Heavy Is the Crown- Chapter Nineteen

No sooner had Princess Peach sent the freelancer Ardin off on his contracted assignment than she received a messenger bird carrying Bowser's warning. He didn't know exactly what was going to happen, only that it would come from ambush, breaking the cease-fire.

She commanded Dofun to rally the caravan and make haste toward the capital, formulating a letter of her own for her father to send ahead. She only hoped it and she would return home before the cease-fire could be broken.

**

Bowser felt Meechum's absence as a tangible thing, a slick oiliness in the air which clung to his leathery flesh. It was early morning yet, and he had only slept a few hours after sending off his letter to Peach. With Renoit already tending to affairs of the Shadow, he was left to his own devices.

For the time being, he wanted only to sit in quiet contemplation of one of Douard's memoires in his bed chamber, sitting near the fireplace in an armchair modified to accommodate his size and shell spikes. Anything else might well strike him as unnecessary, given the gravity of events on their way. He accepted that even if his letter should get to Peach in time, and her father figured out a counter to the Pitchfork maneuver, the results were going to be monumental.

As he sat reading about Douard's first council with Emperor Harin, Shadow agents were poised to strike against Prince Tangerine.

**

It had been a perfectly innocent observation made by one of the archers in Tangerine's escort that alerted him to the hostiles nearby. A toadstool man, he was taller than most, and he mentioned that it was strange the way a few spots in the high grass north of their mid-morning camp weren't swaying in the breeze. A quick order whispered to the unit's lone mage revealed that yes, there were three men out in the high brush, koopas remaining completely motionless.

"Impirial Shadow," Tangerine snarled in the wagon, scowling at his mage. "I should have known they agreed to the exchange too quickly. What are our options?"

"Well, sire, I only know a little about the Shadow," the mage replied shakily. "Our horses won't be able to outrun them, for starters. Even if we had karts, we'd likely not be able to keep our distance. They utilize strange arcane arts to run as swiftly as the average kart, you see. As for matching them with brute combat, we would be at a distinct disadvantage here with all the high grass to take cover within."

"Any magical options?"

"Actually, yes," said the toadstool with an impish grin. "A few. Yet one specific one comes to mind." The mage unslung his rucksack from his back and opened it, pulling out a small wooden box from within. "I'd been saving this for a dire emergency," he said, reverently prying the lid open. Light glimmered out from within, illuminating the wagon's covered interior. "I believe this qualifies. I'd be honored if you made use of it, lordship."

Prince Tangerine marveled at the object in the box, his hand reaching to one side for a spare sword.

**

Daniel and his brothers took great pride in their status as members of the Shadow, though they couldn't exactly share that information with anyone freely. When the Emperor had assigned them the task of following and dispatching Prince Tangerine upon his crossing back into Mushroom Kingdom, they'd all wanted to gloat to their kinsmen about it. But Daniel had wrangled his brothers back and reminded them that they could not even share this with the great Prince Renoit, the great Shadowcaster.

They all knew that magic had been sent in their direction, but they held position. Without knowing the precise nature of this magic, they could do nothing. The silent, motionless state of readiness was to hold.

However, when someone from the caravan began to approach, weapons slid without a sound from padded sheathes. Whoever it was, they made no effort to conceal their purpose. Daniel thought back to Shadowcaster Renoit's lessons; if the target has spotted you, charge, and scream while you do. No one expects a sneak to scream.

So Daniel broke cover and charged, hollering like a man possessed, twin knives held out to his sides. He could just make out Prince Tangerine, and as he closed the gap and swung in an 'X' strike, his eyes beheld his folly. His weapons snapped uselessly against the human's glowing, flashing flesh, and his right arm swung out in an upward slice.

He'd used an Invincibility Star.

Daniel's last vision in life was seeing his slayer raise his blade for one more blow.

