Heavy Is the Crown- Chapter Thirteen

Prince Dulaha turned out to be a far cry different than his littlest brother, Nurik. When Bowser was taken to him, Dulaha told him in no uncertain terms that he would be designing and helping build prototypes of more assault weaponry like his Bullet Bill cannon, all in the name of the Empire. It was either that, or, due to his age, transfer to the Little Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. Bowser detested this tyrant instantly, but figured he'd be either bored at Little Sisters or killed by the nuns for disobedience.

Such things happened there, after all, especially to mutant children.

So Bowser was given the old kart mechanics' garage and quarters within the castle, ordered to work to develop more weaponry or machines for the war effort, and left to his devices, by and large. With his friends and their families removed from the castle and banned from the village, he had almost nobody to talk to. Almost.

Willow and Rompus were somehow able to convince Dulaha's new Captain o'the Guard, a red tribe named Garrick, to keep them on as Bowser's minders. The first week after the funeral service and Dulaha's establishment in the castle, Bowser spent most of his time quietly working on Bullet Bill cannons and sketching new machines. His paratroopa guardians didn't try to interrupt or distract him, giving him room to grieve and adjust to his new circumstances.

During the second week, Bowser began issuing requests for working materials to develop one of his designs. News quickly filtered to the castle of an official decree from the capital that war had been openly declared by both the Gora Empire and the Mushroom Kingdom against one another. The front lines were said to be approximately fifteen miles into the western border of the Mushroom Kingdom.

As war was now acknowledged, Bowser had his materials the next day, and six koopa engineers of various tribes were assigned by Prince Dulaha to assist him in his efforts. By the end of that second week, they were halfway finished with a new kind of assault kart, equipped with Fire Flower cannons and Bob-omb launchers. Prince Dulaha personally visited the workshop and heaped praise on Bowser for his genius.

The young koopa didn't respond in any way. He was devoid of all outward signs of emotion, as lifeless as his machines. The only way in which he acknowledged the Prince was to faintly nod or shake his head in response to yes or no questions. Dulaha seemed to neither notice or care.

Three months into the Gora-Mushroom War, however, Bowser's silent but steady demeanor began worrying many in the castle, the Prince included.

Two weeks before the first major battle in Empire territory, something happened that would make that vague unease transform into full-blown fear.

Bowser awoke as he sometimes did in those days, his neck, shoulders and hips aching from having fallen asleep on a roller cart underneath a transport vehicle. He groaned and stretched hs limbs, rolling the crawler out from under the vehicle and sitting up, head throbbing. Well, happy birthday to me, he thought dismally. Ten years old. Big deal. He got to his feet and lumbered to the workshop's attached bathroom.

When he came back out and headed to the minifridge kept to one side of the workspace, plucking out an orange and a bagel, he spotted the previous day's newspaper sitting on a nearby bench. Alejandro, one of his best workers, brought in the paper every day. Nobody ever saw Bowser reading it, but only because he did so when nobody else was around. He knew all about what was going on in the war.

The headline atop the previous day's edition: '17th Infantry Digs In, Holds New Front Line'. The article said that the Mushroom Kingdom had been forced back to the original border between nations, a lucky thing for Gora Empire, who'd steadily lost ground over the last month. Sure, the Empire had superior technology, but the Kingdom had far more magic at its disposal. In a head-to-head confrontation, skilled wizards almost always won out over technologically advanced opponents.

Bowser briefly read the article, then fixed his bagel and orange, eating at the counter. He made a fresh pot of coffee, and was halfway through his first cup when Alejandro came in through the workshop's side door. Bowser quickly checked the schedule tacked up over the microwave, then addressed the human.

"Alejandro, you're not scheduled today," Bowser said flatly. "You can head back home."

"No I can't," said Alejandro, dropping a duffel bag on the workshop floor and yanking his gray coveralls out. "Got in a fight with Tina this morning. I'm not going back there right now."

"You won't get paid."

"I don't care, man," he replied, running a hand through his hair, which was still greasy from the previous day's work. "I'll head back after I'm done being pissed."

