Chapter Thirteen: The Savior Is Found
“At last, Wizard, we have you here, cornered in your malice,” Yoshi growled, brandishing his hidden tongue and glimmering sword. “Step out of the Inn and relinquish your hostages to us.”
Ryanoshi had gathered the full strength of the townsfolk of Rose Town, and now every member able and willing to bear arms was steeled for battle before the dim glow of the quaint cottage located near the entrance of the village. Pitchforks and glaring torches burned in the approaching twilight, symbols of a hatred long suppressed. Even the eccentric Gardener had come, along with the might of his potted Piranha Plants, all snapping and slavering their toxic bile. It was no small wonder that Kamek had not yet acted on their daring siege.
“Now it comes to it,” Yoshi thought to himself. “To fight or flee, to die or fear, the end of my tale.”
Ryanoshi watched his friend with a growing anxiety. Brute strength had never toppled the great sorcerer before, and any victory now was certainly unlikely. “Archers, do not shoot until you see the blue of his cloak or the fire of his witchcraft. Remember, our friends are in there.”
“And little do you know your friends from enemies,” proclaimed a deep-toned voice from within the house. “I come to you now bereaved of ill will. The Kamek that you once knew has been slain, for I am the Savior of Plit and the General who will lead the forces of righteousness against the swelling Shadow to the north.”
There was a flash of light and a crack of thunder before the door of the Inn flew open. Out came Kamek, clad in his infamous blue robes and carrying a brown staff that was new to his arsenal. “Do not stain this house with blood, my friends.”
Based on past experiences with the deceitful wizard, Yoshi did not believe for a second the charming words of Kamek. With an ear-splitting clamor and a headlong rush, the Yoster charged, his sword reared back in fury. Kamek brought up his staff and sent it whistling through the air to connect sharply against the joint of Yoshi’s neck and shoulder blade. With a piercing thud, the stunned dinosaur fell to the ground in a groaning heap.
“Be at peace!” Kamek shouted, but it was far too late.
Enraged at the sight of their fallen leader, the townspeople leveled their eclectic weaponry and began to march. But just as the tip of Ryanoshi’s sword swung low to separate the Magikoopa’s head from his shoulders, a young Mushroomer appeared before the victim.
It was Gaz.
“Don’t hurt him, please! I beg it of you,” and with that he pulled out a wooden sword, rotting from age and dampness. Rain began to drizzle from the crowded clouds above, and tears rolled down his face as he cried, “I won’t let you!”
Ryanoshi halted, of course, drawing his sword back an inch. He looked up and gave the fiercest growl he had ever hoped to spawn in Kamek’s direction. “What have you done with him? Release the boy from your sorcery, or I shall have your head!”
“It is not sorcery,” a voice said, but it wasn’t Kamek’s. “The wizard is telling the truth.”
Yoshi was well again, rubbing a red splotch on his back and grimacing. “While I was out, Kamek showed me his encounters with a demon called Raul, the fall of Bowser, and even worse, an amassing of an army whose single purpose is the destruction of the Mushroom Village.”
Ryanoshi moved his head back and forth slowly in disbelief and then clinched a fist defiantly. “We cannot know whether he is lying or being honest with us. His power is more than enough to implant those images in your unconscious mind.”
“It is easy for us to reason that,” Yoshi admitted, “but I know this is real, with all of my heart, my soul, and my being. There are some things that are unexplainable, but…”
“You just have to have faith,” Gaz finished for him, rubbing his eyes with a sleeveless arm. The distant roll of thunder gave a faint report in the silence that followed. “We should go in; my mom has prepared a dinner.”
Ryanoshi sighed and turned back to face an increasingly confused crowd. “You may all go back to your homes. I promise, we’ll be able handle things from here.”
Reluctantly, but aided by the approaching storm’s ominous reminder, the townsfolk slowly dispersed, splitting up and returning to their respective houses. Ryanoshi was about to issue Kamek a solemn threat, but the Magikoopa spoke first.
“Yes, Gaz is quite right. Soon, Mario, Luigi, and the one whom neither of you have yet met will come, bearing both the burden of death and the pain of hunger. After we have eaten, there will be many things to discuss, so drink deeply, for the Time of Sorrows is upon us.”
~*~*~*~
The glaring sun rose high above the smoky skyline of Seaside Town, punching the waving welkin with its rainbow and glimmer. Spread out for miles before them, the ocean and its broad expanse sparkled in the morning bliss, the light of a thousand ships setting sail for one last adventure. On a bare hilltop overlooking the waking port, Prince Mallow and his traveling companion Chef Torte made ready their departure, knowing that in less than a day they would be traversing the mighty waters before them.
“It ist truly an amazing sight, zhis ocean. Vhy, I remembeir zhat time vhen moi vent crazy and decided to be a pirate. I…” Chef Torte stopped himself. “Neveir you mind, zhose days are behind me now.”
“And our quest before us,” Mallow added grimly and then looked with a hint of concern at the Terrapin. “Are you sure you want to do this? You’re not usually one to be heroic.”
Thirty images of Mallow being pounded ran quickly through Torte’s brain, but he willed them away for the moment, thinking instead of the possible chances to gain treasure on their journey. “Vhat you say zhis for? Of course I am up to zhe challenge,” and then he thought, so much zo zhat you haf no idea.
They started down the summit at a leisurely pace, admiring the majestic view and picking a careful path around some of the more steep parts of the descension. Eventually they came to a great rocky face that shot down at a ninety-degree angle, apparently carved out of the side of the hill when Seaside Town was first built because of a lack of space near the beach. Using rope and metal clamps that Mallow had brought from Nimbus Land, the pair fitted themselves with knotted harnesses and buffeted slowly down the hillside.
