Dream Drive Ch. 08

Author's Note:

All aspects of the story are fictional.

Edited by Expoh, AnnabelleFalls13, Michael Scott, and Zald.

****

Princess Ellesmere Kalgradis was seated next to Lord Prannod Niemon. Ellesmere would have preferred another seat. She imagined Lord Prannod would prefer that they share the same seat, even if they weren't married yet.

The ballroom was lit too brightly and plastered over with wrinkled paper streamers. Groups of noblemen and women meandered around the dance floor like flocks of birds, migrating in search of rumors rather than warm weather. A few couples braved the center of the hall, bobbing and weaving in time to the music. Ellesmere gave them credit - they danced as well as they could - but the bland violin droning over the space seemed determined to make their best efforts as uninspiring as a puddle of mud.

The babble of conversation wafted in the air like a fog - mostly rumors, with bits of facts floating here and there. The voices carried with the feigned, perfuse happiness of people that knew the occasion was supposed to be happy, but felt more annoyed by the unwritten requirement for attendance than any sort of real pleasure. The quiet rule of that hierarchy was enforced by the guards lining the edge of the room, dotted here and there with fully-armored knights.

Ellesmere stared at it all without seeing, letting her eyes unfocus, refocus, unfocus, producing a kaleidoscope of lights and lies. She sat and stared, lost in a cynical mental landscape. Perhaps, were she in a better mood, she might rally and try to appreciate the effort of the tired violinist, or allow for the fact that the decorators had been in a great haste. But she was not in a good mood, so bitterness filtered everything in a shade of brooding grey.

The social chains binding all the people to this room were of like composition to the invisible shackles locking her to the fat man seated to her left. She imagined they must have made quite a comedy. On one side, the princess, composed and elegant in her eye-matched green dress. She'd spent two hours on her hair - two hours! - and at least fifteen minutes deciding what necklace to wear. Not to mention the makeup.

Of course, she'd heard all about Lord Niemon - insofar as hearsay could be trusted - but she wanted to make a good impression nonetheless. She wanted to enter into their sudden relationship whilst thinking the best of him, in good will and open mind.

She shouldn't have bothered.

Niemon was significantly less concerned about pomp and circumstance. His brown mop of hair was unstyled and frizzed, as if he'd just rolled from his mattress. He'd asked for and received a white bib, which was now as stained by bits of fat and streaks of sauce as the tips of his fingers. He wasn't much for conversation, but, in his defense, his mouth was very busy chewing, and it looked set to continue that activity for the foreseeable future. His jowls bobbed along with his lips in a pantomime of speech, only with more flapping, fleshy sounds, and fewer words.

Ellesmere sighed. This creature was to be her husband.

He was rich and powerful, the only qualifications that mattered for the husband of an empress. He also happened to be more than a little disgusting.

Ellesmere tried to console herself. Perhaps time and effort could smooth his...edges. Maybe he'd never had a woman around to tell him when he was acting like a slovenly pig. She'd debated informing him of such several times, but, then again, they weren't married just yet.

She looked at her father. He was seated to her immediate right, with her stepmother after him. They were both focused on their meals. She considered any number of scathing comments to mutter in his direction, ranging from the choice of husband to the overpaid band of disjointed instrumentalists that were playing something that might have earned the designation music several centuries ago. The decor might be a good topic - yes, it came right to the top of her head. Why, father, am I relegated to the small dance hall, when your jousting competition was treated to the full ballroom and a feast twice as rich?

The emperor caught her gaze. His eyes were as hard and uncompromising as the sharp cut of his beard. His face was set with the lines that told Ellesmere she would be silent and endure. His thinned lips added the addendum that any peep from her would be met with a month stuck in her chambers with neither a single book nor her drawing implements to entertain herself.

She almost made a comment right there, if only to spite him. Instead she was silent, and she endured. He turned his head away, and she turned hers.

Empress, she told herself. One day, empress. She gave Lord Niemon another appraising look. He noticed her attention, and gave her a big, open-mouthed grin, displaying the mash of food that was mid-mastication. She did her best to smile back. She wasn't sure if her best was very good, given the circumstances, but he was content enough to return to his meal. And I shall keep the castle larder well-padlocked.

