Dream Drive Ch. 05

The horse finally leveled out at something that was probably about as fast as Rachel could run.

The collar pulsed ominously.

No, she thought at it. I'm not getting down and running. The horse is trained for this sort of thing. I'd sprint for half a mile and die. The horse can do this forever.

The collar stopped thrumming.

Rachel's face shriveled faster than if she'd just drank a gallon of prune juice. She looked down at the wooden band. That seemed way too good to be true. But it was true – the collar had responded to her own rationalizations.

What did that mean? Something important. She had to figure it out before she got back to Hale. Smoke rising in the distance informed her that would not be a very long interval of time.

A few scouts, bodies flat to the plain, stood up as she rode close. They recognized her quickly and returned to lying prone, eyes on the horizon. She passed into the empty space between the outer rim of soldiers and the campsite proper, finally letting the horse drift to a slower pace. It wheezed through its nose.

The collar hummed. She wasn't galloping at Hale's tent.

I'm going as quickly as possible, Rachel thought. I can't run people down and screw up the camp.

The collar stopped again.

She could control it. She could control the collar. What was she missing? It was reacting to something, her thoughts, her...

For some reason, the Dream Hub tagline was spat up from the bowels of her memory. Perception is reality.

Perception! That was it. The collar responded to her own perception of whether she was following Hale's orders or not. If she could make a reasonable argument to herself, then the collar followed suit. Finally, after two days of slavery, she'd found the crack in Hale's suit of armor.

It wasn't very much wiggle room. She couldn't take the collar off herself, or damage it, or do anything to it – that was a direct order. Couldn't squeeze out of that one.

Rachel had her parameters; she had a goal. The variables were defined. She just had to implement. Just like writing a program. No sweat. I got this.

What were her standing orders? No touching the collar. No talking about the collar. Address Hale properly. No discussing the details of Lord Hale's plans regarding his magic, troops, or holdings in any way that could damage his standing in the empire.

That last one. His standing in the empire. It was vague. He'd given it with the air of someone who had said the words to a dozen other slaves, and his wording had gotten a tad lazy. It had a weakness - she just had to find it.

She reached the camp proper. It was an angular, strictly organized affair. The brown tents were in long, even rows; the soldiers had already tramped down major paths between them. Latrines were dug in the distance on the other side of camp, away from the supplies and horses.

Officer tents were not clustered in any particular area, but rather, scattered throughout the normal tents, and they weren't marked by anything special. The air was subdued, quiet. No drinking, no gambling. A few huddled conversations, some laughter, but no disorder. She rode by several on-duty guards. They were always posted in pairs.

Commander Tell'ad was a bit high on himself, but he sure knew how to run an army.

Rachel ignored the big tent in the center flying Lord Hale's green-and-black standard. That was the decoy tent for would-be attackers or assassins. Accidents could happen, especially while a lord was away from home.

Instead, she went for a slightly larger-than-average tent. The size marked someone of notable military office, but nothing too important. Her collar – and the ten-odd guards positioned at shadowy spaces between neighboring tents – told her this was Hale's temporary residence.

She brought the horse to a halt and slid off the saddle. Her legs shook; her knees wanted to collapse. She needed to sit, rest, let the video game part of her life do its magic. But the collar wouldn't let her stay. A man came to attend to her horse, and she started to trudge forward.

That was the groom. Rachel slowed and turned her head. "Yo, dude."

The groom gave her a look that said she's-important-so-I'll-just-go-with-it. "Ah...my lady?"

Rachel's collar hummed again. She ignored it. "What's that horse's name, again?"

The groom glanced at the horse for a moment, then back at her. "Juniper, my lady."

"Thanks. Juniper was great. Give him a carrot or something. Is there a girl horsey he likes? He deserves –"

Rachel tripped. The collar felt like it was stabbing into her neck. She stumbled across the ground toward Hale's tent, falling to her hands and knees as that blade was drawn back across her spine.

"My lady?!" The groom dashed forward. Several of the guards shifted, uncertain if helping her was more important than keeping their posts.

Small-dicked little pissy face-fucked faggot munching ass wiper bitch shithead FUCK.

The pain was fading. Rachel held up a hand. "Just...headache. Bad headache. I get them. Thanks for...Juniper." She stood straight and strode for the canvas. "I'll visit later. Him. The horse. He's cool."

