12 Miles Below

Book 7 - Prologue

Kidra twisted under the slaver’s desperate swing, a boot connecting against the wretch’s chestplate, slamming him back into the wall for a second time. Between the structure’s already failing integrity and the relic armor he wore, one eventually won.

Pressure exploded as the poorly constructed wall cracked inwards, Kidra’s kick suddenly magnified as the warm air within the room rushed out to meet the night sky, further ripping apart the destroyed wall. And with it, even a four hundred pound armor couldn’t hold its ground.

The man soared backwards onto the surface, slamming against the frozen ice and snow, tumbling uncontrollably. In comparison Kidra flew out as if commanding the very wind herself.

He rolled out of his tumble, blade swinging wildly out. Kidra landed with a half step forward, her own longsword’s occult hilt easily catching the man’s blade and parrying it away with a ripost.

The technique sliced through the enemy’s blade, cutting it down from a dagger to a souvenir. She didn’t let him have a moment to consider his next move.

Her second blade swung down against the slaver’s addled attempt to belay his death, a hand reaching out as if to ask for mercy or to shield his face.

It was promptly cut off, the shield finally failing.

She didn’t care to continue the fight, taking a few steps past the screaming slaver, letting her initial speed from the earlier bleed away. Ice was already freezing the red stump of his hand, cauterizing the wound. It wouldn’t save him, as the white wastes greedily sucked out all the heat of the armor from that small exposed opening, sinking through in exchange. Flowing across the slaver’s arm, freezing the skin and burrowing deeper into his muscles, down to his very bone.

He thrashed, his other hand having already dropped the ruined dagger, desperately trying to cover the wound. That wouldn’t help. A few fingers covering his stump wouldn’t make any kind of permanent seal. Kidra watched in grim satisfaction as the man faced his end. Relic armor was powerful, but besides its ability to shed itself off a trapped user, it had no means to seal off sections of the armor in case of a temperature breach. There were limits to what even golden age armor could do, and the makers had clearly decided stronger overall integrity was preferable to being able to isolate sections.

Some part of the dying slaver remembered the life and lessons he’d learned before donning that armor. The fumbling hand left his wound, and reached for his belt, searching for the field sealant kit all surface dwellers had on hand. It may have been the first time in decades that this man ever even thought of using it again.

The kit opened up, the armored hand reached inside with a trembling hand.

But the coughing had started.

Kidra watched impassively, hands crossed over her chestplate. “You and your kind have grown overconfident with your solen armors, lived for too long as tiny gods. You’ve lost touch with what it is like to walk on the surface. Did you forget?” She walked up to the dying man, kneeling down nearby. “The first step to take when breached isn’t the field kit. It’s to hold your breath.”

The slaver said nothing. Not out of choice. Racking coughs had already started, making him fumble the repair kit onto the snow. The ice air by now had flowed past the arm, reached his shoulders and begun to attack his face. Eyes, nose, cheeks - and mouth.

Some deep part of the man already knew his life was over. Against Kidra, at least he had the illusion he could fight to survive. Still the man desperately clung to life, rational thought fighting against the coughing hacks, hand once more trying to clutch the field repair kit.

He almost made it, aiming the sealant at his missing and half-frozen arm, before another hacking fit made him drop the item.

Against the surface, there was no fight. The moment a single spec of that death sunk into the lungs, the human body was doomed to react. To make futile attempt to expel it. Attempt to breathe further for cleaner warmer air that didn’t exist. And in doing so draw in more death into the lungs, shredding the delicate membrane.

At this point, even if the slaver made it back into a heated shelter, his fate was sealed. Sickness and rot inside the dead fleshy sections of the delicate lungs. More coughing wracked the man, forcing him to curl up against himself on the ground. Weezing, slowly. Turning from a desperate coughing fit to occasional attempts at a breath. And then nothing.

Kidra watched over as the man died a deserved death. She felt nothing. Slavers who robbed people of their lives, happiness, and fate - those deserved only the worst death possible. And she was of the surface clans. Their fated enemy had always been Othersiders of the darker side.

“The compound is cleared, Lady Winterscar.” One of her knights called out over the comms. “Were you successful in claiming the runaway?”

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The answer felt almost rhetorical. The two Winterscar knights she’d attacked the compound with knew whoever she followed would die. Kidra had never lost once, and it would certainly never happen against such filth as these. “He is. Dead at my feet within the wastelands. I will collect his armor and return.”

“We are already on our way, leave the armor collecting to us Lady Winterscar.”

“Very well, appreciated.”

The other knight also confirmed they’d taken out any pockets of resistance. All they needed to do now was to wait for the Shadowsong prime to return with evacuation. His airspeeder had passed by soly to drop them before continuing on to his own target.