"My princesh," Lord Niemon said. "Enjoying the feast? You've hardly toushed your food." A bit of spittle shot out of his mouth as he chewed his food and spoke at the same time. Ellesmere's eyes followed the projectile's arc to a plate of sliced venison. She mentally ruled it out from any possibility of future consumption.

She glanced at her own plate; a few lines of gravy and scattered peas were all that remained. She'd had quite a bit more than she usually did in an attempt to help Niemon blend in somewhat. It was a futile effort. "Not at all," she said. "I'm a light eater."

"But you musht try thish fish," he said. He speared a section of flaky white meat and prodded it at her face. She drew back as much as she politely dared, trying to ignore the oily smell. She hated fish. "Thish ish from the Crystal Shea, in the norf." He finally swallowed the bulk of his mouthful. "That's past my own holdings, in -"

"The largest fresh body of water in the world," she said. Think food. "Their vineyards produce an ice wine to which I'm partial. They harvest a great deal of timber, but I wasn't aware of a significant fishing industry."

"I'm impressed. You're quite well-versed." He grinned, happily displaying all the bits of gristle caught between his teeth. "You must have researched me. Did you plan to flatter your way into my heart?"

"I happen to make a hobby of geography and the economics thereof," Ellesmere said.

"Yes, well." He waved a hand dismissively. "The fishing there is small-scale, but profitable enough to justify itself. The capila - that's this bugger -" He waved the fork excitedly. "- has a very strong scent, and flavor."

"So I've detected."

"A bit niche," he said, "but favored by myself and others. Your father ordered it for me, especially." He jabbed at a second plate holding another brand of fish with a darker, pink meat. "And that there, a leaping trout from the southern rivers. The name escapes me at the moment...top - no, tipa? T-something."

Ellesmere's voice was flat. "The tulpa."

"Tulpa! Yes! Isn't that interesting - getting these two distant fish together, on this day? You'd have to transport it with ice! Heaven knows how your old man got ice down south at this time of year. And so, I proclaim you must have the fish, to partake in the joy of exotic eating."

"I appreciate the thought and care that went into the meal, my lord, but I'm really quite -"

Lord Niemon used a pudgy finger to slide his hunk of calipa - the one he'd already bitten - onto her plate. He then quickly speared and deposited a piece of tulpa directly adjacent.

Ellesmere hesitated for a moment. She saw her father watching out of the corner of her eye. He'd surely heard the lord's boisterous enthusiasm for smelly fish. You will engage him, his eyes said.

Ellesmere duly reached for her fork. This small prelude to her rapidly incoming marriage was not what she had imagined. As her utensil inched toward her plate and the oozing, oily fish it contained, she found herself wishing for something to save her. Anything would do - anything to rescue her from the impending doom of Lord Niemon, his quivering fat, and swift isolation from the capital.

It struck her then, as she lifted the food to her mouth, what her father was doing. He was getting rid of her and tightening his bonds with the northern lord at the same time.

Empress.

It had always been a silly dream. But she was a silly girl no longer. Now she was a stupid woman.

She blinked rapidly, trying to hold off the water building in her eyes. God, if my faith in You was ever true, spare me from this. Send aid for Your servant.

"Princess?" Lord Niemon asked.

"I'm sorry," she said. "The scent is indeed...potent. Causing my eyes to...ah..."

"That's part of the fun!" Niemon said. "A little strong, I know, but it's an acquired taste. Go on!"

Ellesmere attempted one last breath of air through her mouth. The fishy slime seemed strong enough to sit on her tongue. "Here's to acquiring new tastes," she whispered.

That was the moment a naked man materialized directly in front of her. He plopped on the marble tile before their banquet table, landing on his side.

For a moment, as the man climbed to his feet, there was no reaction. The room simply had too much momentum - too many tasteless decorations, too many false pretenses, and too much horrid music. Ellesmere was vaguely aware of her fork slipping from her fingers and hitting the plate. She could only watch, mouth slightly agape, as if her mind couldn't quite wrap itself around the suddenness of it.