After another hour of kicking legs, bending knees, and repeating the strenuous process, Chef Torte and Mallow had come about three-fourths of the way, but they were much too tired to finish the last leg of the descent without a short rest. So they undid the ropes tied about their waists and unhooked the metal clamps, sitting down for a well-deserved breather on a jutting platform just big enough for the two of them.
Mallow reached into his pack and pulled out two apples, handing one of the delicious items to Torte, who, upon receiving it kindly, immediately pulled out his favorite cooking pan. He lit a small burner and balanced the pan meticulously on top, proceeding to whip up a delight whose taste far exceeded that of the original. After a compliment and several praises from the Nimbian of its fragrant aroma, the chef resolved to do the same for Mallow’s apple, since the prince had been the one to supply the food in the first place.
“That was delicious,” said Mallow as he reattached his metal clamps and fastened his harness tight around his abdomen. “Truly beyond words, my friend.”
“Ah, just,” Torte hesitated, unaccustomed to being congratulated for his work, “don’t mention it.”
“No, really, I mean it,” reiterated the Nimbian Prince, handing Chef Torte his equipment. “I’m surprised they fired you back at the Marrymore church, even after that cake fiasco.”
“Vell, zhanks,” he said, “I guess.”
Mallow gave one of his half smiles and disappeared over the cliff, followed closely by a bumbling, and slightly confused, Chef Torte. Both were silent for the rest of the climb, paralyzed by some creeping fear.
The sun was climbing overhead when they finally came to the entranceway of Seaside Town, where the redolence of freshly prepared meals permeated the streets. An elderly Mushroomer couple strolled happily along a sidewalk, as a Koopa lifted his brown derby in salutations while passing by. Further down the path, a frenetic butcher chased after an equally excitable wingless Goonie that had somehow escaped its cage. All was well as another day in the bustling port reached mid-stride.
“Just like I remember it,” Mallow muttered and then raised his voice to a colloquial tone. “Our first stop is the Mayor’s Office. If he’s there, then he should be able to help us in obtaining a suitable ship. In the interim, take this,” Mallow said, throwing Chef Torte a thread-closed bag that clinked with gold coins, “and go to the grocer. Get anything that you think necessary for our expedition.”
“And you are trusting moi freely viz zhis?” Chef Torte said slyly. “You are more naïve zhan I first zought.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Mallow. “Just don’t disappoint me. You heard what Eldstar said: if we do not do this, then we can pretty much say goodbye to our world.”
After making sure the chef didn’t dart immediately, the Nimbian Prince rounded two more corners and covered the distance of three blocks before arriving in front of the capital building. He bade his Ribbit Stick lengthen through some device of magic and strode in confidently, hoping not to look too much like a tourist. Precautions aside, his appearance caught many stray glances before he was able to reach the office clerk’s desk.
“And how may I help you, Mr…?” the male Mushroomer asked expectantly. He seemed overworked, or at least disgruntled.
“I am Prince Mallow of Nimbus Land. I’ve come to see the Mayor, that is, if he’s available. I wouldn’t want to intrude on anything important.”
“Of course not,” said the clerk satirically. He jumbled a packet of papers and then tapped a pad of notes with indecipherable ink marks scribbled all over them before returning his attention to the Nimbian. “There doesn’t seem to be any reason why you can’t see him right away, but this is highly irregular. Let me go and see if—”
“That will not be necessary,” called the Mayor quite suddenly, an older Mushroomer in his fifties with a gentleman’s mustache and a gray-dotted head. He waved the clerk back to business and extended his hand.
After a brief exchange of words and introductions, the Mayor took Mallow into his office, where he was seated promptly in a comfortable, leather-bound chair. The Mushroomer, who insisted upon being called Damien, proffered the Prince a pipe, but was politely refused.
“Sorry, I don’t smoke,” said Mallow, raising a hand. “Anyway, I’d like to talk about acquiring a sailing vessel. We do not expect any charity, my companion and I, that is, but any help you could offer us would be much obliged. It is a journey that I place great importance in, and I’m sure there would be a reward for the person who helps us.”
“Very noble of you,” Damien said and puffed methodically on his pipe. Two smoke rings escaped and dissipated somewhere behind Mallow. “I believe I know just the captain and boat for you. He would be more than willing to take you abroad.”
“A captain, you say?” Mallow asked, receiving only a nod of confirmation. “I suppose that would be fine. You trust him, right?”
“Trust, respect, fear, yes, yes, all of those,” Damien said quickly. “Captain Jacques Koopa is a most talented sailor as ever existed. He will get you where you need to go.”
“Good, then, and his fee?” Mallow inquired shrewdly. It was not simply a concern over payment though, but a sudden dreadful feeling of déjà vu upon hearing the name.
“Oh,” the Mayor Damien smiled and leaned forward, “you need not worry yourself with that. You see, he owes me a gambling debt from before I became respectable. I’ll just send word to him to consider this a compensation of all previous financial difficulties between the two us.”
~*~*~*~
Something surprised Mallow as he wandered with an uplifted spirit down the 2nd Seafoam Way. An inconspicuous loaf of marble rye tied to a wooden cutting plank crashed out of a closed window and tumbled into the street. He drew his shortened Ribbit Stick and slammed himself flat against the building, listening carefully for any signs of conflict.
