Heavy Is the Crown- Chapter Twenty-One

A week had passed since Bowser had been fitted for his armor, and he drove his kart hard, staying fully half a mile ahead of the mounted troops and flying paratroopas Willow and Rompus led with him east. Since leaving Renoit's castle, they had recruited two companies from Wolf Division, and engaged in battle with another, a fight that had seen Bowser unleash his full, furious potential.

And it had been an awful thing to behold.

Dozens of koopas and humans fell under the brute force and savage skill of his axes, grown men, veterans of war, trying to flee as he carved their brethren into chunks of gory meat. Those he could not catch he breathed fireballs at, and a few were crushed under the wheels of his armored kart. The bestial glee of carnage on the battlefield satisfied him in ways he'd never thought it could.

But then came the quiet afterwards, when he'd trudged through lanes of corpses, dragging his tail behind him, a lumbering golem in dented armor, numb to the world. Willow had been forced to slap him several times to bring him out of his fugue, and he'd wept into her narrow shoulder for five minutes before finally regaining control of himself. Bowser did not like this part of himself much, in the sober light of the aftermath.

Driving toward Gethel, a sizable township a full day from Meechum's forces, he pulled up his magical energy scanner, sweeping the area ahead for traps. Wunderweiss was said to have sided with the Throne, so there were precautions that would need to be taken against him and his elite corps of mages. He'd already sent word ahead to Meechum, who for the time being, had become the unofficial lodestone for the Douard Rebellion.

Bowser sighed, relieved to find no traps ahead between him and Gethel. Using a set of switches on his control panel, he activated a set of white blinking lights back to the rest of his company, giving the all-clear signal.

It had taken only the one battle for people to start looking to him as a leader. He wasn't sure how much he cared for that.

The township now laid only a few hundred yards ahead, and he slowed his kart, activating the chain gun turrets mounted on the front over the tires. He didn't want to discover a more mundane form of ambush lying in wait, and if one came, he would reduce it to a fine blood mist. But as his kart rolled onto the main brick road passing through the center of the township, he felt confident the reel forces would, at least, be tolerated here, if not entirely welcomed. He clicked the button again, the turrets disappearing back under their panels.

Locating an inn with a kart garage only took minutes, whereupon he was greeted with open arms by a yellow tribe koopa, the owner of the inn. "Hail Douard, my large young friend," the older man said.

"Indeed, hail Douard, old dad," Bowser replied. "Does the whole of Gethel speak so?"

"Feh, no," said the innkeeper, flapping his hands in the kind of surrender the old have for the young's new ways. "There are some who wish to remain loyal to Gora. We have not yet come to blows, but it is a close thing, aye." Bowser took from his money pouch seven Coins, handing them to the innkeeper.

"One day for me, the best that much Coin can get me," he said.

"My goodness," said the innkeeper, eyes bright with greedy glee. "You want a girl? There's more than enough here to cover that."

"Charming, but no, I've no need for that," Bowser said. He drew out two more Coin. "These will pay for you to have someone guard my kart at all times," he said.

"Of course! Follow me." Bowser went with the innkeeper to the front desk, where he was given a key marked '7'. He followed the older koopa's directions down the east hallway to his room, a suite as it turned out, and began shrugging off his armor. He had it half off when there came a knock at his door.

"It's open," he called. The door opened, and as he set the cuirass on a plush sofa in the center of the room, a young green shell woman in chain armor stepped in. The sergeant's stripes on the left shoulder of her open-sided military serape caught his eye, as did the black 'D' stitched on the opposite side. "Sergeant," he said.

"Bowser, sir," she replied, standing at parade rest, hands tucked behind her back, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. Career military, he thought. Probably conscripted, can't be much older than me. "Sergeant Tanya Welik, sir."

"Very well, Sergeant Welik. What can I do for you?"

"One of my men spotted some mousers when we were coming into town, sir, and we know they're usually handy with demolitons. I'd like permission to take some men to see if they can spare us some, or join up."

"You hardly need my permission for that, sergeant," Bowser said with a casual scoff. "In case you hadn't realized, I don't even have rank. You needn't call me 'sir'." Welik shook her head, looked at him with an intensity he knew not what to make of.

"I saw you in battle, sir," she said, voice dropping in volume, coming out in an nearly worshipful husk. "You were magnificent." Bowser rubbed the back of his head, feeling equal parts awkward and excited. Tanya Welik was a moderately attractive koopa woman, built tall and broad, but with equal amounts of clear intelligence and cunning in her eyes.

