Dream Drive Ch. 08

"Who are you trying to convince, princess?" Charles asked. She pressed her lips tight; her eyes scanned the room as she thought of more to say. Charles turned to the window. "I'm going to leave now."

"Do you - I don't -" Ellesmere stammered through several aborted sentences. "Who are you, anyway?! You're not even from the empire!"

"I'm Charles Ransfeld," he said, "and my empire makes this one look like a pile of rocks." Charles glanced out the window - the rope didn't touch the ground, but it went far enough for him to fall the rest of the way. He turned back to Ellesmere. "Some advice, princess. A true empress would attend her dancing lessons with false enthusiasm and learn geography quietly."

"What for?"

"So you can take power when your father least expects it," Charles said, "because he'll never give it to you."

"You don't know that. You don't know anything!"

Charles shrugged. "My father wouldn't, and I'm the male heir."

"Then..." Ellesmere hesitated. "...what did you do? To take power?"

"Interested, are we?"

"Curious. Not interested."

Charles's smile turned into a smirk. "Oh, right, I see. Well, my father's currently bedridden courtesy of a slow-acting poison. He'll be dead soon."

"You'd kill your own father?" Ellesmere asked.

Charles wanted to go. He should have already been gone; he should have slid down the rope as soon as it was at the right height.

But he faced the princess squarely. On a certain level, they were the same. This was perhaps one of few people that might understand a reasonable explanation of patricide - royalty.

"Yes, I'd kill him," Charles said. "And I'd do it again. He's a heartless monster. He's given up on people. Me - at least I think I can do something about it. All he cares about is his damn company, reputation, making money - he doesn't see to the next step, what lies beyond. And he's kept my sister..." Charles stopped, sighed. "It doesn't matter. You probably don't understand what I mean."

"I -" Ellesmere paused, shook her head. "It would be presumptuous of me to claim understanding. No - I do not know why you'd kill your father for power, Charles Ransfeld."

Charles gave her a slight bow. "I appreciate your honesty."

"The emperor is hard," Ellesmere said. "He is demanding. But there are times he has shown affection for me. Love, perhaps. I do not think he hates me. But who are we to judge the necessity of another's death?"

"Emperors," Charles said. "Isn't that what you want to be? Or maybe you just never thought it through to the ugly conclusion."

Ellesmere frowned. She looked to the floor, holding her cheek in her hand. She didn't answer.

"Well, my princess," Charles said. He fixed the straps of his pack on his shoulders, shrugging a bit to set it straight. "The conversation has been stimulating, but I'm..." He smiled. "I'm late for a very important date. You can take my advice, or you can leave it. If you think you have what it takes to rule an entire country, then by all means -"

The door of their room burst open, slamming hard against the stone. Charles and the princess spun.

There was a man standing in the opening; he was dressed in black trousers and a loose red shirt. He gripped an ink-black cube in one hand. Symbols floated around the cube, blazing red lettering in a strange language that Charles didn't recognize.

The symbols peeled themselves off the air, spun about, and were sucked into the cube like liquid flames running down a drain. A red orb grew in the man's free hand. He extended his palm, as if pushing the twinkling orb outward.

"Watch out!" Ellesmere screamed.

Charles automatically shoved himself away from the wall. A moment later, the orb shot across the room and struck the stone.

The orb detonated, releasing a sphere of red flames. The rope was incinerated. The blast threw Charles off his feet. His sword went flying away, clattering behind a wooden crate. He managed to turn his fall into a roll. He dragged himself up off the ground, his pack dangling off of one shoulder.

Smoke was roiling over the room. The weapon racks ignited and turned to ash as the blood-red fire ate through the wood unnaturally fast. It seemed to puddle up and sit on the stone rather than blink out. Ellesmere pressed herself against the back wall, keeping away from the flames as best as she could.

He looked back at his attacker. The man was working his free hand again, drawing the burning sigils in the air - the same pattern.

Charles was exposed in the center of an enclosed stone tower. The rope was long gone. They were at least four stories up. There was nowhere to run.

The red light converged into the black box. The man raised his palm.