"Um...yes, my lady."

Rachel brushed aside the tent flap without bothering to announce herself. Hale would know she was there.

He was shirtless, and shaving. He wasn't muscular, but he had more muscle than fat. He was taller than Rachel, but almost everyone was taller than Rachel, except for those with clinically stunted growth, so that wasn't really saying much. His hair was jet black and short.

Hale used a straight razor. Rachel noticed he did that twice a day, when he could. He was very quick – he lathered and shaved his entire face, twice, in less than ten minutes. Apparently the second pass made a difference. Rachel didn't really see it.

"Rachel," he said. He was at the wrong angle to see her in his mirror, but he didn't need to see her to know she was there. "You were successful."

He had the same presumptuous tone he usually did. It was less his voice and more the word choice. You are this. You were that. You did this, otherwise you would not waste my time with your presence, because as we all know, my time is better than yours, because I'm a big fat fucking asshole.

Rachel swallowed, and nodded. "Yeah." She caught herself. "I mean, yes, Lord Hale." She dug into her pocket and drew out the small black box. "So, my Lord, what the hell is this thing?"

Hale didn't answer immediately. He swept his razor across his chin, flicking the lather off his face and into the small basin under the mirror. He splashed a bit of water on his neck to clean the remainder off, then pulled his shirt over his head.

He faced her. His face was like his hair – neat, clean. Too clean for an asshole like him. He held out his hand. "The box."

Rachel handed it to him. He raised it up, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. The lantern light in the tent faded in its presence. "Incredible. This might just be a primary sample."

"Of what?"

Lord Hale looked at her.

Rachel held in her sigh. "A primary sample of what, my lord?"

"Within this box," Hale said, "is contained the encapsulated authority of the creator, the Word of God Himself."

"...oh."

"Oh?" Hale made a sort of self-satisfied chuckle that made Rachel want to punch him in the face. "Oh, she says. As if it's not a penny in her well."

Hale strode toward her and gripped her chin in his hands. He turned her face from side-to-side, inspecting her like he inspected the box.

Rachel thought of Jackson's hands, and how gentle they were when they cleaned her off.

Stupid. Thinking about shit like that. Focus.

"Something happened in the rattok caverns," Hale said.

Rachel said nothing.

He glanced to the entrance of the tent without following up on his statement. "Fetch me the commander."

A voice answered from outside the tent. "Right away, my lord."

Hale still hadn't released her chin. Rachel was starting to loathe his grip. She imagined clamping his arm to a table and chopping off his fingers one at a time. It helped.

He faced her again. "The Word of God," Hale said. "Do you understand what I mean?"

His grip wouldn't let her shake her head. She shrugged instead. "I told you, we don't have magic in my world. My lord."

"It is said that demons made these containers." His fingers tightened, squeezing her skin painfully. "They lost the war for control of the Higher Plane, but even in their defeat, they were cunning. They wanted to preserve His power for their own use, even that which echoed around them as they were cast down. And so they used these constructs to trap His very words, to be released at time of need."

He finally let her chin go and raised the inky box again. "Perhaps that is just a legend; there may be some other arcane source. Regardless of their origin, we do not know how they are made, these originals. But we can copy them. And we can copy those copies - but the power contained is lessened with each duplication. The lesser formats are said to be magical dilutions." He rubbed the top of the box with his other hand. "The closer to the original, the more powerful. More potential, if utilized properly."

"How is it utilized, my lord?" Rachel asked.

"Through runes," he said. "Runes are crafted about the box itself. When released, the box absorbs them. There are limits, of course. The runes must somehow use the power of the given word. Runes alone cannot forge fire from water, but they could turn the Word water into a pressurized jet, or a rolling wave. The crafting of runes into a particular spell is a delicate process, one that involves embedding part of it into the soul itself. Collectively, the finalized runic enchantment and the box's power are termed a single Word. Even I can only hold four at a time."

Rachel blinked. Usually he wasn't so up front with sensitive information. "Why is that, my lord?"

"Words are as enchantments upon the soul," he said, "and a soul can only bear so much. Only a lifetime of training has enabled me to carry such."

"I see."

"You're confused as to why I'm telling you these things," he said.