“Zhere! Zhat’ll show you how much I dislike your marble rye. Now, show moi zomezhing else,” a voice that most definitely belonged to Chef Torte called out.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, and furthermore, that window repair fee is coming straight out of your pocket,” a shrill female Mushroomer joined in.
“MON DIEU!”
Sighing and shaking he head simultaneously, Mallow jumped off of the wall and stepped over broken glass shards to enter the bakery shop. Chef Torte was fuming, waving his PAN OF POWER around frantically and shouting at the top of his Terrapin lungs. The Mushroomer, who was rather young for such an aggressive type, was currently jabbing her rolling pin in his general direction.
“What in the Stars’ good names are you doing, Chef Torte?” screamed Mallow, stepping in-between the two of them. His face was set stonily, and his arms were crossed, making him look like the chef’s enraged father.
“Vell,” Chef Torte stuttered, “I vas buying bread. Can you not zee zhat?”
Mallow grabbed a few loaves of bread and paid the baker for the products, as well as the damage to her lovely window; then, after imparting a few words of apology, they took their leave. Chef Torte followed begrudgingly, but not without casting a few nasty looks at the Mushroomer behind them.
“I don’t even want to hear an explanation,” Mallow exploded. “I go and find us a seaworthy ship, and you spend your hour quarreling with a baker.”
“Hey, hey, hey!” Chef Torte admonished. “I bought plenty of supplies. They are all tied up right here,” he said, turning into an alleyway. He came back out with a huge sack full of foodstuffs. “Does that satisfy you?
Both of them grumbled all the way down to the docks.
Once they got there, they immediately began searching the rows and rows of ships and ferries for their appointed ride. Mallow had no idea what the Jacques Koopa fellow looked like, so he had to rely on the names of the ships. The Mayor had informed him that the Captain’s boat’s name was Ellie, apparently christened after some pet anteater the fellow had once owned. Despite having that piece of information, it was nearing sunset by the time the chaotic couple located their target. The only problem was, no one seemed to be aboard.
“Let’s just hop on. He’s probably expecting us, this, vhat did you zay his name was?”
Jacques Koopa, Mallow thought before speaking, but then suddenly it all came back to him. He knew where he had seen the name.
“Pish tosh, you are hopeless. Last vone on deck ist a rotten doughnut,” and with that, Chef Torte was off, dashing up the gangplank.
Mallow was following suit as quickly as his stubby legs could carry him, while mentally berating himself for not remembering any sooner. The name Jacques Koopa had been listed on the Marrymore Staff Sheet at Raz and Rani’s wedding.
But it was too late. Mallow breathed heavily as he took in the two Terrapin, staring with a mix of fear and anger at each other.
“Vell, vell, at last I haf found you, my Apprentice,” Chef Torte said in a conniving voice, sauntering furtively forward. “I vas veiry angry vhen you skipped out on us, you know.”
“I figured that,” said the Apprentice and sniggled nervously, backing up against a piece of the ship’s railing. “I use my real name now, though, and I am no longer your servant.”
“Oh, really?” said Chef Torte wryly, grabbing Captain Jacques around his sailing collar. “Ve’ll just haf to see about zhat, my friend!”
Mallow stared on in fascination as Master dragged Apprentice into the Captain’s cabin, yelling and clamoring at the top of his tone. It seemed that Damien had been wrong about Jacques’ intimidating presence, or at least in the face of his former employer. Seeing this was all too much to pull in at the moment, he sat down and tried to rest. Perhaps bringing along Chef Torte was not such a good idea after all.
~*~*~*~
The Captain’s quarters were well stocked with remnants of his old life: recipe books, pots and pans, fruits, and even his professional gourmet hat. Chef Torte pushed the Apprentice into a rickety chair and began a thorough interrogation. The quirky questionnaire was rambling, including trivial quizzes and questions on the Terrapin’s activities up to the present point. It wasn’t long before the Apprentice grew restless and could not help but let out a tiresome sigh.
“Who told you to let out a zigh? Moi didn’t tell you to let out a zigh. Do you want to be smashed in zhe face vhiz my PAN OF POWEIR?” Chef Torte whipped out the aforementioned weapon and moved it back and forth menacingly.
The Apprentice shook his head with renewed vigor and attempted to explain himself. “Your plans for world domination began to frighten me. I mean, they were ludicrous, and you were drunk with rage over losing your job. Possibly, in another dimension, we might have gone for the glory, but I took my chances and absconded with what pride I had left. Besides, some of the rest of the gang were already talking mutiny, and I couldn’t bear to watch.”
Chef Torte looked as if he were about to give his Apprentice a face full of PAN OF POWER, but after an elongated growl his tension began to ease. He counted to ten in some obscure foreign language and lifted up his hat to give his head a good scratch. “I zuppose you are forgiven, but do you promise to enlist yourself in moi’s confidence vonce again?”
The Apprentice really wasn’t in any emotional state to refuse the request. “Y-yes, sir. You can consider me part of the team.”
“Zhe team?” asked Chef Torte curiously. “I suppose zo, but two ist still not enough to form ze Official Torte Soccer Team I've alvays dreamed about."
“So,” the Apprentice quickly changed the subject, “what are you doing with that Mallow creep? I didn’t know he was the one the Mayor wanted me to transport.”
“I might as vell tell you, Mr. Jacques Koopa. Oh, and don’t zhink you’ll get off zo easily vizout explaining your position. Anyvay, zhat Nimbian Prince has been assigned by zhe Star Council head hauncho to go protect zome sort of veird artifact in zhe Dark Mines over on Dinozaur Island. Ve haf to help because not only vill ve be heroes and attract new customers vhen I open up my restaurant chain, but ve’ll also haf a chance to gain oodles of valuable treasure.”
