Obtaining an override code for entry into the central hub had been child’s play. Whatever had caused the lockdown, hadn’t extended to the digital realm and as such had not triggered the myriad defenses that lay within.
Getting the door open had been easy.
Getting Alarion to walk through it had not.
The stairwell before them was lit a dim purple. That in and of itself was not unusual, emulation had been cast in blue by the fixtures overhead, with a swath of other colors mixed in from various racks of equipment. No, what gave Alarion pause was the vibrant, glowing white of signs attached to the walls and the corresponding glow that began to emanate from his clothing the moment he’d gotten close.
Alarion remained largely unconvinced, judging by the tentative way that he extended an arm into the ultra-violet light. The arm wearing Alex’s wristband, of course. Just in case.
His hands didn’t look clean, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
Alarion gave the band on his wrist a quizzical look. Then he repeated the word back to Alex as he advanced into the dimly lit stairwell.
The stairs took them up at least three stories in a slowly curving path that terminated along one wall of a pyramid shaped room. The top of the spire, Alarion guessed, judging by what he’d seen from its exterior. It was smaller than he would have expected, small enough that he could comfortably see from one side to another even in the dim light. Then again, small was relative, as even such a diminutive chamber was several times larger than any building Alarion had ever seen prior to his arrival in the hidden city.
The floor of the room sloped down in a ring of stairs only a few feet past the entrance, mirroring the design of the city in a way that felt intentional. A number of servers chirped and whirred away in four small blocks toward the corners of the sunken floor while the center of the room was dominated by a concave fortress of screens, projectors and consoles that served as the nerve center.
Notably, it was empty. Though the room was not.
The machine was watching them from the catwalks overhead, its eyes glowing a vivid green in the near darkness.
Even if Alarion had not been forewarned, he would have known this one was different. Dangerous. For one thing, it did not float, it stood upon two split feet that reminded him of a fiend’s taloned feet. Or Elena’s heels. For another it had eyes, not the solitary visor of its peers but two distinct orbs that tracked him as he made his way up the rattling, grated stairwells that led up toward the catwalks.
It carried a weapon, an oversized mace that put Alarion’s own greatsword to shame. As tall as the machine and nearly as wide, the hexagonal hunk of metal was widest at its base, with a number of spurs running down the length of each protruding edge. At its tip it was still wider than his head, with six sharpened spikes that would allow the weapon a proper thrust in a pinch.
Most curiously, it wore a scarf. A wide band of crimson fabric wrapped twice around its black stone neck. The cloth positively shimmered in the dark lights, marking the machine out as readily as the white of Alarion’s vest called attention to him. It was not hiding. Not in its domain.
“Iik Ko No,” said the machine the moment Alarion had reached its level.
Alarion said as he stopped in his tracks.
Despite the identical word choice, Alarion knew in an instant that this one was not Soulless. There was body language, the slight shift of posture as Alarion complied. The way it gripped its weapon.
“To nial, ver Ashadi?” The Duke inquired.
In response a glimmering projection of Alex’s head and shoulders shimmered into existence, first at an odd angle, then properly as Alarion adjusted the position of his wrist. “To lira, ver Ashadi tai granven.”
The Duke seemed intrigued, judging by the slight lean forward in its otherwise impeccable military posture. It made a new inquiry. Then another. Each was met with a flurry of explanations from Alex.
Stolen story; please report.
Alex turned slightly in his virtual form, more for effect than necessity.
Alarion replied honestly.
He turned his attention back to the Duke and uttered a long explanation. When Alex was finished, the Duke was silent. Unmoving. The moment dragged on just long enough for Alarion to wonder if something had gone wrong with the Steelborn, if he were somehow broken, before it answered in a booming voice. “Iik ko no. Lias loe nia ta karavasti. Verisal tei la ver, Kol Daua.”
Alex shook his head.
Alex answered, before he quickly started speaking in his own language once again. There was a brief back and forth, and Alarion could not help but notice the way the Steelborn’s grip tightened around its weapon.
Alex conveyed the message, and the machine’s response was quick. Only two words. “To koe.”
For the third time, Alarion did not need Alex’s help, though the man translated anyway.
Alarion’s greatsword grew to full size in a heartbeat, and the young man felt a slight twinge of satisfaction at the surprised flicker of the Steelborn’s eyes. It hadn’t been expecting that.
Student and Steelborn stared down one another across the short catwalk. The stairs were behind Alarion, another catwalk to his left leading further into the tangle of overhanging maintenance ledges that took up the top portion of the pyramid. Not a lot of area to maneuver. Would that be to his benefit? Or his opponent? How sturdy were the platforms, and how dangerous would the fall be to something like the Steelborn?
