Heavy Is the Crown- Chapter Twenty-Two

Bowser drove his kart along two hundred yards ahead of the company, turrets armed and ready. He'd already navigated them around several magical traps, and gunned down a six-man unit that lobbed arrows at his vehicle as soon as the 'D' flag on his hood became visible. The projectiles bounced harmlessly off the armor plating on the kart, and his return fire chewed through them in seconds flat.

His mind wasn't entirely in the moment. His thoughts kept swirling back to Tanya Welik, the woman with whom he'd taken the final step into manhood. The experience had been ephemeral and raw at the same time, something he could hardly describe even to himself. She'd said nothing that morning as they dressed and prepared to depart, content to smile and hum to herself cheerfully. He took this as a good sign, yet felt a building pressure to talk about what they'd shared together.

The need to get moving outweighed his personal issues, however, and they'd rounded up their company and hit the road early without that conversation. He felt it could wait, particularly given the weight of purpose upon them all.

As he came over the crest of a ridge which led down into a wide valley, in which sat the township Meechum's battalion had annexed, Bowser saw Loyal forces preparing on the outskirts to mount a ring-shaped offensive. He signaled back to the company to ready for combat, activating his targeting systems. He felt a thrill at knowing that this assault kart had been crafted by his very own mind, assembled by his two hands. It had been a pet project, never released to the Empire's factories for mass production.

He would discuss trying to make a few more with Meechum, as he was currently the de facto leader of the Douard Rebellion.

He was almost within firing range before the Loyal forces realized they had a problem, and with a dragon roar, he charged into mechanized battle.

Meechum heard automatic weapons' fire coming from the outskirts of town, and when he used his spyglass, saw a veritable rout in progress. Bowser's company was ruthless, packs of rebel soldiers riding hard into the Loyal ranks. His own troops whooped and hollered, joining the fracas shortly thereafter. Within twenty minutes, the battle was over, a decisive victory culminating in the surrender of the last sixteen Loyals who survived long enough to throw down their weapons.

Meechum jogged toward the west end of town, where Bowser's company had come from, spotting the armored kart as the mutant koopa pulled it up in front of a small inn near the edge of town. Scores of his fellows cheered him as he exited the vehicle, adulation which seemed to make him awkward.

"The triumpant war hero arrives," Meechum called out as he approached. Bowser whipped around, smiling hugely at the yellow shell warrior. He bounded up and wrapped Meechum in a bone-squeezing embrace, laughing.

"Oh, it's good to see you again," Bowser said, letting him go. "We have much to discuss. Where is Renoit?"

"He left yesterday to see his brother, Joren," said Meechum. "Come along, you're a man now. Let's share a drink and a meal. Have your men disperse and take comfort." Bowser returned to his company, relaying Meechum's request, and returned with Tanya beside him, the pair clasping hands. "Oh, what's this," Meechum teased, arms folded over his chest, eyebrow cocked.

"This is sergeant Welik," said Bowser. "She is a, uh, good companion of mine," he said, stammering. She shook Meechum's hand and reclaimed Bowser's.

"I made a man of him yesterday," she said playfully. Bowser's cheeks bloomed instantly with color, and Meechum barked laughter.

"How charmingly inappropriate," he guffawed, clapping Bowser on the shoulder. "Come, then, and join our palaver, sergeant." He turned and guided the couple then to the tavern, requesting stew and bread and cheese from the kitchen. They took up a table in the center of the floor, other soldiers quickly filing in behind them. The barkeep yelled for someone named Gloria to get off her ass and start serving.

Bowser sipped the amber liquid brought to him, grimacing for a moment. "What is this," he asked.

"Ale, locally brewed," Meechum said. "There's already been talk of making you a commanding officer, my young friend. I'm inclined to agree with the idea. We've begun changing from the Empire's command structure to a simpler arrangement with four ranks, being general, commander, sergeant and private. Would you scoff at the notion of being named a commander?"

"Rank hardly seems a necessity to me," Bowser admitted, "but if it will help establish order, I'll accept the title."

