Chapter Five: Detour In Seaside Town
The long arm of the sun had already sunk far beneath the horizon to the west and then risen again to the east, burning flaring spots of scorch-marks that twinkled near the edge of Plit. Winding chimneys that belched great snaking columns of fire-smoke pushed through red tube tiles of roofing, both elements making up the plain skyline of Seaside Town, the Mushroom Kingdom’s premier port. Mallow could almost smell the popping grease and frying bread that signaled yet another delicious spread of fish and chips for breakfast.
He would most likely rest awhile at the Inn before starting off to scale Star Hill. He knew the innkeeper, and she’d always been rather partial to him for helping Mario rid their docile little burg of the monster Yaridovich. Smithy’s lieutenant might have held command over boulder avalanches and towering tsunamis, but the stuffed-up tin can shook to his foundation when confronted with lightning. And Mario’s relentless barrage of fireballs didn’t offer any relief. “Mario,” Mallow whispered and thought back to the mysterious letter. Would he arrive too late to stop the plumber’s ambiguous fate?
Solar rays were beating down with an ever-increasing potency, warming the cool chill night had left right off of Mallow’s puffed up skin. The Nimbian surmised it was nearing seven o’ clock in the morning by the time he finally reached the town’s entrance gate. A minute peep-hole carved out of the massive door’s wooden face slid open, revealing the scraggly old visage of the Seaside gatekeeper. “Stand fast,” he said, “and state your business.” It was a pity Smithy’s vicious attacks had left the townspeople so wary and distrustful of strangers.
“I am Prince Mallow of the Nimbian Throne,” he replied, trying to stand just a little bit taller than he actually was. “I come seeking rest before I must continue on my way.”
“A Nimbian, eh? Haven’t seen one of your kind around since, oh, before the dawn of last year. How’s the Kingdom been keeping these days?” the Mushroomer asked, taking on a more jovial tone. Mallow wondered if he remembered what the young prince had actually done for Seaside Town.
“To tell you the truth, it’s been positively boring. I prefer adventuring to the mundane activities one is limited to in that stuffy castle,” Mallow said, pleased when the gatekeeper chuckled in appreciation. With a groan that creaked old age, the wooden door swung slowly open, and the archaic Mushroomer waved him in, flashing a toothless grin.
A rooster squawked a belated cock-a-doodle-doo in the distance, and the low murmuring of conversations rose ever so softly all around him. The laugher of children could be heard rising in a soft crescendo somewhere to his left, while the gruff berating of an apprentice spilled out into an alleyway. Aromatic smells of seafood being skillfully prepared were absolutely redolent; Mallow checked his gold pouch, making sure he could spare enough coins for a bite or two of whatever the innkeeper’s husband had caught the morning before. The town’s Elder, dressed sharply in his formal attire, seemed to appear out of nowhere, guffawing pleasantly and grabbing Mallow’s free hand to pump it warmly. “Mallow, mi’boy, you truly are a sight for sore eyes. It’s been years since we’ve seen in you in these parts, you know. What’s been keeping you?”
“The trials and tribulations of being a prince, I’m afraid: preparing for the assuming of the Throne and whatnot. It’s all very busying, of course, and I just don’t seem to have the time to get out anymore,” Mallow smiled amicably and released the venerable Mushroomer’s grip. “Presently, however, certain unavoidable distractions have torn me away from my homebound responsibilities. You see, I have reason to believe that the Mario Brothers might be in considerable peril.”
The Elder’s eyes widened, and he stepped back two strides, staring at Mallow squarely. “You don’t say. Why, this is terrible news! What leads you to reason this way, young Prince?”
Mallow started to frankly state the involvement of the note, but decided against it in favor of something Frogfucious always used to say. “The winds bring news from all over Plit. Ominous, the signs were, and unmistakable, I’m afraid. I can only stay long enough to rest my tired legs and eat one of your town’s tasty tortes before I head off for the Hill. If you’ll just remind me of the Inn’s relative location, I can-”
“Nonsense!” the Elder interjected. “If it’s a meal you want, then you’ll do no better than to dine at my comfy little cottage. Elizabeth has just hired a new cook and a genuinely good one, at that. A master of the culinary arts, to be exact!”
“Truly?” Mallow asked, interested. He liked to dabble in the preparing of delicious foods himself, when he wasn’t too busy or anything. “What’s his name? Maybe I’ve heard of him.”
“Torte, we call him, Chef Torte.” Mallow’s eyes widened considerably. “He’s got a rather nasty temper, but like I said, he’s one beau ideal of a cook. Exceptionally talented, really. Immigrated from some place called the Foreign Land, I believe is what he said. He’s also very touchy about some sort of career as an evil villain he used to head up. We try to steer clear of his mental illnesses, though, if you know what I mean. Eh? Prince Mallow, you look sick. Have you met the chap?”
