Escape from heavalun, p.19
Escape From Heavalun, page 19
“It just takes time, be there for him and maybe introduce him to people to settle in more,” Burlai shrugged, having slayed his own demons long ago.
“That is a wonderful idea, dear,” Mulaney half yelled in joy. “We have a gala coming up in a few weeks. Perhaps that will be a good chance for him to meet people.”
Eivaley could admit that it hopefully would be an opportunity for Conor to acclimatize to the palace. But from what she had observed, she doubted that he would enjoy the crowds of people or the prim and proper nature of such an event; she hardly enjoyed spending time with so many people who have sticks up their asses—but only time would give those answers.
Section Sixteen
A Grand Entrance
Conor took a moment to tuck in the gilded sash around his waist. Vuraley had given him the sash and some robes for the gala tonight. Both the First Champion and Eivaley did their best to convince him to dress like the other champions and nobles would be tonight, but Conor would sooner suck start a shotgun than wear one of those skirts.
So instead of wearing those toga-like garments, Conor wore his black combat pants, tank top, and battle belt with Brakuls’ hand cannon holstered. It was all black, save for the pistol. He had even attached his nano flex armor to his wrist just in case he had to stop a blade or bullet.
Looking at himself in the mirror, Conor chuckled. The golden sash, tactical attire, and metal arm made him look ridiculous. He looked like some fool peacocking as a warrior ready to lead a group of soldiers to their untimely deaths.
Conor had seen the type enough times over the years. Usually, they were rich kids, and Daddy Corpo helped fulfill their misguided dreams of being a Billy Badass. They typically ended up bleeding out in a gutter, choking on their own blood within a few hours.
Such is life when you want to play with guns and pretend you are something you are not.
Conor pulled out Brakuls’ pistol and racked the slide to check for ammo. He was greeted by a glistening brass cartridge peeking out of the chamber. Once he released the slide, Conor paused and stared at the old pistol.
The Tenyalin-made 12.7 mm pistol glistened in the bright light of the room Vuraley had given it to him. The gun was far older than Conor, and the patina and dents in the slide and grip evidenced that.
But a lot like Conor and Brakul, despite having been dragged through gutters, buried in bodies, and having killed uncountable sentients, the handgun just kept on trucking. It went bang every time Brakul pulled the trigger; now it did the same for Conor since he swapped his JKL for it.
Any remnants of his friend’s blood were cleaned off the pristine steel. Conor had a ritualistic cleaning of the pistol for hours each night, never feeling as if it was free of his failure. He could still see and feel Brakuls blood warm and dripping off it, no matter how many wipes and oils he attacked the grime with.
In addition, the weapon weighed more than it should. Conor had handled the weapon hundreds of times when Brakul was still alive, but now it seemed to weigh more than an antimaterial rifle.
The Human shoved the pistol back into his holster and sighed, still not used to not having his dear friend around. Conor was glad that Eivaley had gone through the effort of getting him ammunition for the rare weapon before the gala; without it, he was black on ammo, save for what he had left for the JKL.
The fifth princess had gone through the efforts of requesting the munitions for her potential Champion because it was customary for all Champions to be armed with a weapon of their preference while escorting a lady.
According to Vuraley, Conor would be the only Champion there wielding any form of a slug thrower, or long-range weapon for that matter.
The Kurlatra Champions prided themselves on hand-to-hand and bladed weapons, so Conor should expect most males to be armed with swords or the occasional knife. At least he had the advantage of stand-off distance if anyone decided to get froggy.
Over the last three weeks, Eivaley had been hounding him about the pistol and his aloof attitude. Conor did his best to hide his feelings about Brakul’s death from her. But that lasted only a few minutes. She asked direct, pertinent questions that smashed his defenses like a tank.
She had been insistent Conor could tell her anything, and she would listen, promising to aid him in coping. But he shut that down, not ready to open that can of worms.
He would have shoved them through the wall if anyone else had asked them of him.
But Conor did not want to harm a scale on her. Whether it was that Eivaley could read him like a book, that her eyes seemed to pierce his soul, or that her father arranged to pay him more than he could ever spend for her safety and to act as her Champion, he had not decided yet—but that was a bridge he could burn later.
Once she figured out Conor was upset because of Brakul’s passing, Eivaley clung to him more than she had already been. She was waiting for him outside of the showers, sneaking into his bed, trying to help him clean guns, struggling to keep up with morning runs and exercise; Conor even caught her listening in to his meetings with the doctor to discuss his medical cocktails the royal doctor had cooked up. At least she was willing to shove off once the doctor found out that she was around the corner.
After shutting off the light and double-checking that every entrance to his bedroom was locked, Conor knew he was ready for the inevitable shit show this gala was going to be. At least he was as prepared as possible.
This gala would undoubtedly be the most out of place Conor had ever been in his life. He was going to be the only Human, the only one carrying strange weapons, and he would wear clothes that did not fit in with the high nobles of the Kurlatra.
That was all before you stacked up the factors that Eivaley would be prancing around and showing Conor off to every noble from across the planet.
