His Majesty’s Overhaul
by Paul Cesarini
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
“His son?” said Tooq, looking around.
“Yes, his son. I’ve met him before. Nice young lad.”
“Sire, his son is an accountant. I don’t believe he’s ever even swung a hammer before. Besides, you’ve ordered him flayed, too.”
“Right. Well, what about his apprentice? What’s his name? Pollip?”
“Pollip retired three cycles ago and moved to the Fenesian system, my lord. Rupert, too, has long since retired but stays on as needed as a... well, a favor to the court.”
“Do you have any idea what it’s costing me to have eleven hypercruisers idling right now? I want my armor to fit!!” bellowed the mighty Grithromax. “Have his apprentice flayed, as well! Call Gorathia, High Flayer of the Dentax Conflux, immediately!”
“Gorathia? Ah, well...”
“What now?”
“Sire, Lord Gorathia passed away four rotations ago, maybe five.”
“Gorathia is dead?! Why wasn’t I informed?”
“Apologies, Sire. I believe it happened while you were gone at the earboxing festival, with the Impallius Alliance? Sire, perhaps if we just focused more on your robes and your helmet? Maybe something like this?” Tooq said, soothingly, motioning for Grithromax to turn while arranging the robes to cover his midsection. Friblet assisted, as did Fren.
The end result looked as though the mighty Grithromax wore the most stylish maternity wear this side of the Polar Nebula. The three siblings continued praising him, all while the ceremonial trumpets blared from the balcony.
“Very trendy, sire,” nodded Fren.
“Absolutely!” agreed Friblet, who motioned to some nearby concubines. They smiled and nodded vigorously.
Grithromax was not convinced. “This... makes me look foolish.”
“Oh, no, sire — not at all!” cried Tooq and the others.
“Get someone else in here!”
“Sire?”
“Anyone! Maybe... the High Sycophant. I want a second opinion. Now.”
“Of course, my liege!” Tooq turned to everyone in the Hall of Victory. “Summon the High Sycophant!” A descending chorus to summon the High Sycophant echoed through the hall. The attendants and others in the room each moved aside and bowed. Tooq, Fren, and Friblet also bowed but stayed by Grithromax.
Presently, a very small, very orange, very fussy man entered, wearing ornamented robes of high office that trailed behind him, an elaborate headdress, and bearing the mark of the Sycophant Guild on his forehead. While the mark was an ancient symbol carefully passed down over a hundred generations from a long-forgotten dialect, to the untrained eye it resembled puckered lips about to kiss a bare bottom. He looked dismissively at everyone else there, even the other sycophants, who muttered and gossiped as he passed.
The High Sycophant stood rigidly in front of Grithromax, bearing a stoic expression. He then surveyed the room, exhaled, and immediately prostrated himself and began groveling — loudly. “Oh, most gracious and benevolent ruler!” he proclaimed, flinging his hands high into the air and gesticulating wildly. “Oh, he whose brilliance knows no bounds — peerless throughout the realms — and whose provenance we rely on for our meager, pathetic existence! Oh, mighty king, emulsifier of the deadly Glimmertot cabal, defenestrator of the shimmering Kyndbeast and initiator of the four-day workweek! Great and mighty emperor whose legendary virility has sired ten thousand sons, how may a lowly, pitiable soul such as I be of service to one as glorious as you, in whose presence I am not worthy to stand without first ritualistically disemboweling myself, so that I might die content whilst knowing the last image my unimpressive eyes behold is one of your magnificence?”
The others briefly looked up, turned to each other and nodded approvingly, then looked down again.
Grithromax, drinking from a nearby flagon, wiped the corner of his mouth and addressed the orange man. “High Sycophant, rise!” he commanded, raising his hand. The High Sycophant sprang to his feet, dusting himself off. “What say you to this look, with my robes out in front like so?”
The High Sycophant, expecting something more challenging, relaxed, smiled broadly, and proclaimed: “My Lord, your wisdom and generosity are matched only by your chiseled, rugged handsomeness, masculine in a way far beyond that of mere mortals. Your robes are elegantly displayed and your pleats are fetching in a way—”
Grithromax interrupted. “I think I look like a fool.”
The High Sycophant paused, glanced briefly at Tooq who motioned for him to get on with it, then composed himself. “Your majesty could never look foolish, my lord.” He beamed, hands on his hips.
“You are trained since birth to agree with me, are you not?” said Grithromax.
“Well, yes, my liege, ” said the sycophant, hesitantly.
“I am stating that I look foolish. Do you agree with me?”
“Um, no, sire!” he said, quite pleased with himself. Tooq shook his head furiously but the High Sycophant didn’t notice it at first. Until he did. “I mean, yes, sire! Of course you look foolish! No one could ever even attempt to look as foolish as you! Your foolishness is of course boundless and legendary throughout the realms, and... um. No, that’s not right. Wait... maybe? Are you... somewhat foolish, my lord?”
Friblet face-palmed. Outside, the trumpets sounded off yet again, followed by another awkward bout of silence.
“That does it!” shouted Grithromax, motioning to Tooq. “Have this imbecile executed immediately.” Two nearby servants and three concubines-in-waiting quickly subdued the High Sycophant, smacking off his headdress in the process, while another grabbed him from behind by his underwear and yanked it up high against his buttocks. The High Sycophant whimpered in pain as he was hoisted away by the group, still attempting to shout awkward praise at his king as he was carried off.
