Chapter Thirty-Two—Mountain Pass

“It’s them!” Ali hissed as he revealed the first few inches of his blade.

“Wait,” Shiro said. “You don’t know that.”

Debaku hadn’t even bothered to touch his sword hilt like Ali and Shiro had. Was that due to his own confidence or was he doubtful of an attack?

“Debaku?” Shiro whispered.

The Black Cobra glanced back toward him. “What is it?”

“Can you see them?”

Without turning to look at Shiro again, he shook his head. “No, but I know there is a man not far.”

“How?” Ali asked.

“Does it matter?” Shiro said. His camel moaned and he let go of the rein, stepping up the path next to Ali.

Shiro was ready to fight—to kill these men if he had to.

“We can’t just stand here,” Ali whispered.

“Fine,” Shiro said. He stepped up the path, past even Debaku and made his way through the mist, his feet sliding and he lost some of his footing. As he moved further up, one hand over his scabbard, he used his other for balance. There was something in the mist ahead. Rocks?

But then they moved and the man there appeared before him, wearing animal furs, a conical silver helmet with fur-trim and a long mustache.

Like Shiro, his eyes were of a similar canted cast, but different in their own way—more slender. In the man’s hand was a sword, naked and ready to be used at a moment’s notice.

“Oh no,” he said, not realizing he had said the words aloud.

“What is it?” Ali asked from behind.

Shiro put up his palm.

We don’t speak his language, he thought. So instead of speaking the language of the Abassir Empire, Shiro spoke his own language.

“Konichi wa. Genki desuka?”

He spoke like this for a time, trying to mime his intent to pass through the mountains and into the elevated flatlands beyond, but the man only looked at him strangely.

Shiro wanted to grit his teeth and roll his eyes, but knew that would not help. He avoided speaking his one other language at all cost, sensing that this man would attack them should he do so.

“Shiro!” Ali hissed from behind.

The isekai couldn’t very well call back to Ali in the imperial tongue, so he motioned for Ali to step back, but the goat lover must have not realized it, because he joined Shiro.

Together they regarded the man, and then he started speaking, his tone light, but somewhat raspy. He seemed to gesture to Ali as he said some words.

“Do not speak—“ Shiro began to whisper out of the side of his mouth, but Ali cut him off.

“Hey you!” he called. “Let us pass, man.”

“Ali, be silent!”

The man’s eyes widened, then narrowed to slits. He then scrunched up his face and snarled, calling out something in his local dialect of the Urutai Steppe.

Men from the hills started yelling. “Not good,” Shiro said.

“Oh great,” Ali moaned.

“Definitely not good!” Ali cried and pulled out his sword.

Shiro did the same as the man before them rushed forward, raising his blade for an overhand strike. Shiro rushed up, grabbed his wrist and flipped the man over his shoulder. He fell on his back on the decline and squirmed, screaming and snarling as Ali brought his scimitar down atop his chest

“That is the right way!” Debaku said, and unsheathed his own scimitar. “Now we fight!”

Heart hammering in his chest, Shiro signed inwardly. He had hoped this wouldn’t be necessary.

He screamed as he charged up the path.