“Once,” Mallow said, almost choking on the words, “long, long ago. It’s been longer than my last visit here, in fact. You must understand, however, that our acquaintance wasn’t without its little introductory spat, so it might be best if I dine elsewhere.”
“I will hear nothing of the sort,” he said, mocking authority. “If Torte has any reservations about serving you, Lizzy and I’ll clear them up right then and there. He’s going to have to get along with all of our honored guests if he wants to hold a job, after all. Now I must absolutely insist that you partake in one of Torte’s famous breakfast banquets with us. And I won’t take no for an answer.”
“Then what else can I say?” Mallow asked resignedly. “I accept.”
~*~*~*~
The Elder’s country cottage was high on a green and earthy hill more akin to one of the Koopa Lands’ ancient ziggurats than a natural uplifting of land. It was far from a prime religious temple, though, or an economical center, for that matter. The downstairs had been separated into two rooms, one that merged the sitting area and luxurious kitchen and another constricted hive of a more haphazard decor that seemed to house the family’s new cook. Mallow imagined the upstairs, formerly rented to one of Frogfucious’ most talented disciples, must contain the couple’s bedroom. “It’s just as lovely as I remember it,” Mallow said, trying his best to appear as gentlemanly as possible without revealing his anxiousness of eating food prepared by someone who’d attempted to kill him not so long ago. “Elizabeth, is it?”
The Elder’s wife sniggled daintily and playfully pushed him on the shoulder. “Such the Prince, this one is. That’s fine, honey, you can call me Lizzy.”
“Actually,” the Elder said before Mallow could cut in, “this fellow here is, indeed, a genuine Prince of Nimbus Land. He’ll be doing us the honor of testing out our new cook and allowing us some decent conversation for the afternoon, I hope.”
“Of course,” Mallow agreed warmly, stretching his grin wide. “It will be simply fantastic to rest awhile in such fine company.” He looked around, spotting the kitchen’s elaborately dressed table. “Shall we take our seats?”
After everyone had been rushed to their predetermined places by an eager Elizabeth, they made a few solemn wishes to the Stars above and spread their napkins aloft, guiding them gently to their laps. Not far behind him, Mallow could here an all-too-familiar voice drifting like some persistent stench. “Vone, two, tie moi’s shoes, don’t you use a cookie sheet. Zhree, four, shut moi’s door, eat your food and take a seat!”
The Nimbian Prince gulped loudly and felt like sinking under the white lace tablecloth. Instead, he gripped his fork tightly, ready if the insane chef decided to have an emotional breakdown in the kindly old couple’s kitchen. “Chef Torte, we’re really very hungry, and we have acquired a stately dinner guest, so if you would please just step it up a bit,” Lizzy prompted anxiously. The Elder patted her hand for patience.
“Just a minute, mistress! Zhe culinary arts don’t fix zhemselves, you know. Vone hast to be dressed oh so neatly if he vants to prepare a feast verzy of zhis guest you speak of.” There was a silence and more accented humming; Mallow’s fork clanked to the floor. “Zay,” the chef said, swinging out of his room, complete in a broad white apron and a fluffy chef’s hat that bounced and jounced as he stepped, “who ist zhis guest anyvays—MON DIEU! It’s you!”
Mallow hopped up, looking around him for the fork he’d dropped earlier in surprise and eventually resorting to groping around on the floor for it. “Hehe, uh, hey, Chef Torte. Long time no see, huh?”
“I vould zay zough,” the fuming chef said, a very awkward pan suddenly produced from a pocket in his apron. It was lined with yellow spikes, purple veins, and seemed to have all other sorts of odd attachments. “Meet zhe PAN OF POWER. I did haf anozeir, more poweirful pan, but, alas, it vas lost. Now, fool, prepare to be inflicted vhiz many unsightly blemishes!”
Seeing that the crazed Torte was in no laughing mood, Mallow snapped the neck of his regal blue cloak and let it waft to the floor. Refraining from calling on any particularly powerful weather spells, he simply unsheathed his wooden Ribbit Stick and fell back in a state of readiness. “You know whatever ill-will you hold is towards me and not these good people. If you want to start something, let’s take it outside.”
“Moi start somezhing? I zhink not! You and your terrible friends vere zhe vones zhat lost me moi’s high-paying gig at zhat Marrymore Church. I vent on a drunken reel, got cheated in a cook-off competition, and vas forced into a life of crime! Ist all your fault, you IDIOT! Prepare yourself for zhe unknown: ist time to Torte it up a notch!”
Mallow angled his Ribbit Stick defensively and braced himself as the maniacal chef rushed forward, his two feet moving surprisingly fast for such a hefty turtle. The force of the blow served as a powerful impetus to shift Mallow’s stance nearly three inches backwards, but any excess energy was quickly absorbed by his magic staff. Whirling it skillfully to his side, the Nimbian charged the stick high and sent it crashing down on top of Torte’s head.