The slavers were running. Packing up and abandoning the fight. The clan had expected this and planned an all-out assault to take and break every last camp in one fell swoop, or else forever see potential armor slip out of their hands.

Her brother was a clever weapons maker, but armor was not yet something Keith could create. Every last set the clan claimed here would be valuable for where they planned to move next. They couldn’t afford to let the slavers escape with their armor shipments.

“It’s truly done then.” The first knight spoke over comms. “If the other raids all went according to plan, there isn’t another camp to hit anymore. The war should be over.”

“My lady, do you think there’s any bottles left for any kind of reasonable price back home?” The second asked. “I feel I shall miss having these outings, but at least we might celebrate the end of it properly.”

Kidra laughed, “There is. Where do you believe I continue to find good prices on such things? It is certainly not by their volition. I’ve already paid a few agrifarmer houses months prior.”

Kidra had seen this coming since the moment Keith showed her fractals - specifically all the branching futures and how to capitalize on them. She'd invested in two struggling agrifarmer houses, funding their transition from food crops to alcohol production. Her seed money bought their loyalty and locked in favorable rates, well before anyone could predict the unprecedented celebrations ahead.

She had underestimated this. Greatly.

'Hecate' Wrath's arrival and the week-long festival honoring the deathless saint had absolutely destroyed most of the clan's supplies. Now, with alcohol prices soaring those two houses were likely cursing their fixed-rate contracts each night. Perhaps she'd show mercy and let them sell a few bottles at market price - they had plenty to spare.

In the end, not a single slaver camp had managed to escape. Clan Altosk knew no defeat, not since the knights all bore the winterblossom technique, newly forged weapons and the fourth school of combat that countered all three styles the surface knew of.

Her HUD showed her knights stepping outside, each carrying multiple cut helmets on their belts, trophies that would be regenerated back to full armor soon enough. “Doorways have been sealed, and the chenobis have restored the airspeeder sabotages.” One said, giving her a crisp salute with the hilt of his blade. “They’re organizing the last of the slaves, and assigning pilots. The groups will be on their way soon. Doubtless we may see them again at the clan.”

A repeating pattern. Slaves who’d had their lives taken by these wasteland wretches often ended up driving their newly seized airspeeder directly back to Altosk itself, asking to join in, despite running the traditionally strong risk of being refused entry. A few might even believe they owe a self-imposed lifedebt to House Winterscar itself for having gone and freed them. Or a life-debt to whichever house had been ransacking the compound at the time.

Others sought purpose to fill their lives again, to join and help future slaves escape the same way they had.

And some sought further revenge than they’d been able to mettle out on the day the clan had passed by.

Many would have those wishes fulfilled. Altosk was in good shape for refugees. There were still large sections of the old habitat that hadn’t yet been unsealed and reheated, space wasn’t an issue like most other clans would run into.

The reality was different - it was unlikely they’d ever get to unsealing the full sections of this clan before moving on underground. It wasn’t a handful of elite knights now, Clan Altosk had an army to work with. Enough to rival a minor undersider city.

Lord Atius hadn’t been waiting for events to happen either. He knew which way the wind blew. For the people here, there was no danger large enough to accept staying in this frozen hell, when breathable air and life was within reach. The travel underground was all but set in stone. It would be led either by his hand, or someone else's - but it would happen.

Scouts would been sent off, casting their nets wide. They had far more options than any Undersider fledgling city. With clan’s newfound skills, gear and knights, they could easily protect the city with the same power that a pillar heart could provide. Clan Altosk could settle anywhere they wished.

But Kidra knew it would be Wrath's domain. Dozens of different biomes there, many could offer the perfect shelter for a small city.

That wasn’t what made the land unique. It was the machines there instead. Their experiences with Wrath and her history had marked those mechanical servants deeply.

Many wouldn’t seek to harm humans anymore, making those lands far safer than any other in the world.

Perhaps trade and even friendly relations with the machine faction there could be forged, under secret wraps from their machine goddess. Relinquished may never even bother to look into such things, never knowing or believing it could exist.

Where Wrath’s old citizens remained, Kidra knew Wrath herself would soon be sulking around. And that also meant Keith would be there as well.

The two were inseparable, even if they both didn’t quite know how to put it in words.

Eventually, the clan might need to venture out to find a proper pillar heart, but for many years they would be able to live free from the surface air while they rebuilt a true life for themselves. She might even grow old, and see that quest passed down to her children's children.

Kidra looked up into the night sky, where the moon shined down on her. It all looked so deceptively peaceful up here. And yet danger lurked among the stars beyond, flying over with a watchful eye; the very air could kill faster than a blade and with far less mercy as the slaver had found out.

Soon, they’d be free of that. With work, they could have a city worth welcoming Keith back into once he returned from his journey.

She wondered what kind of stories he would have for her on their reunion.

No doubt there’d be a few that would make her want to pull her hair out.

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