"Excellent! Now, this stew is some of the best I've had since staying at Renoit's castle, and if I dare say so, is even better than Mason's recipe," Meechum said. Bowser winced at the dead chief of staff's name. He tucked into his food, and found himself in agreement with Meechum.

"Have the Divisions settled into their alignments yet," he asked.

"Largely, yes. The military split came to around a 40/60 split in favor of the Loyals, but the civilian populace is roughly 70/30 in our favor. Most goombas lean to us, while mousers favor the Throne. Humans are pretty evenly divided."

"Has there been any word about Douard from the capital," Welik asked.

"None, save that the Emperor has ordered all copies of his philosophical writings destroyed," said Meechum. "There are book burnings all across the western magistrates."

"Such a waste," Bowser mused aloud. "No book should ever be burned." He finished his food and drink, then asked for a mead from a bar maid. "Any ro', what's our next move?"

"Consolidation," said Meechum. "I've been in touch with several other commanders, and we've agreed to move the bulk of our forces to the city of Telucha, in the fourth magistrate. Its entire populace is pro-Douard, so they've offered us welcome to make it our seat of operations."

"That's not far from Piko Lake," Bowser said, his expression fogging over.

"Yes, where you were hatched," said Meechum. He reached over and patted Bowser's rough, scaly hand. "We'll take a couple of days here, gather ourselves, and then depart on a hurried march to a Warp Zone nearby. Telucha has already secured the Zone just outside of the city."

Bowser sipped his freshly arrived mead, a much sweeter beverage more to his liking, and tried not to think of his youngest days.

Renoit slipped into Joren's castle with heart-sinking ease, passing only a few feet from guards several times on his way to the eldest Prince's business office on the fifth floor. This is embarrassing, he thought, creeping into Joren's office. His oldest brother stood gazing out a window toward the town surrounding his keep, his ceremonial armor polished to a high shine. Renoit was almost beside him when the Shadowcaster felt his body begin to levitate off the floor.

"You broke the seal of welcome at my doorway, assassin," Joren said without looking, his deep, guttural voice vibrating the air itself with magical power. "You rebels aren't a very thoughtful lot, are you?"

"I wouldn't know, brother," Renoit said. Spinning toward him with wide eyes, Joren's concentration slipped, letting Renoit land in a crouch a few feet away.

"Oh, goodness," Joren said, stepping over to Renoit and putting his hands on the smaller, sleeker koopa's shoulders. "I am very sorry, brother! I didn't realize it was you!"

"Clearly," said Renoit, dusting himself off. "You didn't respond to my letter, so I got worried."

"Your letter? Ah, yes, you'd said it was direly important that we speak. I'm so sorry, again. I've been busy dealing with all of these military defections, I didn't even think about it. Come, sit. I'll pour us a drink." Joren bustled over to a cabinet, from which he took two thin glasses and a bottle of sherry. He offered Renoit one, then sat opposite him at his imposing oak desk, parting the clutter gently. "To our family, Renoit," he said, raising his glass.

"To family," Renoit dutifully replied. They drank, and the Shadowcaster decided that cutting to the heart of the matter would be best. "Joren, does father seem different to you at all lately? Like he's not himself?"

"Funny you should mention that," Joren said. "Advisor Godash sent word last night that father is in the grip of a fever delirium. He's trying to make sense of father's ravings, and I think he's doing a good job of it, all things considered."

"Really? Do tell."

"Well, apparently, father has convinced himself that giant bumblebees are going to swarm into is room and weave quilts to smother him with, for starters," Joren said, shaking his head sadly. He sighed. "He may not recover from this one, brother. We may lose him."

"About that," Renoit said, seeing an opening. "There have been rumors, brother, rumors that our father is already dead, and a simulacrum put in his place." Joren blinked at him, looking confused. "You appear to be studying magic, brother. I assumed you knew what a simulacrum was."

"Never heard of it," Joren replied. "Then again, I've only been receiving instruction for five months. What is this thing you speak of?"

"It's a construct made to act as a stand-in for a person, animated with magic an controlled by another person. The prevailing rumor is that Advisor Godash is controlling a simulacrum of our father, usurping the Throne without notice." Joren poured himself more sherry and shook his head.