The shocked chef was halfway ready, though, and with a foreign sort of war screech, Torte thrust his PAN OF POWER upwards and caught the staff’s downward strike, giving only a centimeter of negligible leeway. He parried the Ribbit Stick and sent it careening to the left, allowing him to duck in low and spring back up from the knees, guiding his cooking weapon up and in for a clanging cacophony of metallic mauling.
Mallow anticipated the move, however, and with the skill of any seasoned warrior, he deftly side-stepped the chef’s counterattack and catapulted himself in the direction of his stick’s superior momentum, rolling onto the floor and zipping back up in a shaky crouch that elicited a frightened shriek from the Elder’s nearby wife. “Stop this madness,” she screamed, “or you’re fired!”
Chef Torte suddenly averted his frenzied gaze from Mallow to the smaller Mushroomer, his eyes literally aflame. With one sweaty, pudgy hand gripped on the hilt of his pan weapon, he brought it up to smack his soon-to-be former employer out of the picture. Mallow followed the chef’s wrath, though, and took the moment of inactivity to swing his Ribbit Stick up and around. A whistling crack heralded the slumped crumpling of a frenetic Koopa caught unawares. He lay there, in a senseless heap, motionless on the wood-tiled flooring. “Well,” Mallow said, forcing out air through clinched teeth and returning his grandfather’s old, but functional, weapon to his side, “that was one of the loveliest meals I’ve had in a long while.”
The Elder, effectively awestruck, held out his hands a moment too late, coming just short of catching his wife as she fainted alongside the comatose chef.
Mallow sighed heavily and bent down to heft an unconscious Torte up on his shoulders, balancing the cumbersome weight exceedingly well. He smiled lopsidedly at the Elder and apologized. “I’m sorry about all this mess. Tell your wife she was a delightful hostess and that I regrettably couldn’t stay, if you will.” He nodded soberly as Mallow started for the door.
“You want me to phone the police? They’ll be over here in a jiffy.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir,” Mallow said politely. “I think we’ll settle this one on our own.”
~*~*~*~
Chef Torte was dreaming again.
It was the annual Mushroom Kingdom Cook-off; Chef Spore and the infamous Tayce T. were his two last formidable opponents. After the preliminary trio of semi-final rounds, Chef Spore had been disgracefully discharged from the contest, while only Chef Torte and his long-time rival remained to duke it out, so to speak. Torte knew he would win, could absolutely feel the gilded pie trophy that would be forever his, but that cheating, lying Tayce T. ruined everything. With a crafty sleight of hand, she’d somehow managed to slip an extra, surprise ingredient into Chef Torte’s mystery batch, causing it to stir, come to life, and, in a terribly abbreviated sense, freak the judges out. “You!” Torte had said, pointing an accusing finger caked with dough at Tayce T. as she tearfully accepted his trophy.
He still remembered what she had said, and for all eternity he would have it engraved by fire in his memories. “Tee hee! There’s always next year, honey. Take some time off to learn how to cook, and please, dearie, get rid of that embarrassing accent.”
“Do not make fun of moi’s accent!” he had screamed, maddeningly upset. “How utteirly rude!”
He recalled being laughed out of the arena with his shell tugged close behind him and tail pulled down between his legs. In an unlit room, he lay quietly, curled up in a pitiful ball, allowing himself to sink deeper and deeper into his hatred until the darkness of self-loathing consumed him.
“Rise and shine, Torte. It’s almost midnight.”
Now that voice was definitely familiar. He traced it back to several news programs and other reports telling of the little marshmallow’s heroic deeds, each one causing Torte to relive a little more of his painful past. He remembered it just like it was yesterday, his new and first job as a professional chef at the majestic, romantic Marrymore Church. The wedding bells tolled deeply in the background as he poured over his cooking books, revising this, editing that, mixing experimental ingredients to come up with the most delicious dessert the world had ever tasted.
Finally, the marvelous recipe was completed, and it just so happened the Church had received an order for their most elaborate cake yet. It seemed Princess Peach was funding the wedding of two of her closest friends, Raz and Rani. The bonding of two souls was to be absolutely splendid, the bride’s dress gorgeous, the groom’s tuxedo immaculate, and best of all, the cake one of a kind. Raspberries, foot-long, double-wide cinnamon sticks, jutting candy canes fit for Old St. Nick himself, cascading waterfalls of icing, and the most scrumptious cake this side of the universe: all totaled up to form Torte’s matrimony masterpiece.
There was only one problem.
The cake came alive and, as a result, nearly leveled the entire church. Of course, Mario and his epic friends just had to come to the rescue, thwarting the mutant pastry and putting Torte and his loyal Apprentice on ice. Feeling only an odd sort of pity like one feels for a blind dog with three legs, the Church had dishonorably discharged Torte from his prized position without pressing charges, promoting the hapless Apprentice and leaving the chef out on the cold, hard street to eventually stoop so low as to enter a local cook-off. Chef Torte’s sad and depressing life only went downhill from there.
