12 Miles Below

Book 6 - Epilogue

Book 6 - Epilogue

Drakonis had lived through worse.

….

Actually he hadn’t.

This was the worst. Lionheart’s training regiment had been far more brutal than any mortal soldiers would go through, but it hadn’t been arm-shatteringly brutal. And followed up by a life or death struggle against a fucking drake with a glorified fucking butter knife.

The distant ceiling of the underground loomed in his view as he calmed his breath. “Get the fuck up, you rat bastard.” He hissed to himself, closing his eyes for a moment to muster up the effort. A beat passed. He stayed on the ground.

The arm was binding itself back together, the blessing of the goddess doing wonders. But the process was slow. And his armor had already drained its limited medical supplies.

The HUD showed Keith was still alive out there, and still in combat. He couldn’t just wait on the ground here staring up at nothing. Drakonis closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. “Come on you miserable piece of shit, get up.”

All at once, he rolled over and clawed his way back up on his feet, groaning as his arm moved and the bone shards inside cut him further up. Already he could tell it hurt far less than it had any right to as his healing factors kicked in. Shields had taken a few hits from wayward claws, and he’d nearly gotten bit at one point. But in front of him, the Drake lay dead, lights dead across the chassis. Sparks still came from deep within, battle damage from wayward strikes and bullets. Some rocks had been pulverized in the process. A small landslide had happened nearby when they’d rolled downslope after he’d hacked one of the critical leg joints off and it lost balance. Cooled off melted rock lay further off, marking where the Drake had tried a blind shot from the maw.

He’d battled dozens of drakes before when he’d been mortal. The difficult part was getting close enough to deal damage. They only approached into melee range when they believed they would overwhelmingly win.

It had all gone to shit the moment a Feather decided to casually swing that hammer at his arm at the start of the fight. Drakonis had thought he’d been out of range. That oversized hammer would need two hands to properly swing with.

And he’d have been right if that weapon had been used by anyone other than a Feather.

He’d paid dearly for that. And he’d been dealt with like an insect. The monster hadn’t even bothered to take a single step closer, which would have made the swing fatal. Drakonis didn’t know if he should feel lucky about that or insulted.

Pain throbbed through the arm again at the thought, struggling against the natural powers of a Deathless numbing it away. The longer the pain lasted, the more resistant Drakonis would grow against it. It was only a matter of time.

He looked up to the ancient human starship to distract himself, where he could see blue beams shooting in different directions into the sky. The angle here obscured the fighters, but Keith’s vitals were still somehow green, so he hadn’t been hit by any of that mess. Steady heartbeats, shields still near full as well. Motherfucker. How did the surface knight have a BPM of sixty three in the middle of all of that? Against a Feather?

Utterly ridiculous.

That hammer had swung so fast when it had taken his hand, Drakonis could have sworn he’d heard the whip-like crack from the sound barrier breaking. And the Winterscar was somehow keeping up with something like that? While having the heart rate of a fucking coma patient?

This went beyond whatever lifetime martial training surface knights grew up learning. It had to be some kind of occult spell the surface dwellers all had. Although his personal suspicions were that Keith was the next generation Deathless already, and the goddess had finally perfected the long running experiment. Perhaps choosing surface knights who followed a completely different religion than her own had been a sacrifice she’d done in exchange for sheer martial might.

He gave a few more general curses, at himself, at the situation, at the Winterscar, and at the Feather that decided to hunt them down for sport.

The HUD icon pointed to where his ally had run off to. The marker raced back to the ship - and up. Far up. And it was still climbing, in between blue beams of light coming from both directions. So either the Feather was teleporting around in making his shots, or Keith had somehow taken the enemy’s own weapons and was leaping from rock to rock while firing the thing. He couldn’t tell from here since both the video feed from Keith’s armor was scrambled, and the two were fighting on the far side of the ship from him.

Drakonis stalked over to the dead Drake, hand reaching for his blade handle to yank it out. The small dagger was almost impossible to find among the bulk without his HUD outlining it.