Charles grabbed the strap of his pack and, standing, hurled it off his shoulder as hard as he could. It flew in an arc toward the magician as the red orb of light shot across the room.

The orb struck the pack's canteen. Red fire exploded. Steam from vaporizing water and strips of flaming leather were flung in every direction.

Charles braced himself and ran toward the door. He leaped over the puddle of fire below where his pack was blown to pieces and plunged through the smoke.

He emerged from the other side. The magician was still blocking the doorway, staring at him. Charles stared back.

The man started to draw another rune.

Charles was there in an instant. He brought up the heel of his palm and smashed it into the man's nose. The magician reeled backward, blood spurting in an arc from his face.

You have created a new skill: Palm Heel Strike

Charles grabbed the man's flailing wrist without reading the message. He twisted under the man's arm, locked it behind him, then threw him over his shoulder and onto the stone floor of the hall. The man hit the ground on his back.

You have created a new skill: Wrist Lock

You have created a new skill: Shoulder Throw

Charles lifted his iron foot and stomped on the man's throat three times in rapid succession, crushing his windpipe to the stone, then kicked him in the temple for good measure. The magician twitched on the floor, his face a bloody mess, his hands working feebly at his throat. Charles jammed the toe of his boot into the man's kidney, hard. The magician rolled away, making a strangled groaning noise before he stopped moving altogether. There wasn't any essence, so he wasn't dead - yet.

Charles glanced up. There was another man standing just next to him, wearing an identical black and red uniform. He held an identical black box. His face was pulled back in horror.

The magician started backpedaling, desperate to make space as he drew out his runes with a finger. His gestures were frantic - the strange sigils were slow to appear.

If they have to concentrate to do it, I need to keep the pressure on. Charles pounced on him, leading with a punch. The man ducked it, but Charles threw a quick jab with his other hand, catching him on the cheek. The magician stumbled.

That was all Charles needed. He rolled into a series of blows, the strikes snapping the man's chin back and forth and driving him back down the hall leading to the fitting room. He collapsed to the floor, eyes rolling up into the back of his head.

You have created a new skill: Power Punch

Charles wrung his hands. They stung a bit, but the pain faded almost as soon as he noticed it. Normally, punching that hard without gloves was dangerous - you could easily break your hands. Another benefit of being a gamer.

When Charles looked up, he realized he'd beaten the man all the way to the intersection that led back toward the armory. He wasn't alone.

Guards were packed into the space in every direction, all armed to the teeth. Metal clinked on metal as a few of them shifted. There was a strange and awkward moment in which no one moved.

Charles took a slow step back.

"Get him!"

Charles turned on a dime and retreated toward the fitting room. The guards jostled amongst one another to chase him down. The hall was just wide enough for two men abreast; the bottleneck gave him a moment to sprint ahead. Once he had enough space, he turned back around and planted his feet.

The first guard reached him with his axe swinging. Charles went against the wall, avoiding the attack. Pushing his back against the stone for leverage, he kicked out with both feet, shoving the guard into the man next to him. They collapsed into a pile.

The men running behind them pulled up, but they had another two dozen just behind them. There was a moment in which they tried to stop, balancing on their toes and waving their arms, and then they were pushed over from behind.

Charles got one of the guards as he fell with a rising uppercut, catching him straight under the chin. The man went from toppling forward to flying backward, crashing into the man behind him. That was when Charles noticed it for the first time - the white haze of light that lingered on his knuckles following his punch.

You have created a new skill: Power Uppercut

The overwhelming stampede of guards turned into a human avalanche; what had threatened to trample him a moment earlier was now a confused tangle. Men in the back were shouting and waving their weapons impatiently. Charles could see Sir Gerod's shiny plate armor blinking as he raised his arm and tried to bring order to the chaos.

Charles picked up the fallen axe. He examined the weapon for just a moment, turning it in his grip. A sword was too finicky. This was more his style. Straightforward. Efficient.

He swung it down as one of the guards started to pick himself off the ground. He was still on all fours when Charles's axe split his face in two. He went limp; Charles's essence bar filled another 20 points.

As the dead guard fell flat, he landed on the legs of another man that was trying to stand up. That soldier fell back on his elbows. Charles wedged his axe free, then gripped it with both hands and chopped down at the exposed man's neck in a full-body swing. His blow took the man's head clean off.