“I said wake up,” the voice called again, and Torte sputtered as a million icy crystals plunged into his scales. There in front of him, still blurry through a slumberous vision, was the pale form of Mallow. At first he wondered how he’d come to face this nameless fear of his most private dreams, but then realization flooded back through him: the Elder, his wife, the final job, their visitor, the fight, his ultimate disgrace. “There you are. Hey, sorry about laying it in on you, but I had to save Elizabeth. I don’t know if you’d have actually done anything, but you did look pretty serious at the time.”
There was a long silence in which Koopa and Nimbian looked dazed, somewhat confused, at each other. Torte finally broke the silence.
“Zhanks—I guess. I zuppose I might haf vent a might bit oveirboard back zhere. It’s juzt zhat, afteir all zhese years, zhe person who helped to show me up came back, and for some reason, in zhe veiry back of moi’s mind, I zought you vere coming to take zhis chance away from moi too.” If only he could lure the simple-minded little cloud boy into his web of deceit, then Mallow would finally get what had been coming to him for all these years, Torte reasoned, and smiled warmly back at him. Such a big, stupid, blank grin this idiot had. It would be a thing of beauty when his time of ruin rolled around.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Mallow said, his words like a turning knife in Torte’s gut. “Say, where are you headed?”
“Vell, I haven’t really zought about it,” Chef Torte said, scratching under his hat reflectively. “Vhere are you going next?”
Mallow contemplated on whether it would be wise or not to relate his travels and their reasons to such an unstable individual, but in the end, he concluded that a certain amount of trust would make the poor fellow’s self-confidence heal easier. “An anonymous figure left me a practically unreadable note. I made out the words ‘Mario’ and ‘Luigi’ in it, though, so I figured they might be in some sort of trouble.”
“You and zhem are still good buddies, zhen?” Torte asked in a purely colloquial tone. Perhaps he could kill several birds with one stone and rid his ailing reputation of the whole lot of them. “I mean, I figured zhe whole world crisis incident vas zhe only zhing keeping you all togezeir.”
“Oh, no,” Mallow said assuredly, brushing his hands over a thorn-thatched cup of an unknown steaming liquid to cool it off. Torte wondered why it didn’t leak. “We’ve kept in touch over the past two years; though, I admit my so-called royal duties have gotten in the way of many possible reunion opportunities. I just hope it’s not too late.” His bulbous head had drooped down. “Do you suppose guilt for neglecting my friends has made me jumpy about this whole letter business? I mean, it’s entirely possible that some kid thought it would be funny to write it up. Then again, how would it get near the Royal Bath? I’ve been racking my brain, but none of this makes any sense, or any sense I can understand, that is.”
Chef Torte deigned a deliberative silence to be the best reply, especially since he hadn’t understood a word of what the babbling Nimbian was going on so worriedly about. “Yes, yes,” Torte consoled, “ve all have had deaz in zhe family.”
Mallow’s head perched and his eyes squinted in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh!” Torte exclaimed, clinching his teeth and fists. He had to change the subject, and quickly, at that. “Sorry, I vas zhinking of zomezhing else. Zay, vould you mind if I came along vhiz you? I can cook a feast fit for your kind of royalty every day, and I von’t be so lonely.” He almost gagged with disgust; he wasn’t used to being so nice.
Mallow held out his hand, and Torte gripped it timidly. With a grateful shake, the Nimbian grinned back reassuringly. “I’d be honored to have such an esteemed chef in my, well, currently singular company. After all, it’s not truly an adventure until you have someone to share it with.”
“Zat ist zo true!” Chef Torte agreed and started to stand up. “Vell,” he started, looking out over the colorless early morning sky, “now’s as good a time as any to get going, vouldn’t you zay?”
A wide cloud formation was forming off to the east. Mallow groaned as he rose, bending over to gather camp supplies. “Right you are, partner. Come on; we’ll make it to the summit of Star Hill by the break of dawn if we hurry.”
The tired Nimbian looked up for the moon, and upon being unable to see it, frowned and thrust his hands upwards to the heavens. The cloud formations trained across the horizon, disappearing completely by the will of a young man’s sorcery. Soon after, the twinkle of stars reappeared, spangled on a night sky.
~*~*~*~
A pair of eyes aided by a less-advanced, but more suited, pair of binoculars were pulled down from Jax’s line of sight. Clammy hands gripped the sides of the apparatus roughly, sliding over the perforated black bumps that jutted imperceptibly out of an even darker casing. The Koopa-turned-mercenary-for-hire squinted his eyes, as if that would lend him any greater vision, and growled angrily at his folly. The Nimbian’s friend had been asleep earlier, and if Jax had known the former had some sort of mystical control over the sky, he’d have been more inclined to take one of them on than both. For now, though, it appeared they’d have to wait for a more favorable scenario.
“He didn’t tell us we’d be dealing with a weather warlock,” Scratch said hastily, and with just a little bit of fear. He scribbled a pale scratch line across his face and bit his lower mouth hesitatively. “I hope we’ll be getting a big bonus for bagging this one.”