From here, he had a choice. If he turned tail and ran for it, good chance he’d make it out. The Feather seemed to have come specifically for Keith from whatever tech-communing power the rat bastard had picked up that let him interface directly to terminals.

He gave another look up the tower, where his HUD highlighted Keith’s position. Then hissed through his teeth as he contemplated the other side of that choice.

The bastard was a bastard, but he was the bastard on his side. Gold or purple, they had to stick together. He was new to his powers, but they had been handpicked by Lionheart for a reason. He’d be more than just a glorified distraction up there.

“Always something.” He muttered, stalking up the landslide, directly to the tower. He’d probably die fighting that giant hulking monster of a Feather, but at least he wouldn’t die a coward. And for all he knew, maybe the Winterscar really could beat a Feather if given a big enough distraction to work with.

Recovering the power cell bag by the rocks was a priority. He tossed that sack of power cells at the base of the structure, inside, a nice little corner he could find again later.

Getting his armor back after he died would be a chore, but so long as he had a power cell to feed it for repairs everything would be fine. Feathers don’t bother camping or ripping apart dead armor.

There was a yip of sound nearby, likely a Greyroamer who’d made a poor decision to hide instead of run. Drakonis didn’t have the time to help. Someone else needed him more. All that was left was to scale the ship back up, and reach the fight still happening up there.

He leaped into the first wall, letting his momentum carry him up as his feet pumped forward. Leap after leap, using only his left hand to keep him steady.

His armor was powerful enough to let him lift the entire thing forward on one hand. The motors whined from the effort, but it was within tolerance. A few chairs and pallets broke under him due to the speed he was scrambling up at, but right now wasn’t a time for apology to the Odin or Greyroamers about wrecking their trade outpost. He had to get to the Winterscar before that monster managed a killing blow. Anytime a handhold was too far off or he saw a chance to bypass a few, he’d throw an occult lash upwards and let the momentum carry him up with a shove of will.

It took a certain mindset to use an occult lash. A desire that has to be dug deep inside. Some of the other Deathless in his team were naturals at it. Others took a lot longer to figure it out. Drakonis had been middle of the pack on that particular power. Not great at it, but not terrible either.

Halfway through, his HUD pinged. Keith took a hit that drained nearly the entire shield pool.

He cursed, loudly. "Keith!" Fuck, he’d been too late.

The channel returned a rasping grunt and then nothing. Vitals for the surface knights showed… green? No damage. Just shield loss. Although there were other red marks on his profile on different sections of his body image. And a single red flashing text under.

Sustaining G-force x10.3

That number was rapidly falling down to three, turning yellow and then green. The message vanished completely the moment that number hit one.

What the purple hell was all that about? Snapping his head up to see if the HUD would show him anything through the walls, he did get to see the position tracker for his ally quite literally fly off the map. The little green square grew smaller and smaller, the distance number just under the box outline climbing up from a few dozen feet away to several hundreds. Then into the thousands.

Stolen story; please report.

It all went gray a moment later. Three words in red superimposed over Keith’s icon: Out of range.

Were the armors getting hacked? How would Keith even jump that far off? Or is he getting carried off somehow? An airspeeder would have made too much noise, the armors would have already picked them up or at least given him a notification of a frigate sized object flying around. If they could even fly that far off the ground in the first place.

Maybe Kres came back with some ancient single-seat human flying machine? Fuck, anything was possible. But anything mechanical that could fly that fast would have been detected by the armors at least.

Instead, he got nothing. Only the red box icon pointing where the enemy was last reported, the border turning to dashed lines to indicate it was now outdated information.

A few more pulls up and he got past the final doorway, opening it and getting a view of the dead bridge. Just above him were the walls of glass in every direction, some of which had broken apart while others were cracked into a hundred different web-like directions. A few were still pristine, although dust covered turning it more of a light brown haze.

He saw the enemy, right where the red box had pointed he should have been. The Feather hadn’t moved.

One last occult lash brought him up, past the glass ceiling through one of the destroyed panels. He landed with a heavy slam outside. Glass cracked further under him, but if it could hold the weight of the sheer monster on the other side, it could support a human in armor.