“Protect, huh?” the Apprentice repeated. “That sounds dangerous. Maybe I’ll wait on the boat.”
Chef Torte giggled fancifully and slapped the Terrapin on his back, tipping over the chair and sending his servant crashing to the wooden deck. “Apprentice, my old comrade, zhis vill be an adventure to remembeir!”
~*~*~*~
It took quite a long time to settle Mario, Luigi, and the equally distrustful Razan down, but Kamek’s sympathetic view, combined with Yoshi and Ryanoshi’s encouragement, finally won them over.
Now they all sat in the lobby of the Rose Town Inn, stationed comfortably at two tables joined together by Gaz’s mom. From left to right were seated Kamek, Ryanoshi, Yoshi, Razan, Luigi, and Mario. The plumber in red was the first to speak.
“You must know that these past three days have been nerve-wracking for us. Our house was destroyed by a wickedly powerful human, I was almost killed, Frogfucious was murdered, and now we find out one of our worst enemies is our only hope of success.”
Kamek unfolded his sleeved arms, nodding judiciously. “Yes, I understand completely. The human that you saw was one of twenty-three originally that have invaded this land. Taking into account their loss at Tadpole Pond, they presently have twenty-one left in their complement of warriors. The one that almost killed me before I was transfigured could have easily killed the three of you, though, so I am guessing she was one of higher rank. Now, however, is the time to talk of what we must do. Through some act of divine intervention, from whither, I know not, I now possess wisdom and power that is far beyond that of my former evil self.
“Raul, the enigmatic leader of these humans, has gained the trust of Bowser and killed his spirit, but the body of my old king is stronger and more intelligent than ever, I am afraid. I saw in my brief metaphysical encounter with the monster Raul that he means for his new slave to be your undoing, Mario.”
“Poetic justice,” murmured Luigi. “That’s original.”
“And highly symbolic, I believe,” rejoined Kamek. “He knows far more than I would have ever thought possible, even to the extent of being more knowledgeable on our proceedings than you are. I might as well tell you that yours is not the only mission that must be completed if hope is to be rekindled. Geno, Jinx, and Merlon are on their way to help the resistance at the Mushroom Village, while Mallow and a Terrapin called Chef Torte are now heading to Dinosaur Island to protect a terrible artifact that Raul is already after. I advised them in the form of Eldstar, as I did you, because I knew they would not trust me as Kamek. There is another group, though, whose identity I shall not even reveal to you, which has thus far escaped Raul’s attention.”
“I still do not understand, though,” Mario said, glancing quickly at the silent Reznoth beside him before diverting his eyes towards Kamek. “What are we to do? And what will happen to the Princess and Toad?”
“Yeah, and what about the Star Rod?” Luigi asked.
“That was only a distraction,” Kamek admitted, “to keep you from asking more questions at the time, since I knew Frogfucious was going to die. Anyway, you will still need it, but not for the reason I explained. The Shadow Spirits cannot be vanquished until a later date. For now, we must evade them and whatever connection, if any, Raul has with the upsetting of Star Haven.
“Your friends at Tadpole Pond will be quite safe until the time comes when they, too, must take action. That does not concern you, though. In any case, at this point I must expedite our discussion, for the final hour draws ever nearer. Yoshi will go with the three of you, and from thence, I shall use a great portion of my potency to teleport you to the Delfino Isles. There you will proceed to the Delfino Plaza, where you will be assigned your first task.”
“Thiz one does not see how we will know—”
“No time for that,” and Kamek was pushing the four of them together.
“But Kamek,” Mario started, “what if—”
“No time for that either,” and suddenly the heroes were vanished, sent through space and time to another corner of the globe.
Ryanoshi approached the wizard, who was obviously feeling rather drained at the moment. “What should I do, Kamek? Am I to be of any help?”
“Yes, yes, my dear Yoster, you are of great importance to this quest, as well. Remember I mentioned the Prince Mallow and Chef Torte? Well, you must go with them,” Kamek informed and brushed himself off. His brown and gray staff was changed most swiftly into a flying broom. In another moment, both of them were upon it and riding low to the ground near the Forest Maze.
“About this Chef Torte,” Ryanoshi started. “We don’t have such a nice history of working together. There is what many may refer to as bad blood, though we have never fought each other, or anything quite that violent.”
“Do not worry, Ryanoshi. I am going with you, for a time, and will see to it that our friend Torte behaves himself. If my premonitions are correct, he is necessary for our plight to succeed, but whether his part is for good or evil, it has not yet been revealed.”
Lightning flashed before them.
“It’s the storm I saw earlier today,” Ryanoshi said, squinting his eyes against the purple and black clouds in the distance that collided against a starless night.
“Yes,” Kamek agreed. “It is upon us.”
Chapter Fourteen: The Battle of Fungi Fields
As the night drew out its suffering breath, death became the order of the hour. Moving shadows packed along the darkness, licked by torchlight and dancing flame. Outside of the Chancellor’s open window, a chill wind blew, upsetting the careful back-and-forth sway of his tattered curtains. Everything made silent, a bitter plunge closing with the final scream.
Blue Boo let out a quick sigh of relief. He floated to the curtains and felt them briefly before ripping them off of their clamps. The broken ringlets clattered to the carpet, deep thuds that pounded out a lingering requiem. He stopped, suspended in midair for several seconds, counting the beats of the growing thunder. A glance of lightning rattled his senses, sending him forward with a snapped yelp.