Snap snarled at his Koopa comrades and lowered his pinched up sunglasses. He held up a muscular purple arm ending in lined, tan scales on his closed palm and smashed it into the other waiting hand. For a Rex, he was quite the dramatist. “You two worry too much. We can take them both, right now, no questions asked.”
Fit fluttered down softly, his white wings beating the air with a calm sort of reverence. In stark contrast, his irregular Paratroopa head was scarred terribly. “Oh yeah? If you’re so bloody confident, why don’t you go rough them up a bit while the element of surprise is still in our favor, Snap, old chap.”
“Yeah,” Scratch agreed, pushing his shell up against the Rex and crowding him to stumble slightly over his own two feet. “Maybe they’ll break those lame shades of yours and do us all a big favor.”
“You take that back,” Snap said threateningly, “or I swear on my mother’s tail I’ll rip your scrawny little-”
“Who’re you calling scrawny?” Scratch shot back, vaguely hurt. He had always been rather self-conscious about his less-than-average height. “Maybe I ought to teach you a lesson.”
“Is that a challenge?” Snap asked calmly, his arms folded across each other.
“Sounds like one to me,” Flit put in, snickering.
“Quiet,” Jax whispered harshly through gritted teeth. “They’re packing up and heading out. It looks like I was right: they’re aiming for Star Hill.” He closed his mouth and ran a thin tongue over his reptilian beak. “Boys, it looks like it’s time to collect our bounty.”
Chapter Six: Night Fires
Razan’s mouth opened up in a feral scream that shook the insides of Luigi’s head, and most undoubtedly Mario’s as well. The three feathered arrows were plucked black, and their obsidian tips glistened slightly under the diffuse lighting that bathed the Pipe House. Linear and in a perfect row they stuck out, erect, mocking the shocked visages of those whom were obviously not their targets. “Get off of me!” Razan snarled, making another push that finally threw the startled plumber restraining him.
“Hey!” Mario called back from across the room, rubbing a bloody clamp of brown hair that had wilted onto his forehead.
Luigi lifted a pointed finger to his mouth, gesturing for silence, and in the next instant he was low, crouched close to the ground and slinking lightly on the palms of his hands and the toes of his feet. He peered up at the arrows’ probable entryway, an open window positioned not two feet above. Mario’s eyes widened in fear, and in the same instant, Luigi noticed the reason for his brother’s sudden disconcertion.
The windows were not open, but closed. And three neat little holes perfectly circular in shape could be seen clearly, their cut edges glinting moonlight back in his face. Behind him, Razan was hissing terribly, his inverted knee joints springing up and down rhythmically with cool drafts of air from a rectangular vent close behind him. “Razan,” Luigi whispered, “get out of window’s glare.”
“Thiz one,” the lizard said, judging the situation for himself, “believes you are right.” With that, he scurried over, scaly pads slapping the carpet and slipping here and there.
“The red eyes in the forest?” Mario asked, face still washed with a blanched look of disquietude.
Luigi nodded somberly and cupped a half-curved glove up to an ear, listening intently for any sign: the crunch of leaves, the snap of twigs, the blazing maelstrom of their house being set on fire. The possibilities running through his head were varied, and all of them were far from pleasant. “Well, we can’t just wait here for them to run us out into an ambush. We have to fight back.”
“Thiz one has a glop gun,” Razan said proudly, patting a strangely-crafted weapon holstered to his tattered pants and not waiting for Luigi or Mario to ask what in the two suns of Plit a glop gun was. “It will fix them.”
“And we’ve got our own power,” Mario said slyly. A spherical ball of flame grew out of spinning vortex that formed above his hand. “Of fire, that is.”
Luigi nodded, a bit put off by his brother’s bragging, but then resigned to scramble on hands and knees, crawling for the door. He slammed his back upright against its wooden face and exhaled quickly, chancing a grab for the doorknob. He signaled to Mario and Razan, and, apparently, they understood, for both immediately followed suit, stopping directly in the closed door’s path. After counting slowly to three on his fingers so that his comrades could be in a relative sort of synchronism, he yanked the doorknob, coming just short of pulling it off its bolts. Two bouncing pyres shot off quickly from Mario’s hand, disappearing into the forest slightly before the pop of Razan’s blasts. The lizard’s shoulder punched back as the glop gun bucked and wailed loudly, firing great globular pink blobs of something that looked particularly nasty. He could still hear echoing splats long after the flurry of offensive gestures ceased, leaving, in its wake, an uncomfortable silence.
“It iz a trick!” Razan exclaimed, flicking three fingers across his glop gun in what looked like an attempt to reset whatever allowed the thing to operate. Ostensibly satisfied, the smug little creature, who, upon closer inspection, was not so little but stood nearly the same height as Mario, drew back his shriveled lips and grinned. “Warriors do not fight with deceit, but with skill.”