The man looked as though he'd been chiseled out from the wall, hewn from the marble and given life. His hair was a finely combed leaf of gold sitting on top of his head; his eyes were blue flames extracted from the hottest part of a fire. They burned at everything he examined.

And then the music stopped. Heads began to turn, a few at a time, and then in a wave, nestled among gasps and alarmed whispering. Her father stood, tugging lightly on her arm as he backed away from his seat. He started away around the table, shuttling his wife away from an apparent source of danger.

Ellesmere wasn't quite as quick on her feet. She got out of her chair to find that Lord Niemon had already abandoned her by the goodly distance of several yards and two armed guards. She pressed against the wall behind her and brought her arms in close, trying to look as unthreatening as possible.

Her father was the first to put words together. That, she supposed, was why he was the emperor.

"Seize him!"

The nude intruder raised his hands, and smiled. It was the strange smile of a man hearing an inside joke but recognizing that no one else could understand the humor. "I realize this is a strange situation, not to put too fine a point on it, but I have absolutely no time to spare. I mean you no harm. If you'd allow me to -"

A group of guards had already fenced the man against the table. One of them stepped forward with a set of clinking chains. He grabbed at the man's raised hand.

There was a blur of motion. The man almost climbed up onto the guard, wrapping his head with his arms and body with his legs. The chain fell to the floor with a metallic rattle. Ellesmere heard a sharp crack.

The man released his captive; the guard's body fell to the floor. His stomach was facing down, but his dead gaze was fixed on the ceiling.

Ellesmere recoiled in instinctual rejection of the unnatural way in which the guard's head had rotated. She clasped a hand to her mouth.

The wailing screams of fainting noblewomen created a new, disturbing music to match the dramatic change in the decor.

****

Charles was starting to get tired of the screams.

The ladies in the ballroom kept on shrieking. They were like the overstuffed pigeons that waddled around the city squares, eating bread and shitting on the pavement. They flapped their white-gloved hands around as if attempting to take off and escape from a predator - only then to realize that they were too fat to fly.

To be fair, Charles would have been pretty surprised if a naked man showed up in the middle of Boston and started killing people.

The room was long and wide, but it had a short ceiling. It was lit by several crystal chandeliers sparkling above a dance floor that ran the length of the hall, as well as by braziers and candles decorating every part of the walls that weren't taken up by tapestries or paintings. The space was all colors, so many he had to squint a bit. All the lords and ladies looked like puffed-up feathers.

Charles stood at one end of the room, just in front of a banquet table laden with food. The crowned man and woman that had been sitting nearby had been shuffled back by armed guards. Charles assumed they were probably important.

He himself was surrounded by more of said guards, men with sharp iron weapons and chainmail armor. They wore solid red tabards over the armor, each marked with a white sword. Upon his appearance in the hall, they had worn universal expressions of shock and anger. After Charles broke the neck of the first guard that had attempted to seize him, those looks were replaced by the clenched brows and narrowed eyes of fear and confusion.

Charles's gaze flickered between his assailants and his new status bars. He had health, now - as if it really were a game. The most dangerous game, as it were. In addition, there was the other thing Gary Morgan had mentioned - essence. It had flown up out of the dead man like a wispy spirit, then vanished into Charles's body. In exchange, his dark blue bar filled up by 20 points.

That would let him increase his Attributes and power his special attacks, but he didn't have time for the first and he had none of the second. He eyed the windows behind the table, trying to get a sense of how high up he was should he need to jump. He didn't have time to get involved with these people.

Charles raised his hands again and gave the men around him his most winsome smile, trying not to think about his lack of undergarments - or any other garment. "Please, allow me to speak. This is all just a big misund -"

Two guards rushed him, weapons out. One had a spear, the other an axe. Taking them straight on, bare handed, sounded like a great way to die very quickly.

Charles jumped onto the table. His prosthetic leg crashed through a platter of fish, sending it splattering over a thin woman huddled against the wall. The two guards clambered up after him, but they were hindered by their clothes and armor.

Charles jumped off the other side, then snatched an iron sconce off the wall. He turned and caught the spear-bearer in the side of the head as he was coming off the table. The man's helmet crunched in; he fell. Charles didn't get any essence, so he wasn't dead - but he wasn't moving, either. Good enough.