Which one of them would make the first move?
The crack of gunfire rang through the air as Alarion threw himself to the side, his sword clattering to the catwalk behind him. Three more shots followed in quick succession, the closest tearing a neat hole through one of Alarion’s pant legs as it just narrowly missed its target. Alarion had never used a firearm, but he’d seen them used here and there for hunting during his younger years. Revolvers and repeating rifles mostly.
This weapon was nothing like those. They’d been small and lean, meant for close quarters or precision hunting. This was closer to an arm mounted cannon, an underslung blackstone barrel that had emerged from just below the elbow joint. Its projectiles were powerful, sending roof tiles clattering to the floor below and ricocheting off where they hit metal.
Shot after shot chased Alarion as he sprinted down the catwalk, one step ahead of the Steelborn’s tracking. But not for long. A single misstep was all it took, a few inches delay that allowed one shot to graze Alarion’s shoulder and tick an immediate damage notification. The first of what would soon be many.
Bssht
Alarion’s reality flickered as he reappeared half the room away, clutching his greatsword as the Steelborn glanced around in sudden surprise.
The fight might have ended there if not for the stone soldier’s surprising reflexes. It spun on a dime, and slammed its foot down hard, catching the flat of Alarion’s blade before he could get much momentum, pinning it back down to the catwalk floor as the machine hefted its own weapon and swung.
Alarion’s sword shrank in advance of the overhand swing and he stepped in, delivering a sharp one-two combination to the Steelborn’s jaw. With no face for an expression, it couldn’t look surprised, but Alarion felt the Duke’s shock as human fists struck with the impact of solid steel thanks to Alarion’s [Ring of the Durable Fist].
It only hurt his hands a little.
Two more punches landed, shards of blackstone flaking off the Steelborn’s face before the Duke collected himself enough to respond with a shoulder check that opened some distance between them. The cannon barked again, and this time Alarion caught the projectiles on the shield produced by his [Blackstone Bracer], the round shattering on impact.
The barrel clicked audibly empty as the Steelborn glared daggers, its hand wrapping around the shortened hilt of its mace. It lifted the weapon as if it were made of feathers, flourishing it once into a side held posture as the two faced off once more, their tricks now out in the open. At least, some of them.
The Duke straightened, its shoulders rolling back, body rising as though it were taking a deep breath. Then it flexed, eight diamond shaped shards of metal shooting off its back, as though expelled by the exertion. But these tiny shards did not fall harmlessly to the ground. They hovered, stacking up in two rows of four on either side of the Duke.
And with a wave of his hand, they attacked.
The attack was unlike anything Alarion had ever experienced. He had fought multiple opponents, both fiendish and soulless, but neither attacked in such an all controlling fashion. There had always been some direction to dodge, some attack to block, some way to keep the enemy from taking his back. These things were too fast, too agile. They swarmed around him, coming in at odd angles, sometimes three or four at a time. He could not defend himself everywhere at once, and even if he could, the others were already waiting in the wings, ready for the next wave.
The only saving grace was that the attacks were non-lethal. They could cut him with their razor sharp edges as they zipped past, but unless they struck somewhere vulnerable, such as his eyes, they could not pierce past the top layer of his skin. The wounds were superficial, none a telling blow against him, but second by second the superficial wounds were adding up to real damage.
With no defense presenting itself, Alarion went on the offense.
He threw himself at the Steelborn, blade clashing against mace in a tremendous clamor. The Steelborn was strong, but Alarion still had a slight edge in strength, an edge that he abused to force the Duke’s weapon out of alignment long enough to land a swift kick that sent the Steelborn sprawling.
It came up in a roll just in time for Alarion to catch it in the gut with the tip of his blade. The young man drove forward, separating the top half from the bottom.
Then the razors were on him again, with a renewed ferocity. They attacked all from one direction now, striking over and over again at Alarion’s face and torso, driving him back. In terms of dealing damage, the strikes were wholly ineffective, stealing only a handful of his HP. As a defensive tactic they were exceptional, forcing Alarion to choose between the killing blow and his own safety.
Then abruptly they stopped. The blades scattered, taking an arcing path back to their host, rejoining the Duke just as it rejoined its lower body with its upper half.
He could almost taste the smug satisfaction radiating off the Steelborn. The self-assured belief that he may have lost the exchange, but he’d won the battle.
Alarion didn’t consider himself petty, but he felt a certain satisfaction as he drank a health potion.