"That's fine," said Bowser. He sipped his coffee and headed over to his desk, sketchbook opened to his next project. "There's fresh coffee." Alejandro grabbed a mug and poured himself some, staring idly at the two transport trucks on lifts filling most of the workspace.

Bowser could tell from where he stood that whatever the fight was about, it had his best human worker in a state of mind that bordered on murder. Gaze with wonder upon the beautiful lands of Bruised Faces and Flesh Wounds! Yet he had come to recognize that Alejandro was not a man naturally atuned to violence just through observation. For him to be this upset, things must've been catastrophically bad at home that morning.

Soon the other three workmen scheduled for the day arrived, koopas all who'd been declared more useful here than on the front lines. They were just getting t work when one of Dulaha's black shell guards, a brute named Simlow, muscled his way into the workshop from the castle access door.

"Help you, Simlow," Bowser asked from his desk, pencil in hand. He'd modified a couple of small details on his next project's outline, and had just one or two more bits to correct. Simlow grunted at Bowser and stalked past, out onto the workshop floor.

"You men are all pathetic," Simlow growled, stalking among them as they worked, hands hanging loosely over the handles of his combat hammers. "Unworthy of even serving as infantry, eh? Well," he said, stopping next to Springer, a green tribe on a crawler working on undercarriage armor for one of the transports. "I don't see anything physically wrong with you." Simlow reached down and grabbed Springer's ankle, dragging the koopa out from under the truck.

"Hey," Springer yelped in alarm, everyone else backing away. Bowser shot up out of his chair, slowly coming around his desk.

"What's your excuse, weakling," Simlow snapped, his teeth exposed in a snarl. He drew out one of his hammers, twirling it nonchalantly. "You 'fraid of the toadstools and humans in Mushroom Kingdom?"

"N-n-n-no," Springer stammered. "I got a, a, a nervous condition, makes me too twitchy."

"Ah." Simlow swung the large hammer up so its head rested against his right shoulder. "I thought it was maybe your foot."

"My foot?"

"Yeah, on account of it being busted," said Simlow. His face went from a serpent's smile to a berserker snarl in an instant, and as Bowser and Springer cried out in protest, the black shell Hammer Brother brought his weapon down with a sickening crunch on Springer's left ankle. Blood flew from flesh cut by the jagged, broken bone as Simlow drew the hammer up again.

And the Hammer Brother stood in that pose as Bowser's fireball, thrown from his throat, exploded against his black shell and legs. The fire roared, and instantly Simlow became a shrieking bulge of flames running mindlessly around the workshop, arms flailing. Bowser took up a long-handled wrench, took careful aim, and hurled it at Simlow as he bounced off of the outer garage bay doors.

It slammed into his face with such force that he was driven back against the bay doors before sliding down, finishing in a limp pile of groaning, burning meat in armor. The other workmen had finally snapped out of their terror-fueled haze, winding out the hose used to wash the karts and hosing Simlow down. When the fames were extinguished, Bowser stalked over to the fallen koopa, and snatched up his other combat hammer.

"Never again," Bowser rasped, tearing Simlow's charred helmet off of his head. With a low grunt, Bowser swung the hammer down atop Simlow's skull, thick, brackish blood squeezing out over his charred face. Eyes rolled up, Simlow fell over with a brittle creak, dead as could be. Bowser stood panting over the body, looking down into the slack face of the fallen Hammer Brother. "Alejandro, take Springer to the infirmary. The rest of you, back to work. I'll be back shortly," he said without looking around.

In the corridor attaching the castle to the garage, Bowser found Willow and Rompus throwing dice against a wall. He stopped just shy of them and cleared his throat. Willow looked up, and beamed at the younger koopa, who almost stood eye-to-eye with her. "Bowser! What do you need, honey?"

"Please inform Prince Dulaha that I have killed Simlow," Bowser said evenly, eliciting a gasp from his paratroopa minders. "And please tell him I'll be in the shop with the body."