**

The following morning, as he roamed the quiet halls of Prince Renoit's castle, Bowser found himself contemplating a portion of Douard's memoir that he'd spent the previous day reading through. In it, the notable scholar spoke of a trip he took to Hyrule, to the north, in order to study the culture of the orcs, trolls and goblins who lived on the fringes of the kingdom's society. In an orc village, he'd come across a curious student of magic, a half-orc man by the name of Gannondorf. He'd been brought to meet him when asking about the different schools of magic employed among the greenskin races.

Magic, Gannondorf informed Douard, had been largely lost to the greenskins over the course of a dozen generations. He had proven an affinity for it as a child, however, when idly repeating the conjurations of a local healer, resulting in the spell the healer had been trying to cast finally issuing from the boy. The wounded orc in question had been the son of the tribe's leader, and when word got back to him of what young Gannondorf had done, he was immediately sent to study with the tribe's foremost practitioner.

Bowser knew the name, and knew as well that the warlock had been deemed an enemy of the Crown in Hyrule. He wondered briefly if such a man might be able to help bring an end to the war. As he returned to his bedchamber to continue reading, he found himself asking aloud, "What can you do for us, Gannondorf?"

In a pouch on his nightstand, a single Coin trembled.

**

Prince Renoit sat before the mirror in his private study on the third floor of the castle, a chamber where not even Mason was allowed, scowling at the First Advisor. The use of this mirror for immediate dialogue regarding matters of the Shadow had been his father's idea. As a clandestine organization within the Empire's government, the risk of having certain information fall into the wrong hands was too great.

He scowled, however, not because the mirror was being used, but because it was not his father using it. "Advisor Godash," Renoit said evenly. "My father doesn't let others use this mirror, ever. Why are you before me?"

"The Emperor is ill, Prince Renoit, quite ill. I have been authorized to speak with you," Benjamin Godash, looking much younger than he had in a long time, began. He held up a parchment to his own mirror. "As you can see, this writ has been prepared for your scrutiny." Renoit scanned the short writ of authority, and to his chagrin, recognized his father's sloppy handwriting.

"I affirm," Renoit said with a sigh. "What may I do for the Gora Empire?"

"As Shadowcaster, it is your agreed duty to provide at all times six Shadow operatives to the Heavenly Palace. Three of these have been slain in the field during an operation. As such, three replacements are required." Renoit did not outwardly react, reining in his surge of outrage. In his mind's hallways, however, colorful expletives from various languages echoed about.

"What happened?"

"That is not your concern," said Godash dismissively.

"Per my arrangement with Emperor Harin, in the Duties and Capacities section of the Shadow Charter, when any Shadow agent or operative is slain in the field, regardless of post, it is within my rights as Shadowcaster to receive full knowledge of what said operatives were engaged in doing at the time of their death, including missions issued from the Heavenly Palace." Renoit watched as Godash's left cheek twitched ever so slightly, eyes flitting subtly back and forth.

"Ahem," Godash said, fist before his mouth as he cleared his throat. "In following with a plan hatched by the Emperor and Grand Magus Wunderweiss, the agents were following Prince Tangerine, that they might assassinate him once he returned to Mushroom Kingdom territory. However, the Prince, it is believed, got the drop on them, as it were. A unit of infantry on their way back from the front last night found the bodies, half a day after coming across Tangerine's caravan."

"Wunderweiss's capture was a fraud, wasn't it," Renoit asked, a int of a smile in his voice. "I always did like him. He's clever."

"Indeed he is," said Godash. "Now, about those agents?"

"I'll have three men sent to you post-haste, Advisor," Renoit said. "In the future, may I suggest sending a different lakitu to deliver messages to check this mirror? This one was young, could barely handle his cloud."

"Duly noted." The mirror fogged over, and moments later, reflected the room once more. Renoit had received the notice about his men being sent after Tangerine, but Godash didn't know about it. Had he known, he would have refused to reveal such information to Renoit. As such, either his father hadn't brought Godash into his innermost trust, or Godash was up to something he ought not to be.

"What's your secret, Ben," he rasped to the mirror.