"Well, thank you, sergeant," he said. "Um, by all means, yes, check for those munitions. When you're through, perhaps you could come back and we could grab something to eat together, discuss strategy going forward." She smiled hugely and nodded, then about-faced to leave. As she reached the door, Bowser, mind racing, called out, "Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Those studs on your shell," he said, realizing she only stood about five or six inches shorter than he. "Are they natural?"

"Aye, they are. Much like your spikes, sir."

"Were you an only child, sergeant?"

"Yes, why?"

"Just a curiosity. I'll see you here for dinner." She nodded and left, and Bowser's mind filled with screaming laughter. It seems you didn't entirely fail with your efforts prior to me, Gannondorf, he thought, snickering aloud.

Meechum stuck his spear in another fallen soldier, a koopa paratroopa who had been clipped by arrows during the skirmish. His forces were holding the town handily enough, but there had been at least two such battles each day for four days straight. He recognized the formations, the layout of attacks and timing patterns- they'd been ripped right out of Spicer's Gambit, a strategic manual written as a counter-offering to what Douard had taught.

In the battle of strategies, Douard's way was holding much better.

Yet something about the methodical attacks was working, because today he'd lost fully twenty-four people, versus three the day before. His troops were getting fatigued, while the Loyals, as his people were now calling them, were consistently fresh.

He finished his clean-up duty and headed to the tavern he'd commandeered as a command station, bellying up to the bar with a shot of rye vodka. As he sipped at it, a familiae presence entered through the batwing doors and shuffled up to the seat on his left.

"There's talk of his company getting close," said the newcomer, his dark grey travel cloak swirling as he hopped onto the stool. "There was a battle three days ago, a bad one. They say he fought like a demon."

"I'm not surprised," said Meechum. "It is as we expected of him. Was he injured at all?"

"No. Jaime didn't even have to help. I'm going to pull him once the company gets here, send him on a job."

"Renoit, does Bowser know he's being groomed," Meechum asked quietly.

"I don't think so." The Shadowcaster signaled the barkeep for a glass, poured himself a shot, and downed it quickly. "He has no active desire to lead, so he's not looking for opportunity. It stands to reason too that if he receives no official rank, he won't give it much thought."

"We should give him rank, then, get him ready for the idea," said Meechum. "What do you think?"

"I think a lot of veterans might be upset by such a move, but these are your people. You have a better read on their mentality."

"And I think these people are just looking for some direction. Our soldiers grow weary from the skirmishes, so Bowser's company arriving will invigorate them, give them back the fire that burned so bright when first we rebelled." The two koopas shared another drink, this one in silence, and each man thought about their next step. For Meechum, a rotation of forces seemed a good, logical next step. For Renoit, what came next would be dangerous.

He had contacted his brother Joren, writing him a letter to say he was coming to discuss the rebel forces. Thus far, the heir to the Empire's Throne had sent no reply. Renoit worried that some ill had befallen him, and was going to head to Joren's castle to check on him. The entire city of Palsberg, which surrounded it, had come out as pure Loyal, and if they caught any hint that Renoit had sided with the rebellion, he would be mobbed. Still, it was a chance he had to take.

He didn't want this war to claim another relative.

Turiya carried the dead black shell koopa out behind the chapel, careful not to let him bump into anything. He wanted to allow this fallen brother to retain his dignity in death. Gently he laid the dead man down at the foot of a tree, fetching from the tool shed attached to the small graveyard a beige funeral wrap he'd rummaged for earlier. He laid it out flat, moving the dead man onto it.

With great care he undid the strap securing the rounded black helmet from the corpse's head. He ran a callused thumb over the name stamped into the rim in small silver letters, 'Angsol'. He set the helmet aside and began wrapping the body in the fashion prescribed in tradition for all Hammer Brothers.

When he was finished, he lowered the body into a grave he'd dug for Angsol, careful to make sure it laid flat. Climbing out, he let a single tear run a dirty track down his grimey cheek. Once up top, he grabbed his shovel, and took up a single chunk of soil. He then cleared his throat to speak, despite being the only man present.

"I now inter in the earth my fellow Hammer Brother, my brother by parentage, and my superior, all in a single man," he said. "Let this be known, for Angsol, Second of the Hammer Brothers, died by mine own hands in honorable melee. May the lands keep his body, and the skies his spirit."