Prince Nurik had been a refined koopa of average build and intellectual, thoughtful demeanor. If he had a polar opposite among his kin, it was Dulaha, a massive blue shell broader and taller by half, dressed always in full combat armor with a wicked spear on his back. His features were brutish and heavy, with none of the keen wit that shone in Nurik's eyes. He stared down in blank surprise at the Hammer Brother's corpse, a squad of soldiers arrayed around Bowser, spear tips aimed at him as he stood a few feet to one side.

"You did this, boy," Dulaha asked quietly.

"I did," Bowser replied.

"How? Gasoline? Power Mushroom oil?"

"I accidentally swallowed a Fire Flower seed when I was newly hatched. Instead of killing me, it took root in my guts. I can breath fire." Dulaha craned his head over to look at him, and Bowser stared back.

"Prove it," Dulaha said. Bowser turned his head, aiming his mouth at a welding shield leaned against a far work bench. He spat out a rounded fireball at it, and the guards all flinched back from him as he faced Dulaha again. Yes, fire in his guts, ice in his veins, the Prince thought. "From what you've told me, Simlow assaulted your man unprovoked, yes?"

"Yes. Broke his foot. He's in the infirmary now," said Bowser.

"Hmm. Well," said Dulaha, clapping his hands together. "As a Prince of the Empire, I hereby declare this killing righteous. You were attempting to defend a helpless fellow citizen from an out-of-control koopa. Justified. Now, aside from a new worker to cover for your injured man, what else can I do for you, young Bowser?" Bowser looked at the guards, who were now drawing away from him, spears being returned to their back holsters.

"We need to talk," Bowser said, moving toward his desk. He sat down, and Dulaha sat at a spare chair beside him, an enormous man indeed. He reeked of sweat and sour onions, but Bowser didn't much care. He had the man's attention. Dulaha saw the glare Bowser aimed at his guards, and dismissed them from the shop with a flap of his hand. The other mechanics were already out in the corridor, waiting to be let back in.

"It's just you and I now, so talk," Dulaha said.

"I've almost run out of sentient iron ore," Bowser began. "With Hyrule shutting us off from more supply, we're out of luck there."

"How do you know of the sanctions?"

"Newspapers," Bowser replied. "It's fine for now, but I'll have to compensate. Any more Bullet Bills will be dumb as stone with a diluted mix, but we haven't much choice. But I'm worried more about my supply of copper and Power Mushroom oil. My machines need that oil to function."

"I know. My father has spent an exorbitant amount of money lately buying more from the lands of Konami to the east. They don't even use it there, so they sort of have us by the balls."

"What about Dino Island, south of the continent, between Famicom and the lands of Sega," Bowser asked.

"Protected by the Mushroom Kingdom, though only barely," said Dulaha, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "They maintain a small contingent force there, non-invasive to the local animals and the occasional goombas that seem to spring up out of nowhere. We could easily overrun them with a single battalion."

"You might not even need that," Bowser said, flipping through his sketchbook. He finally showed one of his pages to Dulaha. It showed a kind of strange oversized tea cup, but with propellers on the bottom and a basket for holding bob-ombs around its rim. "I recommend using a mid-sized vessel sail to a point five miles from the coast, then launching ten to twelve of these for bombing runs. Paratroopas or lakitus can be adjoined for support, but these would be armored against standard weaponry."

"Transteel," Dulaha asked.

"Yes. I understand we don't have much, but we have enough to armor twenty-five of these units. We'll only need twelve to fifteen of them, though," Bowser said. "What do you think?"

"I think I'll send a wire to my father seeking his permission in this," said Dulaha, rising from his seat. "You can begin work on those tomorrow, regardless of his reply. Even if he says no, we can still use them at the front." Dulaha got up and headed for the castle access corridor, stopping at the door to look back. "As for the sentient ore, there may yet come a solution to our supply needs." Bowser nodded, asking no questions, and the Prince left him. His workmen came back in and set to work once more.

None of them talked back or threw jokes his way for the remainder of the work day. The look in their eyes spoke volumes, and the word they said was unquestionably 'fear'.