**

Upon returning from breakfast to discover a cloaked man looking in his closet, Bowser took the heavy tome in his hands and closed it silently, preparing to hurl it like a throwing axe at the would-be intruder. He cocked his arm back, and the newcomer said, "I wouldn't," one finger raised in a 'tut-tut' position. Bowser kept his arm cocked back.

"Who are you," Bowser asked of the man, whose voice had sounded civilized enough.

"I've had a few names over the course of my life," the man said, walking his fingers over the coats and sweaters hanging in the closet. "Orc King, Savior of the Greenskins, warlock, madman, enemy of the state. However, you know me as," he said, turning and pulling back his hood, then bowing formally at the waist, "Gannondorf."

Bowser took in the warlock's features, noting the knife-like nose, the crimson hair, and the thick, heavily scarred hands. He tossed the book on his bed casually and lumbered around to the foot of it, sitting down. He stood a good two inches taller than the warlock, yet felt dwarfed by his presence. "What are you doing here," the mutated koopa asked.

"You called for me," the half-orc man said, reaching out one hand toward the writing desk, its chair rolling toward him by way of his magic.

"I did no such thing," Bowser huffed.

"I heard you," Gannondorf said, sitting down at an angle to Bowser. He pointed lazily over at the nightstand and waggled one long finger back and forth. Bowser heard a rattling, and turned his head, watching as a single Coin wiggled itself free of the money pouch he'd left there. It rolled onto the floor, then continued all the way around to the warlock's foot. "You see, this is one of the many, many thousandsof Coins I gave to your Empire in exchange for the services of one of your finest architectural minds. If my name is invoked near one, I can hear it, and bring myself to the Coin's location."

"That sounds like powerful magic," Bowser said.

"It isn't really," Gannondorf said casually. He flapped one hand as if at a slow-buzzing fly. "Just a minor enchantment and a binding. Now, most folk who call for me want something, and if you do, I hope you'll keep it brief, young Bowser. I've a curse to cast on a Princess up north, and shortly thereafter, a kingdom to rule."

Bowser did not like or trust this man, and wondered if he'd been so pompous when Douard had met him all those many years ago. Probably not. Douard wouldn't have suffered such a man. Keeping a neutral expression and tone, Bowser said, "I'd like to know what you can do to help bring this war to a stop."

"Honestly?" Gannondorf grinned, but there was no warmth in it. "Nothing. The war is about to be over all on its own."

"You sound very certain of that," Bowser said.

"Because I am certain of it. The Empire-Kingdom war will close in the coming days, and a whole new one will begin, a civil war right here in Gora Empire." The warlock rose from his seat and stretched, cat-like. "Yes, there will be some damage to Mushroom Kingdom, thanks to traps laid by Wunderweiss, but it will be minor, and the Mushroom Kingdom will chalk it up to a final desperate act. Then, they'll sit back and watch this country swallow itself like the Uroboros."

Bowser felt the urge to breath fire on the half-orc rising, but with an effort, he quashed it. "You are precisely the sort of liar people say you are. If you can do nothing, then I have no need of you here."

"Now just a moment, boy," Gannondorf snarled, his tone now feral, eyes narrowed as he swooped in close, nose pressed against Bowser's rounded snout. "Nobody dismisses me! If it is truth you want, I shall give you three of them. In exchange, you will allow me to look into your future, for one cannot do so without the subject's permission, and very few ever grant me that. Do we have a deal?"

Bowser, still tempted to cuff this man with a short punch, grunted, and instead offered his hand. Gannondorf took it, then peered deep into Bowser's eyes, the half-orc's turning jet black. Bowser felt unseen hands pawing through his mind, a sensation he could only qualify as 'violating'. It lasted only moments, and left Gannondorf staggering away, gasping for breath. He sat down heavily on the rolling desk chair, his angle bad, and promptly fell off with a thud.

"Hope that hurt," Bowser snapped, clutching his throbbing head. But he heard snickers issuing from the warlock, and Gannondorf just adjusted his legs, sitting Indian-style on the floor.

"Oh, it is as I thought it would be, yes," said the warlock with a serpent smile. "I've been keeping an eye on you for some time, Bowser. Didn't you wonder how I knew your name?"