The other guard had gotten his feet back on the floor. He stepped forward, chopping with his axe. Charles twisted, but he was between the weapon and the wall. The iron blade bit into his shoulder.

The red bar in the corner of his vision dropped slightly. There was no pain aside from a pinching discomfort.

Charles grinned.

He jammed the candle-end of the sconce under the guard's chin. The man screamed and fell backward onto the floor, hands scrabbling to get burning wax off his face. Charles grabbed the fallen axe and broke for the fish-coated lady.

Another guard was there, blocking his path. Charles let himself get stabbed in the gut by a sword. The man looked surprised at his easy success until Charles buried the axe in his throat. He spluttered blood onto the marble as he died. This time, Charles received the pale smoke of more essence. 42, now.

Charles gripped the hilt of the sword sticking out of his abdomen and pulled it free, wincing at the odd sensation of an object sliding through his insides. Another step, and he'd grabbed the thin woman around the neck. She slapped ineffectually at his arm, screaming her head off.

Charles didn't really know how to use a sword, but he knew which end was for killing. He put the edge up against the woman's cheek. "Stop!" he shouted.

The guards that had been closing in froze. A few lords had drawn weapons; they too skidded to a halt. His hostage stopped shouting. The guard he'd struck with candles was still rolling on the floor nearby, holding his burned face and bawling softly.

"Don't move," Charles muttered. The woman turned her head slightly, away from the blade; she let her arms slowly fall to her sides. "Now," Charles said, more loudly, "can we pass on the fighting and have something resembling diplomacy?"

The older man with the fat ruby in the middle of his crown weaved around the guards that surrounded Charles. He looked pretty much like Charles expected a king to look: bearded, dignified, and slightly fat, but not quite so fat that he lost his royal bearing. But the way he held himself - the way he walked, nose in the air, stern eyes looking down on all he cared to look at - reeked of a cultivated arrogance built from a lifetime of everyone around him jumping to obey his orders.

Charles hated him immediately.

The king stopped on the opposite side of the banquet table. "Unhand my daughter."

"No," Charles said.

"I am the Emperor of Hadraan, Lord of the Four Kingdoms, Blessed by the High Vuldstadt and God Himself, and in His name and Mine, you will unhand my daughter!"

"Sorry, I only answer to people with at least five titles." Charles looked around. "Anyone else in this room have more meaningless bullshit in front of their name than the emperor?"

The joke was lost on his audience. The emperor glanced to the side, then back. "Who are you? What is the meaning of this?"

"I'm still figuring that out," Charles said. "I didn't ask to get dropped in the middle of your get-together without any clothes. Unfortunately, I don't have time to be arrested."

"If this is truly some misunderstanding, then why are you killing my men and holding my daughter hostage?"

"I only hurt people that attacked me first," Charles said. "I'm holding your daughter hostage because that's holding your attention. I don't -"

The emperor snapped his hand up. Two crossbow bolts whistled in from the side and thunked into Charles's midsection, one after another.

He grunted in surprise, then blinked. No real pain - it felt like a minor cramp. He threw the king a quick smile, then reached down and pulled the bolts out. After checking his grip on the princess, he let the steel barbs clatter to the floor.

Women gasped. Men's eyes widened. The king looked from the bolts to Charles's non-existent wound and back again. "How..."

Charles glanced at his status bar. The injuries had added up quickly - he only had 22 health points left, far down from his initial 50. He needed to extricate himself from this situation.

"Starting now," Charles said, "whatever is done to me gets done to your daughter. I have the distinct feeling I'm made of stronger stuff than she is."

The princess still hadn't moved, as instructed, though her bright green eyes flicked up. Charles met them. She quickly averted her gaze.

"What do you want?" the emperor asked.

Charles thought for a moment. "We're going to move to a small side chamber, where I can easily keep an eye on her. Then I'll dress myself in clothes and armor that you're going to give me. I also want you to prepare whatever serves as transport in this..." Charles eyed the ballroom. "...place."

An armored man near the king stepped closer. He looked like a knight out of medieval Europe, fully clad in plate, though he had one of those red-white tabards over his armor. "A carriage?" he asked.