The tyrant and the philosopher

The people performed the traditional prostration, bowing until their forehead touched the floor, singing the hymn of deification. In the dark ziggurat beneath the splendor of his court, Cyarax awaited his guards impatiently as he considered his expanding dominion.

The movements around the ellipsis of fate were in his favor, so Cyarax was in a generous mood. His agents were smuggling themselves throughout the world, interfering with the policies of the splintered nations that used to be one. They made offers to magistrates and city officials, which were usually neglected, for the people cherished their independence. But one agent–the one in the Ashlands–had been successful. Not much longer and Cyarax would gain a foothold in the precious continent of the Ancient Lands, that was high in craftsmanship and invaluable in economy.

He reflected then where he would deploy his forces first, when the elite soldiers with ornated hoplite armor entered. They carried the writer in front of the dais. Laying atop a wide curule protruding from the dais, Cyarax dismissed his servants and whores. Their human ears were not fit for the blasphemies of an outlaw.

When Cyarax, the god, had finally discovered the writer, he had expected a garrison of the resistance to wallow on top of his elite warriors, turning a tumult into a carnage. But the Ember Watch had merely found a man, alone and caved in with ink, candle wax, and paper, writing one of his insane scriptures.

Incredible, that such a nobody had forced the Tyranny of Sunfall through so much turmoil, spurring a new wave of the resistance to take hold over the slum and mud quarters of his cities. A single destitute man, who could neither fight nor perform magic, and the guards were occupied with dispiriting the revolts caused by such insolent messages!

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” said the bearded man and bowed.

Impossibility! The writer dared to adress him first. Cyarax’s divine eyes darted around. The people here still seemed to serve and obey the divine gentry. Good. He could never let the same things happen to his home that had cleft the Ancient Lands to pieces. Pieces that had to be arduously picked up by… by… Where was he? Ah, the dead man walking.

“So you are the one who is publishing in the style of the Ancient Lands,” mused the tyrant lazily, in spite of his anger, and sank back into his cushioned curule.

“Verily, Your Excellence.” He was a short man with a bushy beard and pale skin. Skinny as a broom, the mark of a failed attempt at lynching defined his throat, and Cyarax saw that the writer was used to a life of being hunted. It was not the scar that let him perceive this attribute but the quick and hurried manner with which the writer flinched his brown eyes so human to and fro. As if he was looking to squeeze himself through a hole in the wall at any moment. “Truth is given shape by freedom. And once spoken, its matter can never be revoked.”

“Excellent!” replied the tyrant, wondering who had deemed it wise to allow humans to read. “You speak without ambiguity. This makes things far easier.”

He shuddered. “It doesn’t matter what you do to me. How is your daughter?”

Cyarax spat. How dare he! His daughter was off limits, the only thing close to him.

He was a holy being. He needn’t listen to anyone with eyes like that, for he was a descendant of a goddess. It was his duty to obliterate all threats to the tyrannies. Especially now, when a greedy king from north nearby swallowed the congeries of splintered nations one by one. When the race to the outer realms was beginning anew, Cyarax family could not allow itself to appear weak. How had Aevar managed to live that long with magic and remain sane? Cyrax was nearing his fifth decade and he already heard the voices.

The voices demanded order and obediance, which was impossible if people like the writer were allowed to strut and boast of alien ways.

“My daughter is well–”

“Does she hear things too?”

The writer crumpled on the floor, sweat breaking out of his neck, head and hands. Enough was enough. He would not accept someone interrupting him. He pointed his finger and it took everything to not set the human ablaze. “You committed yourself to the Age of Rebellion. I will not tolerate that!”

The writer squirmed, finally stood, tears in his purple eye sockets. He did not have enough physical control over his limbs to clean them away. The writer shook his unwashed face. “I do not lust after magical blood, Your Excellence. I want what you want. Our means are just so different.”

“What do you know what I want!” he yelled.

