By Fire And Blade

Having ridden through the night, Galrun has returned to Tyran’s castle and is now walking into the glorified keeps ‘throne room.’ There is no throne as Tyran is no monarch or royal. It is just that Galrun knows of no other way of expressing what this space should be called as he passes the personal guards that line either side of the blue fabric that runs down the centre of this otherwise narrow space. It isn’t as grand as Tyran would like people to believe but boasting, Galrun has found, is often a failure of those in power. Still, he is pleased to be without his helmet now even if the rest of him is still clad in his thick armour.

His green eyes glancing over the décor of the ‘throne room’, which is sparse except for the evenly spaced banners adorned with black snakeheads and a half circle on an otherwise azure blue background. Galrun knows the half circle is meant to represent the sun that Tyran named his group after. But the inclusion of the snakehead means nothing to him and Tyran had never elaborated on its purpose. Likely there was none other than to illicit fear, but of that Galrun cannot be sure as he reaches the base of the elevated high backed chair. And it is definitely a chair and not a throne. In fact, Galrun is sure that it is part of the dining room set seeing as the dimensions seem about right. That could just be how he perceives the size of the seat in comparison to the room though. Nevertheless, Galrun lowers his head and puts his clenched right fist against his chest. His fist resting above the section of his chest, below which, resides the warriors’ heart.

“Ah, Galrun.” Tyran, a well into middle-aged man with short blond hair and dark brown, almost black, eyes says with a thin smile across his lightly wrinkled and round face.

Tyran is clad in an extravagant robe fashioned from silk. The garment is coloured the same azure blue as his banner, while the collar and cuffs are adorned with thin black lacy frills that obscure much of his hands from view. Hands which are clasped delicately in his lap while he sits with his left leg over the left arm of the seat that he would insist is a throne.

“I see my messenger reached you.” Tyran chuckles to himself because of knowledge which he is alone privy to.

“And what is your report? Is it done? Like I asked?” Tyran rattles off the questions without a pause. It’s a habit the ruler of the One Sun Domain has, and it is grates on Galrun harshly.

“King George is dead. Halberg are defeated.” Galrun confirms through gritted teeth as he feels a disdain for Tyran begin to well to the surface. He has to keep his feelings in check, but frankly he just wants to pull the much shorter, five foot seven inch, man’s head off and crush it in his hands. Whether that’s possible to achieve with his bare hands or not, is another thing entirely.

“Ha! I knew it! You never fail me Galrun. That’s why I send you to battle my enemies. They stand no chance against you.” Tryan says commending Galrun after a loud clap of his thin and delicate hands, which have never had to work or struggle through life.

“That’s why I saved you as a boy. I knew from the moment I saw you that you would achieve great things for me.” Tyran continues. He’s prattling on and Galrun knows the compliments are self-serving. That’s why the warrior begins to roll his shoulders slightly in response. The act doesn’t catch Tyran’s attention, but the slight twitch of Galrun’s top lip toward a snarl does. Still the ruler passes no comment in regards to it. He knows he doesn’t have to and that Galrun is desperately trying to hide the anger that is currently boiling inside him. Anger that the massive man does not understand the presence of.

“Congratulations on your superiority.” Tyran then declares with his arms spread wide. He is purposely trying to bay the anger out of Galrun and the warrior takes the bait.

“Then why did you send the messenger to fetch me?” Galrun questions as his face twists with anger.

“You know full well why?” Tyran responds with a sly smile as a smug look rests on his round face.

“Because I can best you! And if you leave me too long that is exactly what I will do. Of that you should be assured, Tyran.” Galrun spits angrily as his hand comes to rest on the hilt of his sword, ready to pull the weapon and cut his captor to shreds.

“Now now, Galrun. You know better than that.” Tyran taunts, but Galrun is too filled with rage to listen as he begins to pull his sword. But he never completes the motion. Though, not because of the personal guards who flank Galrun on either side. None of them move an inch. Instead, he is stopped by Tyran’s words.

“By fire and blade, I will be obeyed!” Tyran recites, emphasising will and obeyed as if it necessary for him to make the point. It isn’t as the incantation stops Galrun immediately and returns him to a stoic state. The blade that he had partially unsheathed having slide back into its scabbard for another day.

“Better.” Tyran cackles. However, he has made note that the incantations strength is waning as the snarl continues to twitch alongside Galrun tossing his head from side to side slowly. It isn’t a concern, at least yet. It will become one, but by that point Tyran will be unopposed and there will be no use for Galrun. He is a tool, discovered at a young age and fashioned into a weapon. The incantation was a part of that fashioning and stopped the boy, who has long since become a man, from attacking him or remembering his past. Those things, Tyran knows, are linked and one cannot be allowed to surface as it will bring the other to the fore. Not that Galrun knows that. He doubts the younger than he warrior has a clue as to why in the presence of Tyran he feels near uncontrollable rage. And that is how it needs to stay. Especially, for where Tyran plans to send him next, as that will test the strength of the spell over the mountain sized man.

“What are your orders Tyran?” Galrun offers at last. The incantation now has the massive warrior fully back under control. And he remembers nothing of his previous explosive rage or defiance.

“You’ll be heading for desert region of Pashtan. My general will explain his…situation once your arrival.” Tyran offers without giving any actual details past Galrun’s destination. The situation as Tyran so delicately put it is the rooting out of surviving soldiers from the various recently conquered nations. But the warrior waits for no such explanation, which wouldn’t have been provided anyway, and instead simply nods and then says, “As you wish Tyran. I will depart at once.”

A moment later Galrun spins on his heels and strides confidently back down the length of the ‘throne room’ toward the exit of the narrow space, a set of open double doors. The mountain sized man paying no mind to the personal guard on either side of him as he passes them by one after another.

“Follow him. And if he moves against my wishes, put him down. Is that understood?” Tyran mutters out the corner of his thin mouth to a section of shadow nearby.

“It is Tyran. And it will be done.” The low almost whispered voice replies before Tyran feels a rush of air waft past him that marks the departure of the trio of spies.

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