“Be that as it may,” Luigi countered calmly, and quietly, “we cannot disregard their talent so much as to underestimate their prospective deadliness. Let us tread carefully and take none of their actions for granted.” He peered carefully out of the open doorway and then closed it just as meticulously. He next addressed what were more pressing concerns, in his case. “Why are you helping us, Razan?”
“Dezpite that you tried to strangle me for simply seeking your help, our people’s Code of Virtue requirez that I assist you. Besides that,” he said, coughing a hiss that might’ve been classified as laughter, “thiz one does not think leaving would be all that wise of a choice right now.”
“If what you say is true, then I am deeply sorry. I suppose in whatever land you come from the open-door policy is more readily used. But remember; if you show any signs of betraying us, we’ll toast your hide,” Luigi warned and made sure Mario was just as assured. The look on the adjacent plumber’s face was not entirely convincing, but it would have to do. “Which reminds me: do you have any bright ideas?”
Razan seemed to consider that for a dragging moment. “If by bright you mean tactically sound, then no,” he frowned. “But if you and your sibling are willing to take a risk, then maybe so.”
“What kind of a risk?” Mario prompted.
“And how risky?” Luigi added, surprised at his brother’s quickness to believe in a stranger they’d met only five minutes before.
One of Razan’s long, slender fingers scraped thoughtfully under his chin. “I suppose that depends on only one thing.”
“And what would that be?” Luigi asked warily.
The lizard’s blood-red pupils dilated, and his mouth pulled back in a smile. “Would you be so kind az to show me your chimney?”
~*~*~*~
Barth waited silently, patiently, his dark hood cowled and drooping over two searching eyes. Curling strands of rough brown hair straggled down stiffly, but not so much as to threaten his vision. Though, even if his sight were to be struck from existence, his mind’s perception would still ring clearly, a testament, he admitted painfully, to Raul’s teachings. Even though his master had taught him a great many things, Barth still believed the young man had let his unquestionable youth cloud his judgment. Though no one had ever dared to mention it, Raul was younger than any who served under him, which was disturbing in of itself. How had someone so inexperienced maintained the trust of the most powerful humans alive?
No more, Barth thought grimly. If he wanted to abandon the group for the completion of his own goals, then now was the time to do it. And he had done it, truly done it. The question was: would he live long enough to celebrate his accomplishment?
He would be the first to back Raul’s belief in the essence of Plit and the cause that he had so painstakingly formed, but his strict and brutal methods were too emotionally straining for Barth to even begin to cope with. No matter how just the cause, he couldn’t bring himself to slaughter thousands, even millions, and feel completely nonchalant about the whole thing. And then there was always the question of whether or not Raul’s ambitions were really, truly just. Wasn’t justice formed by sentient bodies in the first place and only in the eye of the beholders? What Raul suggested was madness, that something higher, something abstract could possibly determine the correct penalties for those things that are doubtlessly wrong. The guilt and sin tainted him like blood, whether he tried to culture it or erase its crimson stain.
Raul’s glowing eyes controlled him, even now that he was here, out of sight and hidden. It was then and there that he knew, one day, all would come to bow before the man whom he called Master.
And so presently the reservations he had were drifting like wind to nothing. He’d come upon a house in the forest and tracked the two plumbers, the ones Raul had so carefully warned against, to this, their secluded little shack in the woods. Three arrows he’d let fly, and they pierced the glass, a trio of scorch marks burnt into the opposite wall. He could’ve easily killed both of them, of course, penetrated their hearts like plaster and have been done with it. But something else moved his decisions and decided his fate, the thrill of a new challenge, the riveting rush of disobeying orders and fighting the best the Mushroom Kingdom had to offer. He would relish every minute of their battle, and when it was over and they lay dead at his feet, he would kneel before the Mario Brothers, and commit yet another glorious sacrifice to Plit.
A zip caught him by the ear, a splattering thwop that almost cleaved the right side of his shrouded head from the base of his neck. He cursed and ducked low, one black-gloved hand already stretching, reaching out anxiously for the chance to deal some pain, do some damage. Cause some deaths. Soft falling fingers inched carefully along as two more gelatinous projectiles splattered onto the tree he’d formerly taken as cover. The tree was now smoking residual molecules and creating that pungent smell that could only mean one thing: crisped o-zone.
He clutched his right wrist with the dry palm of his left hand, channeling insane amounts of energy into it. Screaming didn’t really help, but he did it anyway. Biting into his lips until blood trickled, he smiled wickedly as a magical, tumbling sphere of molten plasma barreled out of his hands, sloshing through age-old solids like a knife to butter. Three more came and he collapsed forward, spent. The energy balls plowed through vegetation, splitting up into singular heat-seeking missiles designed to draw out his foes.