Crazykoopa was leaning over the first injured soldier of the night when his close friend came rushing in, looking as if he’d seen a ghost, despite the fact that he was one. The troubled Koopa found it easier to keep pressure on the Mushroomer’s wound with each passing second. That was not a sign of fortune, however, as it meant the young man’s blood flow was ebbing.
“There you are,” Crazykoopa said, gasping for lost air. “Take it to the other scout,” he motioned with his head, “in the next room.”
Blue Boo started to ask why the fellow his comrade was currently attending didn’t need it, but upon realization, he simply nodded his head and hurried off. The concept of death had been unknown to him for the longest time, hundreds of years to be exact, and even now, after seeing countless friends fall to the mysterious disease, he still could not comprehend its finality.
“Tell me again, how many were there?” asked Crazykoopa, hoping that by some miracle his dying patient would answer. “Just an estimate.”
“Around the hills,” was the answer, and then for a long while, silence. “A great black swarm, a colony of ants gnashing and clawing their way up the slopes.”
Crazykoopa leaned his head close to the man’s last words. “Fifteen thousand, fast approaching.” His eyes shut for the last time. “There is no hope for us now.”
The Mushroomer’s hands paled and became cold, the blood and the life draining from them. Crazykoopa crossed the scout’s hands along his chest, bowing his own head. “Rest, my brave friend. May the Stars receive you quickly.”
The Terrapin, once in grief with being trapped at the Mushroom Village instead of on his way to Sarasaland, now put away all reservations. He donned his armor as he had done during the closing day, but this time there was no blind pride or feelings of victory. There was only grim determination and the promise to set things right.
Many would die that night, but he would not be among them.
~*~*~*~
You are the truth and my light…
Two Clubbas soiled with soot and the sweat of flames strapped on his metallic shin guards and grunted from the gleam.
I follow you, and only you, into the flames of the Abyss…
Spiny arm plates rattled and clinked as they were dragged from the furnace. Boiling metal hissed on contact with his tough reptilian skin, peeling the reek of black scales.
The time has come…
Spikes ran over the length of his chest plate, now being placed upon his body, dripping light from reflected sparks all around him.
My mind is set…
Splitting the red mist that crawled in waves from the watered boiler, his ebony helm struck the fading flash of lightning, setting the room with a fugacious fire.
To war…
Blood ran in crimson rivulets from underneath his helmet, the life force of those scouts that had been retaken. The smell of it enraged him, sent him into a frenzy for violence.
Bowser was coming, shield, sword, and madness.
~*~*~*~
After the weight of Crazykoopa’s information on the strength of their enemy had sunk in, General Spore called an emergency meeting. In addition to the two already mentioned, Blue Boo, the Chancellor, Lieutenant Genji, his Yoster friend Roshi III, and Colonel Enoki attended. All were quiet for the longest time, listening to the stutter-fire and boom of the raging storm that swelled abroad. General Spore was the first to speak.
“Because of our infernal Advisors, we have let the Enemy get the better of us. They have routed our positions, killed our scouts, and amassed an army with more speed than we could have possibly imagined. Evacuation is no longer an option; even if we were ready to leave now, they would still overtake and slaughter us.”
Crazykoopa had expected as much, but hearing the desperation in the General’s voice made it sickeningly real. “How long before the Paratroopas reach the Northern Wall?”
“According to the scout still alive,” Enoki began, “there are three lines of Paratroopas. The first wave consists of the red-shelled variety, quicker than their green-backed brethren, but less powerful. Lieutenant Genji’s guess is that they will land on the parapet, distracting our archers with swordplay. They will be here in an hour. Then comes the green-shells, their reinforcement, followed by a third line of Heavy Troopas with attached Bullet Bill launchers.”
“The archers won’t stand a chance…” Blue Boo broke off.
“And they would normally be the key to bringing down the Heavy Troopas before they could destroy the perimeter walls,” said General Spore.
Genji shook his head, showing frustration. “Bowser’s not usually this premeditative. He hasn’t exactly been what we would call a strategic genius in the past.”
“What are you suggesting?” Enoki prompted.
“That Bowser isn’t in charge of his own army any more,” answered Crazykoopa. “And I believe he is right. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. Perhaps Kamek has finally gotten the better of his oppressive king and convinced the Koopalings to come back to the nest.”
Roshi let out a slow whine and let his red tail drop to the ground. “With that nasty wizard in charge, we don’t stand a chance. He’s managed to elude death for at least a century, and he wouldn’t do anything drastic now unless he was assured of victory.”
“Speculation is all fine and proper, gentlemen,” Blue Boo interrupted, “but don’t you think we should spend this last hour forming a strategy?”
General Spore’s twisted mustache was visibly ruffled. “Well then, Mr. Ghost, what do you propose?”
“It is obvious that if we send all of the archers to protect the Northern Wall, they’ll be pummeled long before the third and most devastating wave of Paratroopas arrives,” the Boo started, floating up and tracing a ghostly arm along a map of the city on a nearby wall. “We could hide the archers under substantial cover, thereby surprising the first line of attack and hopefully eliminating the red-shells, but by the time the green-shells arrive, positions will have been uncovered and too many will have already fallen.”
“Of course we can’t leave the Wall undefended,” Enoki exclaimed. “If the Heavy Troopas are able to breach it and the full might of the Koopa infantry is allowed access, then all hope of victory will be crushed.”
