Heavy Is the Crown- Chapter Nine

Cassandra took one look at Bowser as he strode into their quarters within the castle, and decided that she would be better off not questioning her son at the moment. He had blood and bruises on his hands, flecks of crimson splashed up on his cheeks, and the dire, frozen glare in his eyes of a man who will kill with little provocation. At nine years of age, no boy should be thought of as a man in any circumstances, but Bowser's size and the signs of violence upon him forced the label in her mind.

It had been a week since Bowser's talk with the quartermaster, and much had transpired outside of the castle's walls, events which already had Cassandra on edge. Prince Tangarine of Mushroom Kingdom, against his father the King's recommendation, had moved troops under his command into the Tagal Swaps. He'd then moved a heavy infantry battalion from the eastern edge of his personally controlled territory to the western border, only a mile from the start of Gora Empire lands.

The Cold War between nations was beginning to warm in a dangerous way.

Cassandra worried that Bowser's size could be used as an excuse to press him into military service far too young, should open war break out. He could easily pass as fifteen or sixteen, eligible age for conscription in the Empire. Even Prince Nurik wouldn't be able to stop it from happening, as he had no command of Impirial Army affairs.

Now her only son shuffled slowly toward their private washroom, leaving the door open. Cass didn't approach, instead only listening as he ran water in the sink. She soon heard the slick squish-splosh of soap being lathered and rinsed away, lathered and rinsed away. There came more, accompanied by a loose-lipped sigh as she imagined Bowser washing his blunt snout and cheeks of blood. Five minutes passed washing up, five of the longest minutes of Cassandra's life. In those five minutes, she found her mind playing over every horrible scenario imaginable.

When finally the water stopped, there was silence for a moment, then the scirl of a towel rod spinning. Bowser came back into the den of their personal quarters wiping his face with a faded brown towel, sitting in the armchair at an angle to the couch upon which Cass was seated.

"I know who wanted father dead, mother," Bowser said flatly, eyes narrowed, his piercing gaze aimed straight ahead, not meeting Cass's eyes. "It took some, convincing, to get the information, but now I know."

"By the gods, Bowser, what did you do," Cass rasped, unable to contain her dread any longer.

"I went to see a man in the village, a red tribe named Holson. He is a drunkard, of the sort who becomes belligerent when crippled by drink. I had to persuade him to tell me who arranged for him to not be at work when father was crushed. I persuaded him with my fists, as you can tell."

Cass looked at his hands, which were swollen and bruised from meting out a beating. "Yes, I can see this. Does he yet live?"

"Yes, he does, though I was sorely tempted to put a fireball through his scrofulous head," Bowser snarled. "The name he ultimately gave me shook me to my core, mother."

"Why? Who did he name?"

"Mother, you've told me before that when I was but a babe, someone came and gave you and father an ultimatum. You could give me over to the orphanage run by the Sisters of Mercy and retain your caste rank, perhaps slip only one rank down. Or you could keep me, and be dropped to the lowest possible caste, which you did. The man who gave you this mandate was the Magistrate of the Fourth, Benjamin Godash, who is now the Third Chair Advisor to the Emperor. Mother, he is the man who insured father's demise," Bowser concluded, finally looking Cass in the eyes.

She saw there in his gaze a quiet rage, one that could rise up and torch everything to the ground around him. "Son," she said, "what do you intend to do with this knowledge?"

"For now?" She watched as the rigidity of his body eased, his glare softened. "Nothing. His rank and title would make anything I can try to do ineffective. However, that doesn't mean I can't start putting events in motion." Cassandra marveled at her boy, despite her fear for him. Koopas were considered adults at fifteen, and here he was, six years shy of that mark, speaking, thinking and acting like a cunning koopa of easily thrice his own age. She said to him then the only thing she could think to.

"Bowser?" He cocked one eyebrow at her. "You are going to become a great man some day."

Ardin kept abreast of events mostly by frequenting the tavern just down the road and reading the paper delivered daily or listening to customers. Nerves were frayed all around, and the Emperor was sending three battalions towards Tegal Swamps, two infantry and one cavalry, mounted on yoshis.

Ardin also heard customers speaking in hushed tones about a new kind of sentient iron ore being mined to the north in Hyrule by servants of the warlock Gannondorf. These were but rumors, but Ardin made note of this information anyhow. Information, be it true or false, was a commodity.

Today he would take another step toward achieving his goal here, if the cards landed right. If they should not, he had a workable Plan B, but that involved far more risk than he usually liked. It would be touch and go if things came to that.