You have created a new skill: Power Chop

Charles met a clean opponent - a man with a winged spear, on his feet and facing forward. He thrust forward. Charles stepped back, out of reach, but swung down at the same time.

The blade of his axe caught on the wing of the spear. Charles pulled backward, dragging the man forward. He brought his axe up, swinging as hard as he could - and it was shining with white light.

The axe blew through the man's chest, slicing through chain armor, his heart, and up his shoulder, nearly taking his arm clean off. The guard fell to his knees, then collapsed, dead. Charles lost 15 points of essence from the ability, but he gained another 22 for the kill.

You have created a new skill: Crescent Sweep

The spray of blood from Charles's attack was flung up across another guard and over the stone wall. The man sputtered and brought his hands up to wipe his eyes. Charles's glowing axe chopped through his hand and into his skull. He was kicked away into the growing pile of bodies.

Charles checked his grip on his axe and waded into the mess of guards. With every skill-based attack, he felt as if a hand was guiding his arm, steering him to the best angle to pierce armor or hack away unprotected limbs. His rare missed swings chipped stone off the sides of the hallway. One of his blows crushed an iron brazier, sending sparks and fire across the guards. Even if his attacks didn't penetrate their chainmail, the blade of the axe crushed and bruised, knocking them back.

Charles could smell burning leather and wood - it was coming from the fitting room. He couldn't retreat, so he kept pressing forward. His blue bar surged past the marker indicating its capacity until he was bleeding essence through his skin. The hazy light was scattered by the smoke wafting around him, making it seem as though he was surrounded by a pale aura.

Charles grinned, and his axe blazed white. He loved fighting - always had. They were the only simulations worth the trouble, the ones that trained the mind and body for a real purpose, making one stronger, faster, more capable - not idiotic adventures in wish-fulfillment.

He blew through the guards, one after another. His axe was a bar of white heat. Every swing was death. More men filled the halls, crowded around him - and so he killed them, until his new boots and clothes were stained with splattered blood and the blade of his axe was coated in gore.

You have created a new skill: Berserk

Berserk: While activated, enhances the strength of all attacks and reduces knockback from incoming attacks.

- Essence Cost: 3 per second

- Level: 1

- Progress: 78.5%

Charles fought all the way back to the intersection. His next swing crashed into another man's axe coming the other way - but Charles's blow was stronger. His weapon shattered the one in his way, and he followed through with another swing, taking off the man's arm at the elbow. The guard screamed and fell back against the wall.

Charles looked up. He was breathing hard. His vision was narrowed. White lines traced across his fingers and down his wrists. Was that the new skill?

"Now! Cast a spell!"

"Which one?!"

"It doesn't matter! Just stop him!"

Ahead were the last few men that stood against him. Two more guards, shaking in their boots. Sir Gerod, in his plate, pointing down toward Charles - and another magician, clad in red shirt and black trousers. Runes were forming above the black box he held in his hand.

It was too far for Charles to make it in time. He whipped his axe to the side, crushing the throat of the guard he'd just de-limbed. He hoisted the man up with a grunt, holding him under the leg and at his collar, then ran forward, using him as a meat shield.

A red light was forming in the magician's hand - it wasn't a sphere. An arrow?

Charles heard a sound like an engine's roar. He could feel a wave of heat getting closer. He propped his impromptu shield higher, trying to cover his face and chest.

The arrow struck home. The body in Charles's hands exploded in flames. Searing light and fire crashed over him. His health bar - which had almost filled back up in his unscathed frenzy - was cut in half in an instant.

Globs of red flame clung to his arms and legs, burning holes in his clothes. This was the first thing that hurt him - really hurt - a prickling, too-hot sensation, like hundreds of needles pressed into the skin but not quite drawing blood. His health bar ticked downward rapidly. A status window showing a picture of flames flashed underneath the bar, but he had no time to read it in detail.

Red burning splotches burned through the wooden rafters and beams supporting the hall, adding smoke to that already pouring from the fitting room. The bottom of a tapestry was turned to ash, unraveling the rest into half-singed fibers. Even the stone wasn't spared, blackening where the pools of magic fire collected. The air coming from those spots smelled like acid.

