Tyrant Dameks

Mors regarded the fortress before him with polite curiosity.

A palace, a fortress—call it whatever you liked.

If every wall of the structure had been coated in smooth, faintly gleaming paint, its golden spires echoing the sun high above, then whether one still used the word "fortress" to emphasize its original purpose no longer mattered.

He tried to compare it with the Lokos royal palace as he remembered it from more than a century ago, then reached a conclusion: this palace was a whole order newer than it had been before its restoration.

That something older could shine more brilliantly than in its youth, while possessing richer human meaning, was a curious quality often found in objects made by craftsmen.

He stopped before the gate inlaid with gold and silver reliefs. The remaining three members of the Lokos guard exchanged glances. Though their faces showed confusion, none dared urge him on.

Mors lowered his head, and Peturabo looked up at him. He was still unconsciously gripping his longsword, its newly carved hilt pressing against the fragile new skin of his palm, though the boy remained entirely unaware of it.

A little pain often helped ease tension and keep one alert. Mors had some experience with that.

Peturabo asked, "What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Mors lightly patted the boy's shoulder. "Nothing. You just reminded me of something from the beginning of a long, long time."

For instance, meeting a ruler with ambition, hope, vigilance, and blade in hand, only to be met by questions, surprise, and disappointment.

He turned to the three warriors. "Is your tyrant such an innocent that he allows others to meet him while carrying weapons?"

The leader named Mityad seemed to awaken with a start. Only then did he remember that the two guests had neither changed clothes nor surrendered their weapons, and absolutely could not be brought before their great tyrant.

Rather than speak up to defend the tyrant's honor, the soldier became uneasy. "The Tyrant of Lokos does not..."

Mors did not make things difficult for him. The psychic power lingering at his will withdrew, and the sharp longsword that had briefly existed in Peturabo's hand immediately dissolved into smoke and dust.

"I'll give you a better one later," Mors casually told Peturabo.

Peturabo looked at his palm. "Can it be a hammer instead?"

Mors laughed. "Are you planning to open a blacksmith's shop?"

As the two spoke, the splendid palace gates opened to either side, as though the luxurious hall within, steeped in the style of Old Terra, had lifted its veil.

Golden, silver, and white armor stood in neat, evenly spaced ranks between the marble columns. Every ceremonial guard's face was hidden in the deep shadow of a helmet, erasing individual features to emphasize that magnificent, almost inhuman majesty suspended between crafted object and living human.

All the courtiers present had likewise become parts of the composition. Neat, handsome, broad-browed, and richly dressed, they were, like the towering hall, priceless ornaments, and decorative blades, perfect props for exalting the throne's authority.

Unfortunately, several mood-breaking ceiling lamps made Mors's lips curl upward despite himself.

He let his gaze follow the vanishing point of the artistic perspective forward.

Between two enormous, exquisite, lifelike statues embracing metal totems—yet so crammed with elements from Old Terra's many cultures that they appeared oddly ridiculous—stood a massive throne carved from tons of marble.

The vast throne of iron and stone enclosed a middle-aged man wearing a crown of iron thorns, a golden scepter laid across his knees. A large, conspicuous nose, slightly narrowed eyes, sparse black hair, and a somewhat protruding belly all reinforced the man's character as an ordinary human being.

A mediocre body, a lazy posture, an oversized hall, a supreme throne.

A brown-feathered eagle set off by vivid peacocks and beautiful parrots.

He is the broken arm.

What? Peturabo did not understand the reference.

Imagine a fine stone statue. She was no more extraordinary than any other image of a goddess from her era, until her missing arm bestowed upon her her true beauty.

Mors said pleasantly through the psychic channel.

You mean the palace is the exquisite stone statue, and that tyrant is the statue's most outstanding feature?

The boy's voice began full of doubt, but that skepticism evaporated halfway through his words. Mors knew Peturabo understood him.

He could likewise imagine how the tyrant on the throne appeared in the boy's eyes—a life fashioned from an unadorned mortal and the cold, fervent intensity unique to the wise in his eyes.

Mityad moved his pitiful lips, intending to remind the visitors to kneel according to protocol. Before long, he gave up himself and silently knelt off to one side.

A herald draped in blue cloth stepped out from among the courtiers' splendid robes.

"Long live Dameks!" The herald raised his head high. Even Mors could not deny how elegant and pleasing his well-trained voice was. "Praise the third of the Council of Twelve Tiransikos, Tyrant of Lokos, Lord of Kloitan and Dominiki of the Sevenfold Glorious Names, the sevenfold incarnation of Alka, the great King Dameks!"

He lightly stepped back into the ranks. The soldiers stamped their feet in unison, the butts of their golden spears smashing against the floor.

Who is Alka?

A divine term fabricated by local belief, I would guess.

A faint look of distaste crossed Peturabo's face.

Upon the throne, Dameks spoke in a light tone, using an apparently warm and affable manner to conceal his calculation and probing. "Mityad, with whom do we share this hall?"

Mityad bowed his head. "A boy from Cadisia, and an unnamed hermit, my tyrant."

"You have returned no later than you promised, Mityad. A few weeks ago, you said it would take a very long time to turn Cadisia inside out. I thought you intended to wander abroad for two or three years, and was considering whether to reduce your gold allowance."

Dameks said it kindly. His words were like the switch of a circuit breaker; the moment they fell, they triggered laughter from the courtiers.

"Yes, my tyrant." Mityad's reply was excessively brief, and he lowered his head further.

Dameks's smile gradually vanished amid the silence. "Where are my other two warriors?"

"They died in the battle with Axos."

More silence descended, and the noble hall seemed to lose some of its color at once.

"The valiant shall be rewarded," Dameks sighed. "Anuinkai will bless them. Their families shall each receive one hundred gold coins. Mityad, you and your two warriors will receive ten gold coins apiece."

"As you command."

Dameks ended his performance before the court.

His gaze fell skillfully between Mors and Peturabo, making both believe that the tyrant was examining him.

"Boy, tales of your legend have spread throughout Olympia. At first, I thought some illiterate shepherd had been exaggerating, but now I must apologize: your own legendary nature far surpasses what the rumors described."

Peturabo looked at him quietly, calm deliberation in his eyes. "Perhaps."

"And this gentleman, you have hidden your legend quite cleverly." Dameks offered his flattering jest. "I have reason to believe you are the guide upon this boy's path. Are you his father? Or his mentor?"

Mors considered the accounts between himself and Peturabo, and regretfully reached a rather unpleasant conclusion.

"Actually, he may be my verbal creditor." Mors looked at the boy. "I owe him a hammer as a gift."

Facing everyone's surprised gazes, Mors smiled. "I am a craftsman. My name is Mors now."