They did their job well, as always, sucking like vacuum into the two forward windows of the Pipe House; they absorbed the sound of shattering glass and exploded on contact. The reign of the inferno began as spouts of arcing flame and smoke poured out. Next came the sonic boom, a ripping clap of thunder that shook the air and earth. The house was leveled in seconds, crumbling in on itself, and out of the twisted wreckage shot two human-sized blurs, one red, the other green.
Against the glittering wave of the forest, they were close enough to invisible that he couldn’t pick them out until a voice belonging to someone he hadn’t anticipated rose sharply out of the roaring fire. Had he been on the roof and survived? “Thiz one thought you were dead! Quickly, he sees us fleeing.”
Barth did see them now, three running shadows that danced between small and large through vertical columns of flashing trees, or at least they seemed to be flashing. The blazing holocaust to the east cast flickers of grim illumination around the woods, and so he only saw the great, hissing conflagration and those whom had to be killed. He reached for his broad-bladed sword and hefted it high into the air, both hands wrapped tight around the hilt as he slanted it diagonally, pointing it back and up behind his head. He charged, letting loose a ringing battle cry that thinned in the face of the fire’s fury, but quickly rose to a sweltering requiem of the Mario Brothers’ impending doom.
~*~*~*~
“Scrap this idea,” Luigi muttered and sank all-too-quickly in a forward roll that sent him tumbling through the forest’s underbrush. Twin balls of globular plasma squealed like sparks through metal overhead, and he saw stars, then yelped in genuine pain as his back slammed like dead weight into a stubborn tree. “Mario!” he almost screamed, but scratched the idea to the back of his head and then smote it on the cliff face of impossibility. His voice was hoarse anyway, and with his lungs knocked empty, he wouldn’t have been able to form even a weak whimper.
Fire sparks flowed like rivers from behind him, seeping into the ground and scorching what remained alive, entirely unlike Mario’s talented little fireballs. Luigi grabbed his throbbing back and stood up, suppressing the urge to scream aloud as boiled needles of pain plunged deep into his back. He refrained from cursing, instead making a completely different motley of colorful sounds that were just as obscene to the ear, and with a wavering pitch, he threw himself forward, just missing another whistling sphere of shifting pyres. Who was this guy?
A scaly hand reached down to grab him by the arm, and without thought, he went into a fit of revulsion, instantly reminded of all the Koopas who had caused disasters like this in the past. “Thiz one iz only trying to help! Calm yourself, Luigi.”
Suddenly under the influence of realization, Luigi blinked and said, “Oh, it’s you. Thanks,” he smiled and stood up, wincing as another wave of needles pricked along his spine. “Did you see him?”
“Our attacker?” Razan asked, and Luigi nodded disjointedly. “Yez, he iz beyond those trees, or at least he was.” Another fusillade of the deadly fire bombs whipped past, shimmering and detonating somewhere far off in the distance. “Thiz one could not see hiz face. It was covered by some kind of cloth.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Luigi said, shaking his head. “The only one that could possibly wield that kind of power is Kamek, though I’ve never seen him use it before. Maybe he’s found himself a new batch of spells to test out,” Luigi suggested wryly.
That’s when the shock hit him like a free-falling boulder. “Mario! Where is he?”
“That iz is my worry,” Razan explained and crouched low, sniffing dead grass blades. He threw them down in disgust; perhaps he had planned to eat them. “He had chosen to attempt a flanking of the warrior and a drawing of his fire. I proposed instead that we create a distraction to allow Mario the chance to make the kill, and he agreed, albeit reluctantly. Come, we have to track him and get his attention.”
Luigi didn’t bother to ask whose attention they were going to acquire, but only followed Razan when he darted off, keeping his head low to avoid any stray plasma spheres. The night sky was waning, lighting several shades into something gray and distant. It was dawn, and the red mists of fire disappeared into the clouds.
“There he is!” Razan shouted over the screaming of another blast-bomb. “Fire, fire!” Several plopped emissions sounded and shook the crevasses of dirt that ran underfoot when the lizard’s glop gun kicked and bucked behind its restraint. The purple and pink splatters sailed through the air, warbling a droned cry as they either missed their target or smashed into a tree. A cool wind breezed by, and the astringent scent of roasted plants verged on putrefaction.
Luigi led the dashing silhouette a few meters, bracing himself and letting fly five quick bursts of green, bouncing fireballs that tipped into a dizzying spin and crashed through the woods. They missed the target, of course, but if the lizard was right, it wouldn’t really make all that much of a difference. “Yes, yes!” Razan shouted in the vicious ecstasy of battle. “The shadow runz!”
“It runs, but not out of fear,” Luigi said tiredly, with a mood of sober dissatisfaction. “And judging by the height of that fellow, I’d say he’s not a Magikoopa, or even a Koopa, for that matter.”
“Then what iz he?” Razan asked incredulously.
Luigi’s face was grim, unmoving. “A human.”