The assassin also began hearing rumors in the afternoon, an hour before his appointment, that one of the boys living in the Prince's castle had beaten a man in town nearly to death. He kept this rumor in mind, because soon enough he might have a chance to see those himself.

He had to hand it to Godash, as the wily goat had known precisely how Prince Nurik would respond to rising tensions along his borders. The entire civilian staff at the castle and all of its guest residents were going to receive combat training. He had sent a request to the capital, and the moment Godash heard of the request, he sent for one James Maybrick, an outcast hobgoblin warrior from Hyrule, to go and perform the task of trainer.

Ardin had a list of flaws in the caslte and attached village's defenses, outlined by Godash well in advance. It seemed the Advisor had left nothing, or very, very little, to chance. The only real danger was that Nurik might not take a hobgoblin into his trust. Hence the need for a Plan B.

Ardin took one last drink of water and headed off, aiming himself like a bullet at the castle.

Douard took a deep breath, looking at the boys and girls in their seats in his classroom. Between servants' children and the Prince's permanent guests, he instructed ten children, seven boys and three girls. This number had fluctuated up and down for years, but for six years he's had four mainstays- Bowser, Doko, Moxy and Trim. Of them, Bowser had not only been the biggest, but also the brightest.

He had also been the quickest to anger or become frustrated. Douard didn't care one bit for what he was about to announce. He raised his arms high to still what little whispered conversation there was among is pupils, and lowered them slowly when silence fell.

"My students," said the wizened old koopa, his expression and tone stern. "Our Empire stands on the brink of war." He watched as terror frothed up into the faces of all but two of his students, Bowser and Doko, the mutants. "Because of our proximity to the potential front lines of conflict, His Majesty the Prince has seen fit to bring a combat instructor aboard to teach you all how to defend yourselves. This instructor is presently being shown around the castle grounds, though he apparently already came prepared with a list of notable shortcomings in our defenses, both here and in the village below.

"This man, Mister James Maybrick, is a hobgoblin, a creature born in Hyrule. His ways will seem strange to you, but I ask that you obey his instructions as best you can once he begins lessons. Now, are there any questions before we begin the afternoon session?" Nobody spoke, nobody even twitched. "Very well, then." And so Douard turned about and began writing out mathematical questions on the board, all the while trying not to think about the eager look in Bowser's eyes at the mention of a combat instructor.

Bowser kicked the ball over to Doko, then settled back into position as goal keeper and sighed. He'd missed afternoon games like this, and he couldn't deny himself all pleasures in pursuit of revenge. It simply wouldn't do, either, to abandon the other kids when they'd been mostly scared stiff by Douard's announcement a few hours earlier.

War, he thought. Like a curse it lays its clammy hand upon our shoulders, sidling up like an old friend you just can't trust. Dismount your steed, and let us look you in the eye, bastard. Lost in his thoughts, he almost didn't dive in time to punch away a hard driving kick, keeping the score at nil.

"Good reflexes," someone called out from behind the goal. Bowser saw that his fellows had all stopped playing, staring at whoever was behind him. He turned, and found a burly, reddish-orange skinned creature standing just beyond the far sideline painted on the grass. Dressed in traveler's gear and loose leather armor, the hobgoblin began trudging onto the field. "You are quick, young one," said the hobgoblin.

"Mr. Maybrick, then," Bowser called in reply as the newcomer neared.

"I am he, aye," said Maybrick, halting ten yards distant, pudgy hands on his hips. "Let's have a look at all of you, then," he said, signaling for the others to gather round.

"Molly and Hanna aren't with us," Bowser said.

"Already squared them up inside," said Maybrick with a snort. "Typical females for their kind, soft and unworthy. Now, let's see," he said, surveying the koopas and goomba before him. "Line up, all in a row, buggas," Maybrick barked, and the line formed around Bowser, who didn't budge an inch. Maybrick folded his hands behind his back, pacing up and down the line several times. "Right, then. You," he said, pointing to the far right end of the line. "Name."

"Narl Malk," said one of the koopas in Bowser's class. His father was the castle's head chef.

"Next," said Maybrick, working his way down the line. He got to Bowser and said, "Well, big fellah, I'm guessing they call you 'Tank' or 'Butch' or some other nickname."

"They do not," replied the oversized koopa youth. "I am Bowser Entem, son of Luther and Cassandra."

"You already know something of how to fight?"

"Just some roughneck basics, nothing formally trained," Bowser replied evenly, respectful but cold, detached. "I always thought Mr. Meechum might be instructing us in combat some day."