Rachel's teeth ground in the back of her mouth.

"And now you're wondering how it is I can read your thoughts," Hale whispered.

Rachel shivered.

Was it true? Did the collar tell him everything? She wasn't sure. Between the pain, and the chaos of her life over the past few days, she couldn't tell. Her entire soul might be laid bare for him to read like a book.

No. He didn't know everything. She'd found a loophole in the collar: his orders were subject to her interpretation.

"Well, my lovely Lady Ransfeld," he said, "I'm glad you returned in one piece. You seem to have had a time of it." He trailed a finger down her oil-encrusted hair. "My golden-haired warrior. You are such a cute, delectable little thing."

"You have a point, my lord?" Rachel growled.

"Oh, my," he said, withdrawing his finger. "I forgot. You don't like it when people touch your hair. We still have to fix that, don't we?"

Pain shot through Rachel. It ran up her right leg like a line of fire. Her knee buckled. She fell onto all fours.

"Now," Hale said, "let's repeat our mantra."

Rachel gasped. The pain lingered; it throbbed, receded, throbbed again.

"Don't keep me waiting." His voice had a dangerous edge.

"I serve...Lord Hale," Rachel said.

"Very good. How do you serve me?"

"With my body and heart and soul."

"Repeat. All of it."

"I serve Lord Hale with my body and heart and soul."

"Again."

Rachel's lips drew back over her teeth. "I serve," she said, "Lord Hale. With my body, and heart, and soul. Are you satisfied yet, my lord?"

Rachel shrieked and fell to the ground. She could feel it, feel the cold sharp steel of a blade sliding through her body, cutting and slicing the skin. And then it was gone. She shivered, curling up on the ground in her blood-covered leather and torn up cloak.

"Let's avoid such improvisation in the future," he said calmly. He moved so his feet were at her face. An ugly frown stained his clean-shaven face. "Once more. With feeling."

"I serve Lord Hale with my body and heart and soul," Rachel whispered.

"Yes, you do," he said. "You'll be my finest servant, Rachel. I promise you that. Limitless untapped potential. You are the tool I will use to dominate this tiny little world. The plains, first, once I scour them of their infestation, and then the empire."

"My lord." It was the commander's voice. "I have come."

"Enter."

Tell'ad brushed aside the tent flap. His greying hair was unkempt; he must have been sleeping. His eyes went to Rachel, watched her breathing through the grass and dirt. He looked back to Lord Hale. "Was there something you wanted to discuss?"

"Indeed. My preparations are far enough along to time well with our attack." Hale considered the box, apparently not caring if Tell'ad saw it. "We march tomorrow morning. This spy of yours - he said this Mountain Meet will last several days?"

Tall'ad nodded. "A week, my lord. Often longer. It will take at least that for the closest tribe to get there."

"That gives us an excellent timetable," Hale said. "Don't tire the men, but keep the scouts extended far in all directions. I do not want them to get wind of this attack. We have quite a few advantages, but they still outnumber us. I want to lose as little as possible in this endeavor."

"Yes, my lord." Tall'ad looked at Rachel one more time; there was a brief flicker of pity in his eyes. And then he bowed, and slipped out of the tent.

I don't want your fucking pity.

"Now, back to more important matters," Hale said. He took a knee and put a hand on Rachel's cheek. She clenched up. "There, there," he said. He stroked his hand along her face. "Rachel, Rachel. Rachel. I know it's hard. I know you're still trying to think about how you'll get out of this. But eventually, you'll be casting spells alongside me. You'll wonder why you ever thought to leave my side. You'll be my everything...everything I need you to be. You're the woman I've been looking for. A woman enough to be my partner." He tapped her nose with his finger. "You just need to learn a touch more obedience!"

Rachel made a sound in the back of her throat that she hoped was defiant. If she didn't use words, she didn't have to call him Lord Hale.

"Come, be reasonable," he said. "If I can deliver pain...imagine what kind of pleasure I can give you." He trailed his hand down her torso. He cupped her small breast through the hard casing of leather. "I'll make an empress of you. I'll give you the whole world. You'll make good use of it; you're an intelligent woman. If you weren't, I would've already discarded you." He let his hand slide down further and clenched hold of her ass. "You're quite beautiful, too. I'll truly enjoy that part of our -"

Rachel threw herself at him, going for his throat with her teeth.