“What are the current standings of the Mushroomer army, General Spore?” Crazykoopa asked.
“We have five-hundred standing, fifty Paratroopas, all worn out from their recent flight to the Moleville Mountains, and one-hundred archers. Any others are untrained civilians and would be more of a nuisance on the battlefield than anything else. And of course, the Advisors and diplomats fled long ago.”
Crazykoopa considered the numbers. “Have the villages near the Northern Wall been evacuated?”
“All willing to leave have left,” said Genji.
“What about the Bullet Bill launchers that have been gathered here, near the castle?” Blue Boo asked, knowing where his friend was leading the conversation. “How quickly can they be moved?”
“What you are suggesting is impossible,” Spore rejoined. “Those weapons are sparse and are specifically meant for the protection of the Chancellor, and only as a last resort.”
“We are at the end of our rope, General,” Crazykoopa said. He turned to face the Chancellor. “If there is a chance of staying defeat long enough for a proper evacuation, would you be willing to give up the Bullet Bill Blasters?”
“Of course,” the Chancellor said eagerly. “Anything!”
Enoki slammed his fists on the table. “This is preposterous! What shall we gain by speeding up the inevitable?”
“It is not suicide,” argued Blue Boo. “The cannons will do little against infantry, but if they are placed in the abandoned villages, they can be used to confuse and break the aerial attack of the Enemy. Those that operate the machinery will have time to retreat, as well as those still in the city, while the ground troops busy themselves with breaching the Northern Wall.”
“Chancellor?” Genji asked, quite satisfied. “Permission to proceed with moving the Bullet Bill launchers?”
“Permission granted, Lieutenant,” said the Chancellor. “May the Stars look down on us with mercy.”
~*~*~*~
“You are quiet, my friend,” Blue Boo said, coming to rest beside Crazykoopa.
They were waiting anxiously in an abandoned hut, currently charged with leading the counterattack on the first wave of Paratroopas. They had been assigned forty men, two to a hut with one Bullet Bill Blaster for each pair. Twenty cannons would be firing relentlessly against a line of five hundred flying Koopas with odds of success that no one wanted to calculate.
Over the rise behind them that separated the lone village from view of the country’s capital, the remainder of the Mushroomer Army lay in waiting under the command of Lieutenant Genji and his faithful friend, Roshi III. Surmounting the hill chain, fifty Paratroopas armed with the best the General’s blacksmiths had to offer perched bravely, knowing that they would be responsible for tearing the Heavy Troopas out of the sky once the cannons knocked out the first two waves.
One hundred archers were scattered over the slopes of the hills, ordered to cover the retreat of the Bullet Bill operators from any lingering Paratroopas. And if by some terrible chance the Enemy’s infantry broke through the bulwark, Genji and his five hundred soldiers would charge down the hill, meeting the opposition in one final struggle.
Manning the Bullet Bill launchers themselves were forty Koopas from the Koopa Village, come to honor an allegiance long in formation. Not only were they taller than Mushroomers, but they were also naturally better marksmen. Now they only had to wait for the first sounds of wings beating the air, like one thousand screams lifting from a fissure in the ground.
“I was praying to the Stars,” said Crazykoopa, lifting his head. “Meditation is oftentimes the best solution to the dreadful silence before the killing begins.”
“It is a sad thing that we are stuck here, unable to go forward with your plans. Now Sarasaland will never be notified until it is too late, even for them. We are dying, already burning, and I can see no hope to hang onto.”
The Boo’s blue hat sunk forward. “I am not sad that we are here,” admitted Crazykoopa. “And if I am to die this night, then there is in no one’s company that I would rather be, and there is for no other cause that I would rather fall in glory.”
Moved by his friend’s honest words, Blue Boo pulled out his ghostly sword, shimmering with a sapphire flame. It sang a song of sorrows in the night, a chorus line of souls, all clamoring for one last view of the rising dawn. But now a new scream filled the air, shrill, striking fear in the hearts of all that heard it.
“They are here,” Crazykoopa said, just below a whisper.
Blue Boo watched the Terrapin slowly make his way to the entrance of the hut and peek his head out of the open doorway. The fluttering and the screeching of their foes grew ever louder. Crazykoopa made a deep chortle, like a growl in his throat, as the distant report of the first cannon shot made an ominous rumble.
Chaos reigned.
~*~*~*~
“Ah,” Raul said off-handedly, as if checking a wristwatch or remembering an appointment. He was seated in the throne of the former King Koopa, draining a glass of wine. Cele lifted her head from a dense book on the Great War between the Mushroomers and the Koopas, which she had acquired in the Castle’s extensive library. Ian sat up from a position of intense thought, cautiously approaching his Master.
“My Lord Raul?” Ian called. “What has happened?”
“The war on Plit,” he answered casually. “It has begun.”
There was a knock on the ornate doors of the Throne Room, soft and timid, followed by another of the same degree. It came again, louder this time, more anxious. Only after the third time did Raul stand up and take notice. A slight gesture of his hands was made, almost unseen, and the doors opened wide. In came General Jagger, his face and complexion flushed with a building anger.
“Dread Raul, I have received word through the crystal communication orbs that the First Line is beginning their attack, but they have met an unexpected opposition,” he said, twitching his left eye nervously as Cele drew closer to him. “There was no one protecting the ramparts, no archers, nothing. It’s unheard of!”
“Is that all?” Ian asked.