"Your Prince's Captain o' the Guard must make the soldiery and external defenses his first priority," Maybrick retorted quickly, not to be caught off balance. "Next." And on he went, until all were counted and named. When they were finished with introductions, Maybrick gave them a narrow-eyed glare. "Starting tomorrow, I will begin teaching you some standard combat techniques, many of them based on your stature. Bowser, you will require a unique regimen, one more closely associated with the style of my people, due to your build. Try to keep up."

And so he wheeled about and left, heading not for the main keep, but the gates back out to the village road. Everyone started heading back to their positions on the field, but Moxy and Bowser lingered a moment. Moxy leaned toward Bowser and asked, "Whatcha thinkin', big guy?"

"I'm thinking I don't trust him," Bowser replied.

Edward Meechum had been connected to young Bowser all his life in one way or another. He'd brought him to his parents as a new hatchling, visited him often both in the Fourth and Seventh Magistrate, and arranged to become a member of the Prince's staff so he could be close to Bowser. He believed with his whole heart that he was responsible for Bowser, particularly given what his patrol partner had tried to do when they first found him.

When the yellow tribe paratroopa had heard of the coming combat instructor, he'd been anxious about the presence of a hobgoblin in the castle. Meeting with Maybrick personally hadn't assuaged any of his nervousness either, quite the opposite. He didn't trust Maybrick further than he could throw the castle keep.

Using one of his few secrets, an artifact he'd once taken from a fallen Mushroom Kingdom spy, Meechum had transported himself to where he stood on the day after Maybrick introduced himself to the youths in the castle. He had official clearance to use the registered Warp Zones, but that would leave a trail. No, for now, the Warp Whistle was his best bet.

Meechum drew his quarterstaff from his back sling and stood ready, having arrived in an uninhabited clearing in the middle of a dank woodland. He heard rustling movement in the underbrush, felt the air grow still with tension.
When the rabbits rushed past him, he relaxed a little, but remained alert, slipping into thick foliage himself as silently as a shadow. In movies and books he'd indulged in (movies rarely, for they were expensive), this was what was referred to as the 'fatal false alarm', wherein the protagonist let their guard down after seeing he or she had been apprehensive for no good reason.

And that's when the killer or beast strikes, Meechum thought. And sure enough, leaping onto the spot where he'd been less than a minute before came a hulking hobgoblin, an orangish-brown-skinned specimen who looked big enough to halt a kart in its tracks.

The big fellow looked around, seeming confused. When he had his attention elsewhere, Meechum sprinted out and jabbed his staff end hard into the big man's Achilles', unprotected by his studded leather armor jerkin. The hobgoblin howled and fell over, dropping the axe he'd been carrying, curling into a ball to clutch at his injury.

Meechum rounded the big man and pressed his staff end to his throat, big eyes bulging up at him. "Hail, and ill met, hob," he said conversationally. "I apologize for ambushing you, but I suspect you were hoping to do the same to me."

Rather than answer with words, the hobgobling swiftly rolled away from the staff and tried to spring from a half-crouched position, hands torqued into splayed grappling postures. This failed spectacularly. With its leg still injured, the hobgoblin managed to make three-quarters of the distance between them, landing in a panting heap before a mighty crack echoed from the quarterstaff striking perfectly along his jaw, knocking him down with a grunt.

"We can be civilized about this," said Meechum evenly, not even heavy of breath. "I seek only information, and offer apologies if I've trespassed on your clan's hunting grounds. Will you hear me and speak as men?" The hobgoblin managed to stagger to its feet, lower tusks gleaming.

Once more it offered no verbal reply, instead lunging forward to swing a wild haymaker punch at Meechum. The koopa deftly ducked the attack, whipping his foot up over his back to push-kick the bigger fellow in the chest. When Meechum straightened, he used his momentum to swung his staff up in a punishing uppercut, knocking the hobgoblin to the ground yet again. The big fellow groaned weakly, rolling flat onto his back.

Meechum came around and stood over his head, looking down into the piggly face with an upside-down countenance of nigh-Buddhist peace and calm. "I apologize for hurting you, but I really don't wish you harm or insult. I'm just looking for information."

"Okay," the hobgoblin croaked, sucking breath. "I will tell what I can."

"Good," said Meechum, coming around to help the big hob sit up. "I usually detest such displays of violence, but you left me little choice."

"I know," said the hob. "You talk good, with honey voice and words. But you fight like savage."

"Thank you," said Meechum. "My name is Edward Meechum, and I need to know about one of your exiles."