kill the king where love is the law

Koen had the last fragment of the Titan Slayer. He had recovered it from the battlefield where the Hydra was slain and used it as a knife when he escaped the enraged mobs of this nation's demonic citizenry. Now, as I was consolidating my control over this shattered realm, he wished me to repair it, so he could slay an Elder Thing claiming Steelhead as its hunting ground.

Of course, I answered. I had gotten this far without the broken sword's magic. I had even substituted a copy of the Constitiution of the United States of America for the sword itself in the Ascension ceremony.

He passed me the fragment through the rift shared by our Time Windows. Artfiacts of this nature tend to be indestructible. Even those that do break, or disigned to disassemble in the first place, are easy to repair. It was only a matter of touching the shard to section where it broke to fuse itself whole ina shower of sparks.

Neither of us asked about the Founder. Our silence told volumes. No one knew what became of him. Would he seek the throne upon his return? That was one of the reasons I placed a limit on my reign.

"Use this well, Grand..." I was interrupted by a gong echoing through the black marble halls of the newly rebuilt palace.

"That's the Seige Gong! You're under attack!"

"Apparently so. You see? Local politics are already getting back to normal! No quickly, take this--"

His side of the Time Window blinked out just as I was offering him the blade! Do you really expect me to believe that was an accident, boy?

I muttered a string of colorful curses in the local dialect as tight my crimson robes tight. I rested the blade on my shoulder and strode towards the front gate.

I heard the chants of the bestial mob, a bewildering array of fur and scales and chitin that could only be classified under the species name of demon.

A King with no Crown is not a King!

Only a Clerk rules by Paper!

The King never leaves his Throne!

I had set up a garden in front of the palace where devices of public torture and execution had once stood. My guards were nowhere to be seen. The louts had torn every plant to shreds! The statue of an eagle I had erected in the center square was smashed, the majestic bird now floating headless and wingless.

"Look! It's the Human too weak to be King!

I roared in anger as I sliced the hinges off the massive iron gate, letting it fall and crush the hooligans attempting to climb its rediculous heights.

What a fool I had been. Dictatorship is all they had ever known, and they still equated Brutality with Efficiency.

I swung my blade high as the crowd gasped.

"I'm giving you all TEN SECONDS to get off my lawn!"

If he bellows let him wail

The thunder of horns greeted the Vortex he descended the concrete steps built into the crater. He adjusted his resplendent spidersilk robe that matched his crimson fur to avoid an unfortunate rip from being pinned to his footpaws, and ensure it was hanging correctly around the hole cut for his slowly writhing tail. Two dwarfish demons waddled hurriedly behind him, taking quick jumps to reach the following step.

When the demon prince reached the floor of the crater, he flexed his paws to feel the red velvet stretching out all the way to his new throne. He admired the avant-garde design of the strips of black metal that were re-welded to again form the Throne of Erebus, albeit in a form unrecognizable from the original rococo design the Ereb'ai were infamous for.

"I especially like the red particle effects," he muttered to his advisers as he adjusted his collar before continuing. The advisers stared at the patches of magic radiating from the center of the throne like shimmering rubies. They looked back to each other each other and pointed back and forth, shrugging in bewilderment. They looked back to the throne nervously in the stoic silence shared by all of the neko-demon's servants.

Vortex gazed straight up at the names engraved on the flanges of steel, hammered out to abstractly resemble the Hydra he slew, just enough to remind the residents of this faded province of Hell of his mythic feat without reawakening racial memories of stark terror. The names of his collective self were inscribed on the nine metal ribbons that hung closest. One of them had to be twisted at the end to hide the name "Koen" (whose name was now shorthand within the capital walls for "coward") and etch in the name "Marcus" (now whispered outside the Imperial Sector as a synonym for "opportunist") on the reverse of the leaf in its place.

Vortex sighed happily, and in a fluid twirl of his gold-trimmed robe sat down upon the down cushions.

And promptly jumped high into the air howling in outrage. As he shredded the silk with his claws he roared GET IF OFF GET IT OFF as his diminutive servants fell over each other circling their master, trying glimpse the trouble without being eviscerated by a flying claw. Like that one just did.

(I'm sorry, I seem to have gotten some gore on the camera.)

"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!?"

"It seems to be a..."

"YES I KNOW WHAT THE HELL IT IS! It's...oh...what? You're kidding!"

"Sir! We've got the axe! Hold still!"

"GET AWAY YOU IDIOTS! Can't you see it's my...!"


TO BE CONTINUED