"Hardly seemed relevant."

"Oh, but it is. You see, this is your first truth. Your parents could not conceive. They'd tried for years, and finally, they tracked me down for magical aide. You are what you are because my elixir allowed your mother to become pregnant." Bowser flinched, looked away. He could tell that Gannondorf was not lying. "You were my greatest experiment, Bowser. I had no idea how my new formula would perform, not until you came along."

"Move on, warlock," Bowser said testily. "Give me another truth."

"Your much-loved Douard sits in the dungeons of the Heavenly Palace, a political prisoner," Gannondorf said, laughter threaded like venom in his words. "The Emperor signed off on the warrant without even reading it two years ago. Advisor Godash tired of his seditious speeches and papers, so he drafted a writ of arrest, and the old man was jugged."

Bowser got up from the bed and kicked his nightstand, unable to hold in his fury wholly. If he didn't vent it, it would grow into rage and consume him.

"And your final truth, boy, is this," Gannondorf said, his voice a harsh whisper in the overgrown koopa's ears. "The Emperor is dead. In his place is a simulacrum, one I constructed when asked. The man who asked, who now is the de facto ruler of your Empire? First Advisor Benjamin Godash."

A wordless roar ripped through the bedchamber, accompanied by the warlock's dark laughter, and soon followed by the sounds of wanton destruction of furniture. The rage that Gannondorf had told the Entems would inform their son's behavior had finally come to maturity.

And nothing would quench that rage for a long time.

**

Prince Tangerine and his caravan almost walked right into the trap laid by Wunderweiss just inside the boundary of the Mushroom Kingdom, headed straight for Ashlon, a plains village known for growing corn and tomatoes. However, half a mile distant, his caravan mage blurted out that they should stop, and Tangerine called a halt immediately.

"A curse has been awakened here, sire," the toadstool mage said, sitting next to the Prince on the wagon's driver bench. "I recognize it. It's the Devouring Curse, and unless we want the locals to try to eat us, or discover our own sudden taste for flesh, we would do well to avoid Ashlon." So the caravan had been ordered to turn north and go around the village.

This helped for the most part, but several townspeople had wandered out of the village and come after them. Archers quickly put paid to those unfortunate souls.

It was three hours before they reached the next town, Balwood, which was deemed unafflicted by the mage. Prince Tangerine took the time, after requisitioning a room at one of the town's inns, to head to the constabulary and order the local sherriff to send a posse to subdue the residents of Ashlon, preferrably in a non-lethal manner.

He was about to head back to the inn when he realized he hadn't yet sent word to his father about the assassins he'd encountered. He'd received no return message, but then, he hadn't expected one. If he sent word ahead about the Shadow, would his father want him to change course and lead a counter-assault? Probably not, given the first letter. His father was well-loved by the people, but the man was a politican at his core. He would already be at work getting word to the Empire's citizenry about Douard.

Still, stopping one assassination attempt didn't mean more wouldn't be forthcoming. He went to the inn and gave his guards clear instructions regarding securing the building. Reasonably certain things would be fine, he went to his room and laid down on a real bed for the first time in longer than he cared to think about.

When he came to later, his men would have much to tell him.

**

Meechum watched as his picket guards listened to the traveler, and though he could not hear his words, he could see plain the effect his words were having on his men. Hands clenched into fists, heads shook, legs stiffened. Bad news had come, and he hadn't even yet gotten his company on its way south.

When one of his sergeants hurled his helmet to the ground, Meechum sprang forth, easing past clutches of green and red tribe koopas until he reached the picket. "Sergeant," Meechum snapped, scooping up the helmet and shaking it at the other koopa. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Forgive his anger, sir," said the traveler quietly. "It is shared with us all, and most of your company, I should think."

"What ill news have you brought, friend, that would engender us to behave so," Meechum asked.

"It is Douard, major," said one of the other soldiers, a corporal. "He is imprisoned in the Heavenly Palace for speaking against the war." Meechum took a half step back, as if slapped.