From outside, the trumpets and related fanfare sounded off yet again. One of the marblehawks flew back into the Hall of Victory, crapped on the ornamental runner carpet that led to the balcony, then perched on the headdress.
Grithromax howled with a fury not seen since the Kaltric-A and Kardi-B campaigns, many cycles ago. He swatted aside a nearby tray with his flagon of ale, kicked over his footstool then tripped over the Devastation Hammer — nearly pirouetting — and fell, cracking his skull against the arm of his Corbanite throne. He staggered up, blood trickling down between his eyes, then face-planted on the marble floor. He barely missed landing on Friblet, who was so surprised he promptly wet himself.
“My liege!” sputtered Fren. He and Tooq pulled Grithromax to his feet, various pieces of battle armor dangling from his shoulders and thighs. Friblet, thoroughly petrified, did not assist.
“Someone. Someone... will pay for this.” said High Lord Grithromax the Mighty, scourge of the Dramos system and indisputable ruler of the seventeen realms, to no one in particular. He swayed. The three siblings couldn’t decide if they wanted to spot him or get out of his way and avoid being crushed. They dodged and weaved until their king took one last look at Tooq, paused as if about to say something extremely wise or extremely mean, then crumpled to the floor, dead.
“Holy Fek!” shouted Friblet.
One of the concubines gasped. One of the sycophants-in-waiting screamed in an unbecoming manner. Everyone froze.
Out on the balcony, the trumpets started yet again. Another of the marblehawks flew in, circled around briefly, then rested on Grithromax’s lifeless body. Fren shooed it away, then turned and looked at Tooq. Slowly, the others did, too.
“Okay, ah... nobody panic. Nobody panic!” he whisper-screamed, eyes darting around the carnage. “Everything is fine. Um, mostly.”
“Fine?!” shouted Fren. “It’s not fine! The whole Phalanx is out there — waiting for him!” he said, motioning to their king. “If they find out about this... we’re all dead!” The others in the hall gathered around them.
“Well, technically it was an accident.” said Tooq, scratching his head, looking down at the body. “Though I don’t suppose that will matter.”
“Of course it won’t matter, brother!” exclaimed Fren, increasingly alarmed. “When they find out he’s dead, our lives are forfeit! We’re expected to die with our king. You all know this,” he said, pointing accusingly at everyone in the hall. “We’ve been trained to do this since birth! If we’re lucky, they’ll just entomb us with him, and we’ll suffocate! If we’re not, it will be... worse.” The sycophants, concubines, and other servants shot each other dejected looks. Someone from the back started crying.
Just then, the attendant from the balcony stuck her head back out into the hall, glaring impatiently, then stared wide-eyed at the body. Everyone froze, watching her. Her mouth agape, she slowly looked at Tooq with utter dread in her eyes. “You see!” said Fren, pointing. “She’s dead, too, and she knows it! So is everyone standing on that balcony right now. We’re all in the same boat.”
“Tooq?” said Friblet, stepping out of his puddle. “What are we going to do?”
Everyone looked at him, including one of the marblehawks. Tooq stood there, mentally poring over every scrap of protocol training he had ever taken, struggling to find a way out of the mess that neither he nor anyone else created.
“We’re doomed,” he said, flatly. “Doomed. Unless...”
* * *
Klymm and Grymm, soldiers from battalion 42, were thrilled. At least, they were thrilled now. This was a new development as just a few moments ago they had been less than thrilled, bordering on mutinous. They, along with the entire Phalanx, had been baking in the sun, waiting for their king to march out to the balcony, raise the Devastation Hammer high, and launch the new campaign. They were scheduled to invade the Blubahl Collective this time, or maybe the Uvhuilla Dynasty. It was definitely one of those, probably.
The trumpets kept blowing off and on. The marblehawks kept circling, looking for some new victim to divebomb. Everyone was getting antsy. The Spinal Electrocution Wasps up and left. Even the hypercruisers were starting to turn out of formation and head back.
Then out he came: Him! High Lord Grithromax himself! His armor gleamed in the light from the twin suns. He even wore his ancient battle helmet. He pumped the air with his fists. He high-fived his attendants. He... moon-walked? He swung the Devastation Hammer round and round, pointing it at different people in the audience, pretending to annihilate them.
Then, he spoke! He said what a great day it was, how much he appreciated everyone coming, and how all those invasions were really a team effort. He said the whole Phalanx deserved a big round of applause!
Then, he raised the Devastation Hammer high into the air and... told everyone to go home. Right away. He said the whole thing had been a drill to see if the group was ready for its true test. He said everyone should focus on raising their families and bettering themselves with that same tenacity they used when they went into battle. He told them all to read at least one book over the next cycle, or at least to learn to read. He even said he was buying everyone a round and that the credit should appear in their accounts the following morning.
Klymm, Grymm, and the other 350 million hollered and cheered for their ruler, bellowing, “Grithromax the Kind! Grithromax the Learned! Grithromax the Generous! What a king!”
What a king, indeed.
Copyright © 2024 by Paul Cesarini