Drakonis had seen one Feather in his life. And she’d looked like an angel with wings, two blades making combat look more like a dance against the sword saint.

This one looked like a giant with far too much muscle to be natural and none of the grace possible. A hulk of marble white bare skin and two feet, wrapped in black cloth. The muscles were broken apart by that rough linen and violet glowing lines across his body in straight and diagonal directions, like circuits. There was a single splash of color besides white, black and violet: A golden tower shield strapped on his back that was taller than Drakonis and yet seemed perfectly sized for the giant. The only object rivaling the titan was the hammer that remained casually cropped over his shoulder. The end piece is almost five times the size of the monster’s head. Comically huge.

The massive enemy remained looking off into the distance where Keith had flown off. A single lone towering figure on the top of the world, watching the domain before him.

Drakonis drew his blade slowly, thinking he could stab the fucker in the back. Then he realized there was no chance an ancient enemy like a Feather wasn’t aware he was already here. The Feather was simply ignoring him by choice.

Like he had when he’d swung his hammer and shattered his arm. Because Drakonis wasn’t a threat.

And the giant would be right. In the face of a fucking Feather, Drakonis was nothing more than a novice Deathless. Even a veteran who’d dedicated his entire lifetime to fighting off enemies like these, Lionheart hadn’t been able to beat a Feather directly one on one. He relied on a team working together, with him as the fulcrum that would draw the full attention. Eventually the enemy Feather would falter against one of his teammates, and Lionheart would go for the kill.

Drakonis didn’t have a team, didn’t have the experience, and didn’t even have a full year learning how to draw on his new powers.

Why the fuck had he climbed up here anyhow? To save the Winterscar? If Winterscar couldn’t fucking beat the Feather himself, what chance did he have?

The giant’s head turned around slowly, looking over his shoulder to stare down at Drakonis. A white shawl covered all of his head, shoulders and large sections of his chest. Only two deep violet glowing eyes could be seen from the dark slit of the shawl. Staring right at him. He saw his death in those eyes, as if standing before the grim reaper himself.

“What did you do to him?” Drakonis growled out, steeling himself.

Everything Lionheart had told him about Feathers flowed through his mind. The arrogance they’ll display, the threats and posturing that’ll happen. Maybe he could get something out of the monster before the fight.

“Nnnn… messed up.” The giant said somberly. There was a tone of genuine sorrow in his voice. No haughty attitude, no disdain for humanity. Nothing except a bone-deep weariness. As if the Feather hadn’t wanted to be here. “I thought I had the hyper-weasel. Instead, I helped him escape. They’re upset with me. I’ll have to find him again. It’s going to be a pain.”

Hyper-weasel? Did the personification of death itself fucking call the Winterscar ‘The hyper-weasel’?

Funny enough, out of everything the Feather had said, this somehow seemed the most reasonable of them all.

“Fat chance of that happening.” Drakonis said, off balance but still ready. “I killed your ride. I’d say I’m sorry, but we both know I’m not.”

The giant nodded his head, then sighed. “I know. It’s a problem.” His head turned back the direction he must have clubbed Keith away.

The HUD pinged. He’d gotten an image download request… from the Feather? Drakonis wasn’t stupid enough to accept that of course, whatever image was sent to him would stay right the fuck away from any of his armor’s ancient software system. “I got a suggestion. How about you crawl back to the hole you came from, and fuck off?”

The giant shrugged his shoulders slowly. “Nnn… can’t. The others would make it a problem for me. And the boss gave orders.”

“World ain’t fair, huh.” Drakonis said.

The giant nodded. “It’s not. It really is not.” He didn’t move otherwise, just kept staring out past the horizon line. Maybe searching for where Keith had landed.

There’s no way the Winterscar would die from being thrown off a giant cliffside, even this high up. The idea seemed utterly absurd to Drakonis. Anyone else would die, without a single shred of doubt. But Keith? Too annoying and too smart to let something like falling down a few thousand feet actually kill him. He’d find some stupid way to save himself last second, maybe flap his arms until he hit a few trees to soften the landing. Armor could keep a user safe from massive falls, so long as there was even a little bit of assistance in softening the landing.