He raised the shovel, and tossed in the first of many clumps of dirt.

Bowser leaned over toward Welik and whispered, "Do you have any idea what they're yelling at each other?" They sat next to one another in the living room of a mouser family, the patriarch and matriarch squeaking animatedly at each other and making violent gestures in the air.

"Not a clue," she replied. "This wasn't what we were expecting when we came looking for them. There's two more houses here on this side of the street, all extended family. This is the only one with munitions or weapons."

"And they started arguing when you asked to talk about supplies?"

"Yup. That's when I decided to come get you," she said. "They were shouting at each other right after I excused myself to come fetch you. It was weird, because they completely stopped to listen to me, smiled, nodded, and as soon as I turned around, they were back at it."

Bowser pictured the scene in his mind, snorted a short laugh. "I see. Allow me." He stood up slowly, the chair he'd been offered creaking with relief to be free of his oversized frame. The mousers looked at him, the male, his thin gray fur raising on his neck and forearms, shifted uneasily. His wife, her bluish fur sleek and matted to her skin with sweet-smelling oils, just followed Bowser casually with her eyes, as if she were bored. "Mister and missus, ah," he began.

"Chukal," provided the husband.

"Mister and missus Chukal, we are here as members of the Douard Rebellion," Bowser said evenly. "If this is the reason for your contention with one another, we can leave you and your family in peace. Is that why you argue now?" The Chukals shook their heads. "Then can you explain to me the crux of your disagreement?"

"We have bombs," said mister Chukal. "But we have only six. I do not wish to give them to you, not because you are rebels, but because we want to sell bombs. My wife, she say we give you bombs, no money. But please," he said, clasping his hands together in supplication. "We are not have much money, very poor. If you can buy, would be better." Bowser nodded, taking his money pouch off of his hip and handing it to mister Chukal.

"Twenty Coin," Bowser said, at which the mouser couple marveled. "I take it that will do nicely?"

"Yes, yes," mister Chukal said, while missus took Welik by the hand and led her deeper into the house, presumably for the bombs. When Bowser and Welik got back to the hotel and dropped off their purchased wares, they could restrain their laughter no longer.

It felt very fine to laugh for Bowser, who had known very little to laugh about in too long a time. As the chuckles and tittering tappered off, the silence that crept in, swollen with possibilities, forced his eyes to lock on hers.

The next thing to lock was his hotel suite's main door.

Godash descended the steps down into the dungeon with a torch held high, chasing away the shadows as he stalked to Douard's cell. The wise old koopa sat on his bunk as Godash arrived, pen in hand, journal open on his lap.

"Why do they love you so much," the politician snarled, frowning at the red shell scholar. "Those people forget their place, and claim you as the architect for their grand ideal! Why, Douard?" Douard smiled, closed his journal, and set it aside. He turned his head just enough to look over at Godash.

"Because I love them all," he said, as if this were something so obvious that it should bear no question in the first place.

"You wrote the book on military tactics for this nation's army, old man. How precisely does that speak to love?"

"I wrote those treatises in order to help protect this country and its peoples," Douard said. "They have never been intended for expansion or civil war. You should read my entries on life philosophy."

"I've tried," Godash said, cringing. He flapped the torch hand dismissively. "It's cotton candy fluff and nonsense from what I could tell. For the gods' sake, you denounce the caste system we depend upon in your ramblings, and nobody's fought for that before."

"They have tried," Douard said, still smiling. Every moment he had to see that expression ratcheted up Godash's blood pressure. "Those that did, ended up here or in a grave. The caste system is harmful to any civilized society, Benjamin. It causes stagnation."

"Our Empire has ever thrived," Godash countered.

"Only by going to war. War is the only thing that can break the stagnation of the caste system aside from evolving our nation into a republic. The only time a caste system can work otherwise is if everyone is truly happy in their station, and that, my good man, is simply not possible." Godash kicked at the bars of the cell, causing them to vibrate loudly.

"Do not call me your good man," he shouted petulantly. "I would be doing this Empire a favor if I had you executed right now!"

"You will do what you think is best for you," Douard said gracefully, stretching out on his cot, hands folded over his chest. "Give the Emperor my regards." Godash snarled wordlessly at Douard, stomping away. The last thing he heard as he exited the dungeons was Douard's soft laughter, echoing like a ghost.