~*~*~*~
Mario nodded to himself in a sort of self-affirmation, repressing the sudden urge to give a whoop of congratulatory sentiments when his brother and that lizard creature made up for their part of the deal. It worked like a charm, or so he hoped, and the shadowed figure ahead fell into a roll to avoid whatever Razan’s bizarre glop gun fired. The silhouette was then thrown off of his feet by Luigi’s exploding fireballs, and Mario watched intently as he tumbled through the air, flailing to crash into a distant pocket of dense foliage. “There you are, you creep,” Mario muttered and broke into a blinding dash.
Singed branches of dying leaves snapped like rough rubber bands against his face, and the acrid, almost rusty scent of blood sang in his nostrils. The gray morning sky was blurred, yet he could already see faint traces of blue that were beginning to spiral up from the east. Unfortunately, the looming canopy and thick, choking smoke all around skewed anything else into darkness. He stopped suddenly, feeling wet mud plow up like waves in front of his shoe heels. A human’s obvious impression sank into the mud, but the actual body had moved on. Mario looked around nervously; he was being watched.
“Hiding won’t help you. I don’t know who you are, but you just blew up my house and almost killed me and my friends. I hope you know that retribution is definitely part of my vocabulary.”
“Then maybe,” a voice whispered from his left, “you’ll understand this!”
The sound of shifting vines reverberated from the opposite direction, and before Mario could even form thoughts based on reacting, a black boot kicked the side of his face in, crunching bone and sending him sprawling to crash into a stolid tree trunk. His lungs emptied, and the plumber dropped like a sack of meat to the ground. He let out a strained moan and pushed himself up slowly. “Before you protest, allow me to remind you that you deserved that and much, much more.”
“Who are you?” Mario asked dazedly, still trying to pull his battered self together. He clutched the right side of his face and brought back his hand; it was covered in something red. “Show yourself!”
“I’m here,” the man said invitingly and flashed a devious grin as Mario turned round to face him. “Had a rough day?”
Mario tried to form an equally smug threat, but the gesture fell on blood-drummed ears. Barth’s right fist let fly and connected squarely with the shorter man’s jaw, sending him, once again, to smack a fleshy thwap against an unyielding tree. Mario felt his torn skin and saw the painful crimson wetness in his mind. His face wouldn’t look nearly as handsome as the princess claimed it was once it was covered in scars, he thought humorlessly. “Stop! Why are you doing t-”
A strong, pushing kick hooked his abdomen and sent him forcibly into the air. When Mario came back down, he was causing quite the clamor, both of his arms hugged tight around his broken middle. His ribs hadn’t given, but he could feel them blaring in protest. The face of the man who thrashed him was concealed by some spell of darkness, and he only saw glowing eyes that flashed phosphorescently between unrecognizable colors. Something sharp, metallic, and gleaming dropped down and plunged just below his left shoulder. Face pinched up in the sinewy stillness of distorted terror, he let out a horrible scream.
Mario’s own fading call was joined by another, this one more saurian in nature and much more aggressive. The figure standing over him cursed and yanked his blade, whirling around to face the oncoming slaughter. Mario watched as three successive glop blobs slammed into the taller man’s chest, blowing him back at least a foot with each heavy hit. He fell back, no longer able to support his weight and lay there in the grass not four feet away. Barth wheezed and opened his mouth wide; a column of hissing smoke escaped and wove itself through the forest tops. The glop gun projectiles had already started to corrode their way through his skin, and Mario was forced to turn away. Luigi ran up, a look of fear for his brother’s safety displayed clearly across his features.
“Hold fast, Mario!” Razan screamed and crouched low to pour something soothing onto his face. It was like jelly, blackberry if one counted the color.
Before Mario passed into darkness, he saw his brother stoop low over their attacker, who was now letting out as many incoherent curses as his ruined body could muster, though the language he shouted in sounded strangely familiar. “Die, infidel!”
Barth produced a shining scimitar, roared, and stopped just short of running Luigi through. The green warrior acted quickly enough to place a wide-splayed hand over the smoking man’s face and release one last emerald fireball.
This time, he didn’t miss.
Luigi lifted himself off of the bio-wreckage and stumbled clumsily over to Razan. “He’s unconscious!” He rushed to his brother’s side and cradled Mario’s head, finding his own eyes suddenly moist with stinging tears. It had all happened so quickly and without even a trace of warning. “Is he…” But he couldn’t bring himself to say it.
“No, he iz quite functional.” Razan indicated the black, jelly-like substance plastered across Mario’s face, which Luigi had formerly mistaken for blood. “Thiz one haz used my supply of bolarsh jelly to close his wounds, but I am afraid it will not do much for broken internal structurez. If he iz to survive, we must get him to the nearest medical facility.”
Luigi nodded grimly and shouldered Mario’s weight; he stood up slowly, painfully. Not until then did he realize how taxing the battle had been for him, as well. He shook the thought away almost immediately, though; for now, his primary concern was getting to the Mushroom Village. His brother’s life depended on it.
And so the pair ran through the darkest of nights, supported only by the faintest hope that a blood-stained dawn could offer.