For fuck’s sake, the weasel could probably turn his half-cape into some kind of parachute halfway through the air.

He drew his blade, and turned it on taking the stance Lionheart had drilled into all of them already. Hunting down machines generally had a few basic tenants, and it was rare a proper stance was needed for anything. Against a Feather? He’d take every advantage he had.

The Feather didn’t move. And remained watching the underground landscape before him.

“Well, you gonna get it over with or just stand there?” Drakonis asked. “I haven’t got all day.”

“Nnnn… I’m thinking.” The Feather said. “Go away.”

That… what? “You want me to just turn around and walk away?”

“Yes. That would be good.” The Feather said, one meaty hand shooing him away. “Less work.”

At this point, Drakonis believed even Lionheart would be at a loss for words. “If you’re not even trying to kill me, why go after the Winterscar like a dog chasing a bone? What exactly did the bastard do to piss you all off so much?”

“Nnnn…” The Feather looked down, thinking. Then finally shrugged. “Complicated.” He even seemed happy with that one-word answer, nodding to himself as if he’d successfully explained an entire course on physics.

“Complicated enough to keep chasing after us?”

The Feather sighed. “It will be.”

Drakonis cracked his neck. “Wrong choice.”

“No. No choice at all.” All of a sudden, the Feather turned his head up fully, violet eyes locking on. “Nnnn… are you his friend?”

A chill went through Drakonis’s spine. Another image request came from the Feather, and he once more rejected to even open the attachment. “That bastard?” Drakonis scoffed, feeling a bead of sweat on his forehead get cleared off by his armor. “No. We’re just stuck here together temporarily.”

“Nnnn… a lie.” The Feather rumbled, body fully turning to Drakonis now. “I know. I had to turn that back on.”

The hammer went from resting on his shoulder to being carried in both hands. The shaft of the weapon landed with a meaty thump on his spare hand. “Will he come back for you?”

Fuck.

“You really think a dirty surface savage like him would do that kind of thing?”

“Nnn… don’t know. You answer.”

“How about you fuck off and die?” Drakonis hissed back, refusing to say anything more.

The Feather shrugged. “Capturing you has a chance. Better than no chance at all.” Then started to jog, hammer lifted in his two hands.

Drakonis considered just jumping off the tower. With liberal use of occult lashes, he could probably survive the fall. And he only had one hand to fight off a fucking Feather. Even being at his best it would be a lopsided matchup from the start. What chance did he have right now?

Issue is that the Feather would also survive a fall jumping down after him. Plus, despite the massive size of the Feather, he knew they could all move fast.

His blade turned on instead, his thumb flicking the trigger.

Well, he hadn’t climbed up this entire way just to fuck off and run. This Feather would continue hunting down Keith. The more chances he had to fight the more info he had to work with when they’d run into each other again. He’d record everything and send it the moment Winterscar came into range.

Drakonis cracked his neck, then took a few steps forward, blade flourishing in his hand. "All right, let's dance you ugly bastard."

"Nnnn... I'm not ugly." The Feather answered, those violet eyes furrowing down to glare at him.

Information was power. That’s how Deathless beat Feathers. They learned the fights, the reactions, and planned over and over. Eventually, they’d win. And if this feather wasn’t looking to kill him, he’d get more chances to draw out information and weak points to exploit over time.

Lionheart had given him all the tools he’d need. Means to strip their shields with an occult implosion. Means to disrupt their footing with shockwaves. Ways to match their speed by repositioning with his occult lash. And genuine threats to their speed and power with heat empowered punches. He couldn’t be kept unconscious for long, not as a Deathless. Torture would equally fail as pain and panic were automatically numbed. The shattered arm had already jump-started the process.

There’s a reason Deathless aren’t well behaved captives. So he was going to be the biggest pain in the ass captive this Feather had ever met.

End of book 6

AN - Book 7 will resume as soon as patreon is 20 chapters ahead, they went through a two and a half week break, so it'll be around the same amount till RR continues posting again. Thanks everyone for the support and comments, it's fun to see people take guesses and extra fun to see people nail it :]