She collapsed halfway. The pain struck her down, destroyed her nerves, rebuilt them, and destroyed them again. She screamed. Her body twitched and spasmed against her will.

It stopped. The pain just turned off, but her body still roiled, shivered, as if it couldn't believe that things had changed so quickly.

"Don't do that again," Hale said. "That's an order."

Rachel felt the collar shift. Another order; another limitation. But he hadn't said not to attack him – just not to attack him like that. She just had to bide her time for round two. I've been a programmer longer than you have, Hale.

Hale took her hand – her star-scarred hand. He traced a finger across the inverted pentagram dug into her flesh, as if memorizing the pattern. "You're still holding onto something. Tell me what it is."

Rachel was silent. She kept herself relaxed, letting him play with her hand. She was an empty doll. She wouldn't struggle. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"Tell me," he said. His voice had the edge again.

"Yes, my lord," Rachel said. "I still think I'm going to escape you."

"It's because I gave you a little room to work with, isn't it?"

Rachel had built a little territory inside her mind, a little space of safety. She had weapons; she had tools. She could resist him.

With just that one sentence, he buried all of it under a black tide of helplessness.

"You think I don't know how my own spell works?" he asked. "You think I'd just casually give you slack to play with? Did it feel good, when you thought you'd figured it out?" He leaned in closer. "I'm engineering your behavior, Rachel, right down to the conclusions you think you're making on your own. It's one thing to force you to obey me. It's another entirely to crush the hopes I allow you to form." He sat back up, still petting her hand like she really was a doll. "You'll learn, Rachel. This is the way it has to be right now. You'll thank me later. Now. What happened in the caverns?"

"...I killed a lot of rattok, my lord," she said. "And I got the box."

"And what else?"

"And it was moldy and cold and bloody," she said. "I didn't enjoy it."

Hale fixed her with a stare. His eyes pierced through her core. He could see everything.

Don't believe him. Don't believe him. I can't believe him.

"There was a lot of stuff," she said.

"I want you," Hale said, "to tell me every detail about your journey, from beginning to end. Or I will make you wish you had."

Rachel started talking.

She described the forest, the ruins, and told him about the rattok. She detailed him how many she killed and how she killed them; how much essence she collected, and how she spent it, along with any and all abilities she used. She spared no grisly moment of the ceremony that transformed captive people into rattok.

And then she fed him a load of bull about how she'd gotten her hair soaked in oil, singlehandedly killed the rattok mage, discovered the box, and escaped the ruins.

She did not mention Jackson.

Hale didn't notice.

****
Jackson reached the Windseeker camp after nightfall.

Chaki was waiting for him at the edge of the tents. Shaka was standing next to her, arms folded. Jackson urged Smallgrass up at a gentle canter.

He gently pulled on the horse's neck, bringing it to a stop. He slid off the side of the animal. His feet hit the ground hard. His body told him it was ready for action, but his mind argued otherwise. He was tired of reacting, tired of jumping; his brain was fried from being on high alert all the time.

Chaki and Shaka didn't move; they were quiet. He had felt Chaki's presence grow in his mind for some time as he'd approached the tipis. He gripped that feeling tight.

The bond told him Chaki was a tight ball of fire. Her brown eyes were sharp in the oncoming night. She faced him, watching him, but not saying anything.

Jackson walked forward to hug her.

She raised her hand and smacked him on the side of the face. "You idiot!" she shrieked.

Jackson reeled, both from the stinging and the exploding bond inside his head. He felt so much from her he wasn't sure what he was feeling. Worry, anger, rage, concern, helplessness, desperation, fear; all shot at him like boiling arrows.

And then her arms were around him. She was crying on his shoulder. "You - you are never, ever, doing something like that again! Ever! Are you listening, Jack!?"

"I heard you," Jackson grunted. His cheek throbbed. He managed to hug her back.

"Good!"

"Missed you too."

"You smell like those things," Chaki said. "I'm surprised Smallgrass carried you."

"Me too."

"Throw yourself in the creek, and then come see me. We will talk." The last was said with the authority of a queen telling her general he was about to be sent to the guillotine. She turned on the spot and stalked back into the camp.