was still mostly gibberish, but Sylven and Vikka were beginning to pick up the meaning of more words based on obvious clues from their observations and the boy’s efforts.
Their young minder stayed close, trying to bridge the gap between captives and captors, gesturing at objects or structures, then whispering the words for them first in Shy, if he knew the translation, then in human language.
“Corn,” he said, pointing to a stall laden with what appeared to be a tube-like shape covered with rows of teeth and wrapped in leaves. He took out a small round object from his pocket and exchanged it for one of the tubes. He poked out several of the “teeth” and pushed them through the holes in the mesh covering Sylven’s cage, bit out a row of teeth from the tube for himself, and then gave the rest to Vikka. “Good. Eat,” he added, miming the action and showing the kernels half-chewed in his mouth.
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Vikka growled low in her throat but obeyed reluctantly. Sylven watched carefully, his sharp mind continuing to piece together the boy’s crude lessons with some help from the bond’s shared understanding.
“He keeps trying to talk to you. These humans seem to think you’re the smarter one,” Vikka huffed as she chewed on the corn. “Just because you look like one of them shrunken down,”
“Do they?” Sylven replied bitterly. “I don’t entirely think that’s a good thing.”
The boy glanced back as he noticed the Shy and kobold communicating with each other. After a beat of realization, they both looked away, acting as if they were just muttering to themselves as they enjoyed his gift of corn.
Whatever the young human thought of his charges, it was clear he had his own role to play—and for now, so did they.
Sylven squinted through the slats of his cage, his eyes darting from one colossal wonder to the next. Timber frames rose high above cobblestone streets, their roofs shingled with a neatness that was daunting to someone used to the rough-hewn knockabout shelters of the Sunshy or the organic sprawl of the Middlers. He marveled at the sheer density and energy of all the gigantic humans huddling and hurrying about.
A deep, resonant gong echoed through the streets, drawing Sylven's gaze upwards. He spotted a towering structure, its face adorned with a circular window. Within the window, two black rods ticked steadily, their pointed ends sweeping across cryptic symbols spaced regularly around the circle.
“A… clock?” he wondered, the term springing unbidden from the depths of his memory.
He could almost hear Menna’s voice as she spoke of the Deepshy cities, her tone a mix of awe and academic curiosity. “They can’t use the sun to track time underground,” she had said. “So they make their own clocks, powered by Arclith and gears. Their cities are alive with light and motion, even in the deepest darkness.”
Sylven snorted softly. Light and motion, sure, he thought. But this was on a whole different scale.
The lanterns lining the streets lit up as one, even though the sky was still bright with the fading hues of evening. It wasn’t firelight, he realized, but something else entirely—steady and pale, like the faint glow of Arclith but without the warmth. He watched a human woman pass beneath one of the lanterns, her shadow sharp against the ground.
Sylven frowned. Not underground either, he pondered. His eyes scaled the human’s multi-level towers, their roofs scraping at the sky. Instead of digging down, they build up.
His thoughts drifted again to Ellana’s stories. She had described the Deepshy's sprawling subterranean metropolises as layered complexes with stacked chambers and twisting halls. All illuminated and powered by Arclith, and reinforced by clay hardened to stone with the whites of kobold eggs. The deeper you went, the grander they became. But this human city was the opposite—a world reaching upward, like a Sunshy climbing a peak to see farther.
“They do the same things,” Sylven muttered to himself, his sharp eyes catching on a small human pulling a handcart full of gear and scraps. “Just bigger. Cruder.”
The air here was thick with smoke, sweat, and something unpleasant that stung his nose. If the Deepshy’s industry was whispered, this was shouted, each clang and creak unmuffled.
Sylven shifted uncomfortably. It wasn’t just the city’s size or the humans’ ceaseless activity that made his chest tighten. It was how much they seemed to thrive on their creations, their tools and mechanisms—the way they surrounded themselves with objects that felt purposeful but disconnected. They seemed to have built a world that served only their needs, their size, their might, with no regard for the other creatures and natural wonders around them.
Whisker whimpered, burying his nose in the giant's shoulder. The odious smells and overwhelming noise were getting to be too much for him.
“It’s like a Deepshy city…” Sylven whispered to Vikka, his voice low. “Except... louder. Messier. Like they don’t care as much about making it all elegant and perfect.”
He felt Vikka shrug through the bond—the kobold was still busy chewing on the corn, and neither cared nor knew enough to relate.
Sylven clenched his jaw, forcing his gaze away from the clock tower and the glowing lights. We Shy may be smaller, but we’re not lesser. Our wisdom, our work, can hold its own against these giants, even if you don’t scale it up. And the Shy had way more of one thing that Sylven could barely sense in all that he’d seen of the humans –— magic.
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As they passed the center and emerged into the outskirts on the other side of the town, their eventual destination loomed into view like a grim fortress. Thick plumes of smoke spewed from soaring chimneys, staining the sky with smears of gray. The imposing complex sprawled across the landscape, a harsh scar of industry against the more pastoral environs. The main building was a menacing slab of iron and brick. Through dingy glass windows, Sylven could just make out the dizzying spin of giant gears within, a mesmerizing and terrifying display of mechanical power. Surrounding the factory, the compound extended into several pockets of fields and pastures, rimmed by rows of wooden stables. Everything was fenced behind tightly woven nets of spiked metal wire. Sylven's gut coiled with dread. No good was to be found in this place.
Vikka sat stiffly in her crate, her claws twitching faintly. As they approached the complex, a curiously familiar hum crept into her consciousness. It wasn’t the warm, enveloping timbre of the Cradle Caverns—but more like its dull echo. A faint tremor ran through her claws as the realization hit her: this was… a hive? But it wasn’t quite right. The harmony of the nest was missing the guiding melody of a queen.
Sylven picked up on her tension. What’s wrong? he directed his thoughts at Vikka.
“They have more kobolds here,” Vikka hissed. “I can sense them… all together. Laying and caring for their eggs, like a nest. But it’s not a real colony. No queen.”
The humans and their haul eventually entered though a creaking iron gate, the din cutting off their whispered conversations. Steam whistled out from various vents, punctuated by the clang of pistons and the whirring of gears.
In the first room they came to, Sylven’s cage was unceremoniously set down and pushed to the side, the sudden motion slamming him against the bars. He bit back a groan, his eyes furtively trying to assess any openings for escape. But his captors didn’t waste any time and take any chances. As they sprung open his cage door, Sylven huddled in a corner, clinging to the mesh, but they easily yanked him out by snagging the chain connecting his manacles with a hook on the end of a metal rod. He dangled helplessly on the end of the hook as they dragged him deeper into the bowels of a nightmare he could have never imagined just a few days ago back among the Shy.
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Vikka’s crate was carried to the wooden structures just behind the surrounding pastures, and then opened and carted away when they reached what seemed like a holding pen. The space was larger and more comfortable than she’d expected. Fresh hay lined the floor, and a wooden trough overflowed with clear water. A clay bowl, filled with strange roots and berries, sat in the corner.
As the humans left her for the night, locking the pen door behind them, she was finally able to stretch out and inspect her surroundings. The pen showed clear signs of having housed another kobold not that long ago. There were faint claw marks on the wooden walls, and the straw was pressed down in a pattern suggesting a creature with four limbs, horns and a tail.
She tried to nestle in the corner, her tail sweeping the hay every which way. The hum of the cradle song called out to her even stronger here, almost enough to soothe her cares away. But some notes were off key.