“Sanity. Clarity of mind perhaps? It was why I intrigued after your daughter–”

Cyarax rose, offended that a besmudged human dared to put himself in his position. He was divine and beautiful, whereas the human was no more than a biped rat. The tyrant smoothened his carnal lust for death and spat, “You want chaos and mayhem, admit it!”

He flicked his wrist, laced his theurgy around the writer again, and gave the sign. In the following prostration, the writer fell on his knees, touched the cool stone with his forehead, and spread his arms above it in the only position which befitted a human.

The prostration was immaculate, Cyarax observed, but as the writer rose, his face appeared of a different composure than his crampled body. The writer gazed ahead and levelled the mage. The tyrant was surprised to find him staring right into his gems.

Most humans did not dare to look straight into the mages’ eyes. How had he freed himself?

Cyrax jumped from his dais and laced the writer, pushing him back onto the carpet. He dashed forward until he was on a level with the lower field stretching towards the giant portal.

He opened his fingers, and the writer flinched, spurting, “Before you depose of me, let me report of one last thing.”

“NO!” Cyarax ignited his hand. Ignoring the writer’s insistance, he ordered monarchically.

The writer, head-unmoving, gaze wide, punished his underlip and produced a picture of unsteady defiance. He said, “Any man, who has reflected upon the composition of polity–be it monarchy, aristocracy, or democracy–knows that the ultimate power lies within the people!”

“A last work of fiction?” Cyarax jeered and smashed at the writer’s head.

The kill would be messy, dirty. But the voices liked it this way better. They said every now and then he ought to take a life with his hands, not with his theurgy.

But as he came down to stomp on the philosopher’s head, he looked away

Had somebody spoken to him? Yes, it was her. The Light. His Light! She shone respendedly toward him, stretching her feminine fingers over him, whispering the same words she always said when she embraced him, when he was almost done with a sacrifice. It was the only time he felt any warmth and he yearned for it more than ever. “Destroy him.”

“Yes. Will you touch me?”

“If you kill him.”

“Good. Good. I… shall do as you ask.”

When Cyarax awoke, the hall was empty, safe for his servants. No, his guards were also here. As a matter of fact, everyone was here except for the ruff human. Where the philosopher stood before there was now nothing. Just a stranded sheet of paper.

He picked up the note, reading it.

Courtesy of Kalia Aurian, you stupid shit. We are coming for you.

Desolation!

The voices came craashing down on him then, angry but also stupefied like himself. “YOU LET HIM GO.”

“I didn’t know!”

“THEY WILL NEVER STOP. HE IS TOO HUNGRY. ONCE HE ENTERS YOUR TERRITORY, YOU WILL FALL.”

“You err!” insisted the tyrant. “The Aurians are no more! My brother and his…” What was his name? Darn Cyarax’s mind! He was a god, he should be well suited to the dullnes, the pain, the madness that magic brought but he was like a drunken soldier, who kept drinking to fight off the clouds. And then drank some more. He remembered where he was. “… his cronies. They destroyed them, made sure none of them can return. I know this!”

Another repulse shook the tyrant. “LIAR! LIAR! LIAR!”

The mentioning of their archfiends in addition to his name deleted the tyrant’s common sense.

Cyarax panicked, swallowed, and turned. He had to leave this place! If she could smuggle herself in here… How had she circumvented the gates that protected them from disruptions? How had she carried the writer a continent away in mere seconds? He hurried into his halidom, leaving this place for somewhere they would never find him. Another world perhaps. No, the gates were still too tight. He couldn’t access those trips at his whim. Not like they could.

The tyrant ran across the temple, furiously clamoring for his steward. Cyarax did not acknowledge his immediate, domestic appearance, his tone one of apprehension. “Ignite it!”

“Ignite where, Your Grace?” stammered the steward.

“The Ashlands, idiot! My informant, I need him.”

The steward bowed and took off, running up the stairs to the halidom behind Cyarax–who was still in a fit of rage. The court released a hymn of divine jurisdiction having finally cured intrepid demeanor. Where was that damn writer?