Charles dropped the charred remains of the corpse he was holding, then leapt forward, axe in hand, the fire still eating its way across his skin. He roared against the pain and pushed his legs into the ground, sprinting as fast as he could.

The magician was stunned for a moment, but he started rapidly drawing more runes. Sir Gerod held his sword ready. He gestured the last two guards forward.

The men slowly approached, one with a warhammer, the other an axe. They both look horrified. Charles mentally prepared his skill for use; his axe flared. They hesitated when they saw the white light. That was a lethal decision.

Charles felled the first before he decided how to defend himself. The second managed to swing his hammer, but Charles saw it coming. He ducked low, then came up with his axe, slicing the guard's leg through the bone. The man dropped.

Charles renewed his sprint toward his last two obstacles, keeping his axe level. The knight probably had more skill - and maybe more tricks - but if Charles attacked him first, the magician might have time to cast another spell. If he went for the magician, Gerod would get a free shot at him. He wasn't sure if his health bar could take another sword in the stomach.

The instant was over. Charles was there. He had to make a decision.

Charles turned to Gerod - but he didn't attack the knight. He aimed for the man's blade, using a Power Chop to give himself the strength and accuracy he needed.

Gerod's sword glowed white.

Their weapons collided. For an instant, they held there, locked in place. The iron blades screeched and flickered with light as they fought for dominance, each guided by the invisible force that formed the stroke of every skill.

Both weapons shattered.

Charles fell past Gerod. Gerod stumbled the other way, his heavy plate working against him as he fought to stop his momentum.

Charles brought his arm around, clotheslining the magician. The man fell on his back, striking the stone with a grunt. His half-completed runes hung in the air. His finger drew desperately, trying to get the last of it done.

Charles dropped an elbow on his stomach, then put the magician into a headlock, pulling hard. Spittle formed at the magician's mouth as he fought for his breaths, his finger slowly working in the air. He was halfway through the last rune that would make an exploding orb.

The magician's hand faltered. It flopped to the stone. The man's neck relaxed. Charles used his lock to crank the magician's head backward until he felt the ugly crunch of bone. Charles released the lock, then rolled him away.

He'd put a foot under himself when a metal something slammed into his temple. He was sent to the floor; the back of his head hit the stone.

Charles's vision wavered. A red mist appeared at the edge of his vision. He had barely a sliver of red health points remaining. His ears rung with a bleeping warning tone, like that of a cellphone almost out of battery.

As the hall came back into focus, a swirling symbol under his health bar faded. Dizziness, going away - but he still felt weak.

Sir Gerod stood over Charles, holding the broken blade of his sword in his iron gauntlets. He'd hit Charles in the head with the pommel. He reversed his grip and leaned down to stab Charles with the inch or two of sword that was left.

Charles kicked out with his foot, hitting Gerod in the knee. The knight wobbled. Charles kicked again. Gerod fell, but swung his weapon as he did.

Charles threw himself into a desperate roll. The broken sword nicked the edge of his cotton vest and clanked off the stone. Gerod clawed his way up and chased Charles on his hands and knees, stabbing as Charles kept rolling.

Charles built momentum and brought in his legs. He sprang up, wobbled for a moment, then planted his feet. Gerod had given up further back down the hall - he rested on a knee for a moment, then stood.

Charles glanced around for options. Smoke clouded the air and burned in his lungs. He bent low to try to get a fresher breath of air. Heat was everywhere now, not from magic, but natural fire. Half the hallway was burning.

He was far past the intersection. He tried the armory door behind him - locked. The dead bodies of the guards and their fallen weapons were on the other side of Gerod.

The magician's black box was on the ground nearby. Charles snatched it up and held it out. Nothing happened. He rotated it in his hand a bit, then tried to draw with his other finger, but he couldn't remember the exact shapes. The glowing lines didn't materialize.

"You're unarmed," Gerod said, "and unarmored. This fight is over. Surrender, and I'll make it quick."

Charles shoved the box in his pocket. "I think your sword's broken."