They were aware of his existence. Plenty of the royals had seen him on his morning runs with Eivaley and his two guards in tow. But for some reason, Conor had to be formally introduced before they would speak to him.
If Conor’s rolling emotions about the event could be summarized in one word, it would simply be perturbed.
The royals had been ignoring him and watching him curiously like some fetish for weeks. Now that he and Eivaley would be formally announced as Assigned Champion and Lady, was he worth their time?
What kind of two-faced, no-good, stuck up fucks were these people? Do they not realize that with Conor’s enhanced senses, he could hear them whispering from a hundred meters away?
They had spoken about him being a freak, not belonging, and why he should have never tried to reach out from the gutter he came from. Conor could tolerate all of that. But Conor was ready to go right to their hiding spots and rip their tongues out when they started insulting Eivaley, calling her childish, misguided, and a failure of a potential empress. The only reason he could not was that he had more zeros than he thought possible in a bank account Vuraley had made for his use.
So long as this gig ended cordially, Conor would be set for life. He could take a vacation anywhere in the universe. By Urla, with that much money, Conor could become a warlord on some backwater world with little effort.
“Conor!” Eivaley beamed once Conor had shut the door to his room and turned around.
Like every other morning, she jumped at him, wrapped her tail around his waist, and nuzzled into his chest. She did not hide that she was smelling him and enjoyed every whiff as she did.
Conor supported her, having given up on arguing that he does not like being touched by people. Eivaley was too stubborn to hear him out, and when he pressed the issue, the little gremlin saucily challenged him to spank her if he did not like it.
Conor enjoyed the snark but could not yet cross that boundary with her. He still had too much to think about to even consider the attractive little females advances.
“Nice to see you too,” Conor said, setting her down.
Eivaley stepped back and looked Conor up and down. Initially, she seemed somewhat disappointed at him, and the slight pout on her lips was easy to see. She likely was upset that he had not buckled and wore the entire toga-style garment her species does.
But that look faded quickly once she peaked behind him and saw that he was not carrying specific tools. She forbade him from bringing them despite him arguing they would aid him in keeping her safe.
“Thank you for not bringing the grenades, or the flashbangs, or the rifle, and of course the repulsion cannon,” Eivaley chirped, stepping back to Conor’s front.
“Well, I did hack one of the mech suits in the royal armory to deploy to me if I need them,” Conor joked.
Apparently, Eivaley did not take that as a joke in any way, knowing Conor could do that with his augmetics.
“You did not!” She stamped her foot and tapped a long claw on the rug.
“Relax, little ruby. I did not do that,” Conor sneered.
Eivaley pouted for a moment, letting Conor appreciate the dress she wore. It was still gold and toga-like, similar to what she usually wore, but unlike usual, she was decked out to the nines.
The fabric danced along her heavenly curves, barely covering her breasts as they split in a v-shape down her front, leaving her abs in the open air. The sides were split deeply and were attached at her hip by a small leather belt, letting her thighs and waist be seen, along with the string of the black thong she wore the first time Conor and her were close to intimate.
She was, as usual, a mouthwatering sight. If Vuraley would not kill him for it, Conor would have stripped her down and taken her in the hallway, uncaring who saw or heard them; however, with the warning and understanding that if he crossed that line, Conor would be staying here hanging over them like the sword of Damocles, Conor could only window shop.
As cute as his little ruby was when she pouted and he wished to bask in her figure longer, they would be late if they did not hurry along. As such, Conor reminded her that they had to go to the gala. Once he had lost all semblance of her annoyance with his attempt at morose humor, she quickly stepped to Conor’s side and grabbed his arm.
For his part, Conor held her close and escorted Eivaley down the hallway, with her on his left, so he could draw his weapon. It was a prim and proper procedure Vuraley had ensured Conor understood for the gala.
Vuraley has been an asset to Conor in the last few weeks. The high Champion ensured Conor understood the rules of behavior and memorized the names, faces, and roles of each guest in attendance.
The Human could not have cared less when Vuraley began to school Conor on them. However, once he tricked Conor into learning them by describing them all as threats and potential people he would have to dust, Conor retained the information as if it were gospel.
Through all the resources Vuraley had allowed Conor access, he had learned their names, faces, histories, fighting styles, and accomplishments. There would likely not be a soul amidst the function he could not isolate and kill based on this intel.
Given how much intelligence he has on them, they could become Conor’s playthings in seconds. They were open books to him, while they still only know him as the savage Human, the gutter dweller reaching above his station.
As a man millennia ago said, if you know your enemy, you need not fear a hundred battles. Conor could assuredly protect Eivaley.
Neither Conor nor Eivaley said much during their walk through the palace halls; neither had much to say. At this point, they spent most of their days together, save for sleeping hours or when Vitul and Cur’sh were trying to get Conor to go with them to drink in the barracks.
He had been drinking with them a few times since arriving. Conor needed the friends, and they could at least occupy his mind with tales from their time in the war. They were happy to see what the wired Champion could do, namely how many shots he could take and still walk.