“Well, no,” the Terrapin snapped, surprising even himself. “After both the first and second lines of Paratroopas cleared the Northern Wall, they were fired upon by ground-based Bullet Bill launchers. As I speak, their numbers are dwindling, but we have sustained massive casualties, and the civilians are nowhere in sight.”
“Brilliant strategizing on their part, but mostly due to any information they were able to gather from the returning scouts,” said Raul. “They knew that any archers set along the parapet would be ultimately slaughtered, so they chose a more aggressive form of defense.”
“Very well, sir,” Jagger said carefully. “Should I give the go-ahead for the Heavy Troopas?”
“No,” said Raul. “They will be expecting that. In fact, my estimation is that they have laid a trap for the Third Line, as well.” He slipped a black glove covering his right hand off and brought it to his mouth, smelling the leather. “Either they have hidden archers along with the Bullet Bill operators, or, more likely, they have a fleet of Paratroopas, themselves, ready to destroy the slower brand of our last wave.
“As with anything their inexperienced minds could produce, there is a simple weakness. They rely on the Heavy Troopas being the device with which we will destroy the ramparts. It is on this flaw that we must pray. Ian, I trust you are following me?”
“Of course, my Lord,” Ian smirked. “General Jagger must order the Bullet Bill launchers originally carried by the Heavy Troopas to be given to the front lines of the infantry. The Heavy Troopas will then attack, as planned, drawing out the Mushroomers’ hidden defense. After they are allowed time to accept their false victory, the Northern Wall will be destroyed. Finally, the infantry will march over the Fungi Fields, destroying anything and everything in their path.”
Raul turned his vicious grin on Jagger, and his eyes glowed an unsettling red. The Terrapin hastened out, wondering whether the human had known this was going to happen all along.
~*~*~*~
Grinning Bullet Bills gave a shrill skirl as they rocketed into the air all around the village. Fires leapt up from burning huts, blood running clear under the walls of collapsed straw and mud. Crazykoopa cursed, dashing furiously past a row of dead and dying Koopas with Blue Boo close behind him. The smoked ashes of Paratroopas blown from the sky crunched beneath them, and the occasional bone snapped under his stride.
The first wave had dived almost immediately after clearing the tops of the Northern Wall, scooping up anything resembling a sentient being and dropping it as they ascended. Ten of the Bullet Bill operators had died this way, screaming and flailing helplessly until the last and deafening yelp. One had even managed to scratch a deep gash in Crazykoopa’s armor before the Terrapin was able to dispatch him with an upward thrust of his sword.
Blue Boo manipulated his weapon into a boomerang, throwing it deftly to slice and burn through several of the flying assailants at a time. Following its trail of ocean fire was a hideous shriek, the sound of grim souls performing their distorted vengeance upon a world that cursed them. All the while, flaming Paratroopas howled inhumanly, spiraling balls of kerosene and gun powder pounding into the ground, scorching the grass and trees with the merciless hand of decimation.
Crazykoopa tucked his head in and rolled just as one of their airborne opponents swooped down for a grasp of his flesh. The same Paratroopa yipped in dismay and wheeled around, flapping its wings frenziedly and extending its claws to rip the face from a nearby gunner before shooting back off into the air. Seeing his friend so defiled, Crazykoopa entered a bloodlust, the desire of war, and took the helms of an abandoned cannon. With a rallying cry he triggered the mechanism, firing burst after burst of explosive compounds and tearing the clouds of the Enemy asunder.
The Paratroopas, though, would not be stopped in their relentless charge. Legions of the foul beasts flung themselves skyward and bombarded the ground in a fusillade of extended swords and barreling bodies. Shell fragments cut into the panicked forces on the ground, burying deep into the dying ground. Others landed, folding up their wings and using a variety of vile weapons to slash and scalp the opposing Koopas.
All seemed hopeless, but then the archers left their positions, charging into the battle with bows pulled taut. There was a collective twang, and another, each triumphant whistle of an arrow sending another hundred of the airborne foes to the ground. Carrion rained upon the soil, a grisly storm mixed with mud and dirt and ash.
Even as the calls of victory rang across the valley, animated shadows could be seen approaching from above the ramparts.
It was then that the Heavy Troopas arrived, groaning, bellowing in their cumbersome language of curses and glutinous threats. Their deep blubber and thick shells absorbed the brunt of the Bullet Bills, frying with a bubbling sickness that smelled of rotten eggs. They landed in quick, successive drops, crushing the defending Koopas in pairs and ripping the cannons to pieces with their snapping jaws.
The Captain of the Heavy Troopas landed with a rattling thump upon the ground, waving his broad-curving saber about tauntingly and hissing a dreadful challenge. “Let all who live come forward to die upon my blade.”
“I am not exactly alive,” Blue Boo replied, floating out to meet the oversized Paratroopa. “Though I still accept your challenge.” His weapon changed again, back into the sapphire sword that glittered with an untimely flame.
The Captain guffawed violently and pulled a pouch from his belt. “Perhaps you would like a taste of this Pure Water? Come on then, have us a drink!”
Blue Boo’s eyes suddenly went cold, and his arms quivered in fear. “I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you. I find the stuff awful, myself.”
“Then Captain Tubba will just have to bring it to you, I suppose,” the Heavy Troopa said and lifted himself from the ground with a short spasm of his glistening wings. There was a terrible war cry and a cloud of dust, and then the raging monster charged.