"Rebel lies, like as not," said Joren. "You should have your people find the source of these rumors and deal with them quietly." He sipped his drink, offering Renoit more with a shake of the decanter.

"Most of my people are busy trying to find out which officials are aiding the rebels through sabotage, pretending to be loyal to the Throne outwardly," Renoit said. This was a lie of high order, but his brother would never know that. The Shadow owed no allegiance to the other sons of the Emperor.

"That is best," said Joren. "Well, will you be staying on here a bit, then?"

"No, I'm going to head off this very afternoon toward the capital. I believe Grand Magus Wunderweiss will want to know what the Shadow can do to help with magical countermeasures."

"Ah, say no more," said Joren. "It was good to see you, brother."

"Likewise." Renoit left the castle then, allowing every guard to see his passage. To say Joren's captain o'the guard was furious with his people would have been an understatement.

Godash felt his neck bunching up as he listened to the paratroopa's report. Grand Magus Wunderweiss was missing, and nearly a dozen of the Emperor's most highly prized artifacts were gone with him. The wizard had cleared out all of his prized tomes, leaving his spell chamber a shambles. There had, at first, appeared to be nothing left behind.

"But this envelop was left for you, Advisor," said the green tribe paratroopa, approaching Godash and handing him the object in question. A single word, his name, had been written on it. "We didn't want to break the wax seal, in case it was hexed, sir." Godash turned the envelop this way and that, checking for signs of tampering, seeing none. He shifted on the throne and waved the young koopa off.

Using a letter opener, he cut through the seal, which flashed a dull orange as it was broken. Trigger alarm, he thought. He'll know it's been opened. He had suspected the Grand Magus might eventually hightail it, preferring to save his own skin, wait until the dust settled. When he couldn't track the wizard down, he all but knew Wunderweiss had taken the temperature of the civil war's waters, and decided to seek better climes.

But as he read the brief missive left for him, Benjamin Godash's annoyance became screaming terror in his head. It read simply this-

'Did you really think a simulacrum would fool me, Ben? Me, the Grand Magus? This Empire needs a change, and I intend to help that happen. -W'

All of his carefully placed cards were tumbling, and soon the whole thing would fall flat.

Willow and Rompus tossed dice against a book stood on end in their room, toting up their scores as they went. Willow made another roll, tossing just a touch too hard, two of her dice bouncing clear from the table. Rompus snorted. "Geez, Willow, something gnawing at you?"

"This whole damned situation is gnawing at me," she snapped. "And now I've got to see a healer about these pains in my guts. I'm telling you, if we had to go into another fight right now, I'd have to let you have all the fun."

"I've always enjoyed it more than you anyhow," Rompus replied. He plucked the dice up and handed them over, letting her finish her roll. Their room was nice enough, a guest room offered by an older couple living on the town's south end. Yet these two, who had watched over Bowser for so many years, yearned to be close to him again. But the Shadowcaster had made himself clear; they were to keep a distant eye on him only, never again interfering. Prince Renoit had sounded pained when he issued the order, but Bowser was a man now.

When they finished their game, Willow headed off to speak to a healer, leaving Rompus to his own musings. He'd never been accused of being a deep thinker. Dubbed since his training days a 'combat monkey', Rompus didn't fare well in times of peace and quiet. Contrary to popular belief, this made him an efficient Shadow agent. Agents on assignment always had something to do, some objective to accomplish that would bring them closer and closer to an altercation.

So his mind turned toward his and Willow's other ongoing mission. They'd have to leave the town soon, ahead of everyone else, if they were to achieve it. General Loens wasn't going to kill himself, after all, and with his company so close to where they were all heading, it would be best to remove him as a roadblock. Assassinations behind enemy lines created wonderful volumes of chaos.

He was grinning at the idea when Willow returned, her face slack, eyes wide. He got up, recognizing her shock. "What's wrong, Willow? Are you sick? Is it an infection from a wound?"

"No," she said, suddenly smiling. "I'm pregnant."