"Surely this is not so," he said weakly. "I served Prince Nurit beside the great Douard. He does not belong in prison. Surely this is some hateful rumor."

"Nay, sir, it is not a lie," said the traveler. "I have heard it spoken by another who was jailed with him." Meechum's mouth hung slack, his thoughts jumbled. How could the Emperor order Douard jailed, especially when he was such a universal rally point for the Gora Empire?

"A political prisoner," Meechum said flatly. He shook his head, anger slowly rising within him. "Traveler, what is thy name?"

"Corbin, sir. Phil Corbin."

"Go your way in peace, Phil Corbin, and let all you see know of this injustice," Meechum said. "Sergeant, gather the other officers and bring them to my tent."

"Sir?"

"We have a new mission to undertake," said Meechum. He reached up to the patch on his left surcoat sleeve, the sigil of the Empire, and roughly tore it free, casting it aside. "We are no longer of the Impirial Army. We serve the people, and those people would neevr sit idly by with our nation's greatest elder in stocks."

Within an hour, the entire company had divested itself of their seal patches, leaving an empty field littered with the sigil of the Gora Empire.

**

Renoit stared at the wreckage beside Mason, who stood silently with his hands folded over his waist. "This does not bode well," Renoit said.

"Once more you bless us with your mastery of understatement, sire."

"Not now, Mason." Renoit glared at his chief of staff darkly. He strode over to the remains of Bowser's writing desk, poking shards of charred wood with one foot. "Where is he now?"

"The workshop, tinkering with something," Mason replied. "I've gone ahead and readied grennil powder in the ventilation, if you think it's necessary."

"Not yet," said Renoit. He shook his head, pinched the ridge of snout between his eyes. "I have always known he could snap. It was always there, lurking just under the surface."

"I know."

"And Edward knew it too," Renoit continued. "He loves Bowser like his own, but he knew what he was capable of. Willow and Rompus, they've always kept a close eye on him. It was they who fetched you, yes?"

"Aye, lordship. We heard the tones of another speaking with master Bowser, but when he left, we found no evidence of another person present, aside from a trace of magic. It was, familiar, to me."

"Oh?"

"I shan't say the warlock's name, for if he left any talisman, it will respond to its utterance," said Mason. "But you know of him. A half-orc, from Hyrule." Renoit nodded, turning about and leading Mason away from Bowser's bedchamber. "Where are we going, sire?"

"To the workshop."

**

Bowser tightened down one final bolt, setting his tools aside finally and holding the weapon on his lap, staying as still as he could. He tried to clear his mind, but the whirlwind of rage that swept his thoughts into a jumble kept knocking his calm aside like a fractious dog.

He suspected someone had overheard his rampage, and expected that at any moment Mason or Renoit would come to speak with him, try to find out what was wrong. He had no intention of lying to either of them.

When the workshop door did creak open, pure instinct shot him to his feet, rifle held up, aimed at the door. Prince Renoit stood there, hands held high over his head. Right behind him stood Mason, also with hands raised. Bowser sighed, the sight of these two men, wonderful caretakers to him, working far better to calm him than any mental exercise.

He lowered the rifle and waved them in. "Come, please. Neither of you ever needs fear harm from my quarter," he said. He sat back down at his workbench, setting the weapon down. Renoit pulled up a stool across from him, while Mason remained standing off to one side, hands behind his back. "Prince, do you trust me?"

"Of course," Renoit replied immediately.

"And you would know if I was lying to you, or didn't really believe what I was saying at any point, right?" Renoit nodded, and Bowser took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "A warlock came to me, named-"

"We know," said Mason abruptly. "Speak not his name, lest you're sure he has no talismans here."

"Then I shall call him simply Gannon," said Bowser. "You know of whom I speak. I accidentally called for him while ruminating upon the current crisis. When he came, he offered me three truths, in exchange for permission to look into my future."

"Permission," Renoit asked, looking to Mason.

"It's an old law of magic, sire. A seer must have permission to look into a specific person's future. Please, master Bowser, go on."