Neither of his guards would be in attendance today. They were off with their own ladies and families, so they had the day off.
After a quick jaunt through the nearly dead-silent palace, Conor and Eivaley arrived at the top of the preamble stairs to the grand hall.
As they descended the marble stairs into the grand hall, the eyes of the statues of all the previous empresses stared down at them; their cold diamond eyes judged the pairs’ every action just as the crowd of Eivaley’s waiting sisters and their Champions in front of the massive doors to the hall did.
The entrance to the hall featured a pair of doors that were tens of meters high and made of intricately carved wood. They depicted every god of the Kurlatra reaching down and pulling the first empress up while her Champion pushed her toward divinity.
The other statutes grew from the stone walls and looked down on all the waiting royals with a judgment only one’s ancestors could. Their immaculate and godlike presence loomed; their histories judged yours in contempt, challenging each Kurlatra’s worth as a royal.
Conor glared at the waiting crowd of Eivaley’s relatives while they descended into the pack, readying himself to tear them apart.
From his research, the only three he genuinely worried about were Sheruai, Juklet, and Burlai, the seventh, third, and first Champions.
Each was a man Conor was keyed in on and spotted quickly, needing to know where such potentially dangerous men were.
Sheruai, the god of close combat. He was the closest to Conor in upbringing out of all the other champions and assigned champions. The bruiser, who stood a head taller than Conor, grew up as a slave within the badlands.
There, Sheruai fought in the gladiatorial pits for royal entertainment. There, he killed an uncountable number of Kurlatra slave warriors, beasts, and captured aliens. He is, at this point, undefeated for a decade.
His lady, Kurelay, had moved to Levalit, the capital of the badlands, so he could continue his reign of the fighting pits. The man was a beast, his muscled grey scales pressed tightly to his simple steel armor, threatening to break it like cotton.
But Conor planned on killing him in a simple manner; shooting him in the head or poisoning his food would do. The man would assuredly try to fight in close combat. Conor believed he could win if it came down to a brawl. A man like that would be pompous and assured someone comparatively small like Conor could never win against them.
Juklet was a man Conor was cautious of because he was influential. The man was in charge of thousands of Kurlatra army troops and had held positions in the GU army. All those factors meant he likely knew how to fight at range and counter Conor but also assured he could call on allies, which the Human had not accounted for.
You had to be cautious about anyone with that much influence when fighting. They could call on masses of support and likely held an intense cult of personality.
Burlai was a whole other animal. The green-scaled Kurlatra was not imposing in his build and was a ghost in life. No matter what resources Vuraley offered Conor, the man was an unknown.
Burlai had no record of birth, military service, criminal record, or even a fucking parking ticket. He was so pristine it was all too good to be true.
Conor had been around the block enough times to understand that a man with no history, life, or existence was not ordinary. Many people of high influence deliberately erased the lore of a man they wanted to keep on hand by denying him a past; you could not arrest a spook who had never done anything.
An unknown was far more dangerous than anything else. Burlai watching Conor with cold intensity was also evidence of the threat he posed.
It was odd. Eivaley waved and greeted everyone, ignorant of the tension between the men. Conor and the other Champions silently threatened one another with glares and hands-on weapons. Although Conor only focused on those three, all others looked away and submitted to Conor’s presence while the duo descended the stairs.
Once they reached the waiting area with the others, Vuraley smiled, “Good to see you two.”
“Daddy!” Eivaley yelled and rushed out of Conor’s arms, hugging her father near the bottom of the steps.
Vuraley hugged her back and ensured she was physically content before glancing at Conor, who had half drawn the hand cannon. He nodded, approving of the defensive action, but at the same time, slowly waved a hand, assuring it was safe.
Conor stowed his weapon, and Vuraley tended to his daughter momentarily, caring for her desire to inform him of what she and Conor had been doing—despite him knowing what they had been up to for weeks.
Once Vuraley had let her go, in a near-practiced motion, Eivaley returned to Conor, which warmed his soul. Even though he was unlearned in the Kurlatra ways and did not entirely comprehend their customs, having his ruby next to him was beautiful.
“Alright all. It is time,” Vuraley announced, all muttering died as the show started.
The man’s instruction led all the daughters and their Champions to line up in birth order, save for Conor and Eivaley taking up the rear.
Both knew their austere position was due to Eivaley’s changes in reality. They held the grand last entrance; once all the others had arrived, they would be announced and allotted entry.
The pairs lined up in front of the closed doors. Each pair waited as the doors were opened, and a man on the other side announced the man and woman in reverence before sealing the doors again.
Even though the doors were sealed, the sounds of cheers and support for each lady were audible. The attendees loved each lady for what they offered the Kurlatra empire and all the potential she had as a future leader of their entire species.
The nobles also gawked and jeered for each Champion. They adored their histories and what each had done to have been deemed notable enough to stand by their potential next empress.
Eivaley squeezed Conor’s waist and hand, hearing her sister’s achievements and abilities. She judged herself compared to them, finding herself lacking.