Bowser looked down at the floor, and relayed to them his encounter in full with the half-orc warlock. When he was finished, Renoit was shaking his head slightly. "I knew Godash was hiding something. Father would never let someone else use that mirror."

"So, you believe Gannon as well?"

"I do," said Renoit. "With father dead, Joren becomes Emperor as the eldest son living. Of course, a simulacrum created by Gannon will be nigh-on impossible to prove a falsehood. And with so many people loyal to Douard in this country, we may very well be looking at the civil war Gannon warned of."

"What do we do, then," Bowser asked. "If the army divides in a rebellion, where will we stand?"

"Well, we need to try and convince Joren that he is the rightful ruler, that our father has been replaced with a simulacrum," said Renoit. "That won't be easy. He's a well-meaning koopa, but my eldest brother is an idiot, put plainly."

"Until that can be done, we needs must continue to serve the Empire," Mason broke in abruptly. Bowser blinked rapidly at the koopa butler, stunned by his stern tone. "The Shadow serves the Throne which casts it."

"Mason," Bowser began.

"He is my Second," said Renoit, eyes fixed on Mason.

"He's the butler," Bowser cried out, coming up off of his stool, pointing one claw at the dapper koopa.

"That's how he's supposed to appear, yes," said Renoit. "Only the Shadowcaster and Emperor ever know who the Second is. My Second and I do not always agree on the course of action the Shadow should take, however."

"Clearly."

"Mason, knowing that the First Advisor is governing by way of a sham, you would stand by the Throne," Renoit asked, sliding off of his seat.

"It is the way of the Shadow to serve the Throne always," Mason replied. "If you side with any rebellion, no matter how long or how righteous, it is my duty to replace you, sire." All of this Mason spoke without a change in his hirsute, officious manner. Bowser could not contain his thoughts.

"Prattle on about the Throne all you wish, Mason, but without the acceptance of rule by the people, that Throne is just a fancy chair," he snarled.

"Your opinion is irrelevant in this matter, master Bowser, both as a civilian and as a member of your rank," Mason replied. Bowser's hands balled into fists, his claws threatening to cut into the flesh of his palms.

"Barring Joren's acceptance of truth, Mason, I will not stand by the Throne," said Renoit. "As is my right as Shadowcaster, I challenge you now to a duel." He took several steps away from the faux-butler, his stance loose. "As the challenged, you have the right to set the prize."

"Very well," said Mason. "The prize is the title of Shadowcaster. I also am obliged, as the challenged, to chose my weapon first." He drew from his waistband a long, wicked blade, its edge glowing green. "And your weapon, Shadowcaster?"

Renoit smiled like a madman. "Bowser.”

**

Even when all seems to be lining up nice and proper, there is ever an element of the random and chaotic in life, events taking place which render void certain well laid plans and plots. Sometimes a life story must take an abrupt turn, all because unexpected developments transpire.

The Bullet Bill would be hailed for years to come as one of Bowser's greatest creations, though they had their detractors. Most of those were survivors who'd barely escaped death after being struck by errant Bullet Bills. Those who did not survive clearly could not object.

For one toadstool, a lengthy career spent on the knife's edge of life and death, circumstances had taken a decided turn for the worse when one such stray projectile struck him clear from his horse. He'd survived countless battles, escaped scores of heated melees in order to return while his foe slept to slip a dagger between ribs and take victory under the cover of stealth.

Ardin lay bleeding in the scrub grass eight miles from the war front, a gaping hole in his lower left abdomen sucking in all the pain the universe could feed it. He grimaced as he tried to reach up to one of his saddlebags, dangling just a foot beyond his reach on his horse's flank. It stood dumbly cropping grass while its master strugged to hang onto life, blissfully unaware of how close it had come to death's front step.

The toadstool assassin moaned as the animal stepped away for better fare in the greenery, fell back flat on the ground. The only thing about war that ever seemed to hold true was this- in war, chaos reigned supreme, and men died. For Ardin, death came not in the glory of combat, but in the banal, daily truth of 'things just happen'.

He perished moments later.