When the stampeding beast was about to fling the deadly contents of his pouch, Blue Boo vanished into thin air, leaving the Heavy Troopa to brake himself hard against his own momentum. But before the enraged Captain could turn around to gain his bearings, his movement and air were suddenly stopped by the short glimmer of a blue and fiery tip poking out of his underbelly. Struck with an abominable fury, Tubba pitched forward, falling in a puddle of his own filth and dying pitifully along those he had killed.
Blue Boo turned about restlessly, attempting to locate his friends and forgetting all about the absence of the Bullet Bill launcher on the Captain’s back and on the shells of those fighting with their own Paratroopas above.
So it is predictable, of course, that what he found instead was not so encouraging.
~*~*~*~
There was only an explosion, deep, powerful, and final.
Despair was the one word capable of describing the sudden hopelessness, complete and unquenchable, which formed in Crazykoopa’s mind. It was beyond all fears and all tortures that such an evil and terrible thing could come to pass. He cowered back, unsure, and led his hands to fall against the earth.
The Northern Wall’s mid section was blown apart by an exterior assault from a barrage of Bullet Bills. Solid rock was melted, thrown against its Maker in a storm of raining death, shrapnel and lava. The Fungi Fields caught fire, burning in a hateful holocaust, the beauty and the sacredness, all going up in a blackening smoke.
And then the armies, the endless swarm of armies, came pouring in like a field of locusts. They slashed, and they burned, eating the life out of the land that had existed in peace for so long. At the very head of the host a red-eyed demon prevailed, the arch-form of Bowser, a devil now that’s indomitable will could not be undone.
Crazykoopa lay there in a heap of desolation, sobbing, burning, passing away into another land without a care and without a cause.
~*~*~*~
Lieutenant Genji of the Royal Mushroomer Army looked on in a sort of horrid fascination, wondering to himself where it had all gone wrong. He patted his loyal friend, the courageous Roshi III who was there to bear him. Both now stood in a mutual silence, unable to accept the recent turn of events. The last of their flying Paratroopas were returning, barely half the number that had left to bring down the Heavy Troopas.
“It was all a decoy,” a nearby soldier said, relating the obvious truth. “Those bloody monsters outmaneuvered us!”
“We never had much of a chance, you know,” said another. “Perhaps we were all meant to die on this field, an unwilling sacrifice to the Stars that have forgotten us.”
The swarm of the Enemy began their ascension, clambering up the hill by tooth and nail. A cacophony of raucous curses and repulsive incantations drifted up to the ears of those that waited in terror. And at the front, grinning with a devilish predilection, was the arch king Bowser standing tall and gruesome in the middle of his voracious ranks.
“It is not over yet, no matter what you may say,” proclaimed Genji, leading Roshi to the front of the lines. His heart was pounding, and his head was racing with thoughts of dying in glory, far away from the home and family he loved so dearly. He could not let them be subjugated and cut down by the jagged swords of these savages.
“So what if the Stars have abandoned us?” asked Genji, letting his tiny voice carry over the others’ heads. “Are we to give up even then, or now when the Enemy pulls an unexpected plot?”
No one spoke, but all were attentive as their leader committed atrocities against the Stars they had worshiped for so long. “It is not ours to ask why or to consider the overwhelming odds of survival, stacked against us like an immortal wave. If this is our doom, then let us make it one that will be remembered forever. Think of your families, your children, and all the other people in this world that stand unknowingly on the brink of a final sunset. Now it comes, forever and always, the leap and the senseless plunge into the darkness and our fates thrown violently to the wind!”
Shields and swords were readied; a clap of thunder carried across the vale. Rain fell down in sheets of metal and wood, flaming white against the reaching forks of lightning. “With every breath, my comrades, with every ounce of strength and truth that we have left, the Enemy will feel the rumble of our drums, the clear ringing of our victorious horns, and know the everlasting terror of demise!”
The heralds rang out, and the generations
of all who came down that night waited in silence and in dread. Genji screamed
and soared over the summit, five hundred soldiers close behind him and
backed by a thin guard of Paratroopas. As a moving mass of bodies and of
rippling flags, the army hurled themselves down the hillside, eyes alight,
hearts in glory, falling upon the flow of Raul’s iniquity and washing off
into the invincible legend.
Roshi let out a high-pitched growl and fluttered over the tops of a lowered spear brigade, allowing Genji to stab downwards with his sword over and again until there was no more blood to be drawn. While his master matched wits with the blade, he used his tongue and tail to thrash an encroaching mob of Goombas, using the resultant eggs to splinter the hard shells of another line of Koopas.
The archers drew their weapons, rushing into the melee, slashing vertically down the gaps between shoulder and chest plates and cutting horizontally against open necks. Regular spearmen alternated between their weapon of choice and long knives, lancing a line of Koopas while using the blades to ward off those who pressed in from the sides. Paratroopas screeched, viciously tearing the armor and flesh off of several opponents at a time. When their wings were battered and bleeding, they relied on curved machetes, swinging back and forth mercilessly in a desperate hover until the Enemy finally swallowed them.
The blister of Bullet Bill cannons mushroomed across the landscape, erupting whole portions of earth and sending them pummeling through the air. Spears and arrows fell ceaselessly, and the death toll climbed erratically with each passing second. Mushroomers jabbed their swords in a continuous clink-clank against the counter ranks, screaming, shouting, retreating, and then attacking again and again. The explosions of artillery rippled and broke the sound barrier here and anon, shredding groups of militant forces and splintering patches of burning trees.
The chaos continued on through the night, and at every corner, the small force of the Mushroom Village was weakening. Wherever one saw a gap in the bulk of the Enemy, new soldiers and beasts filled the lack, drumming in and tearing away at anything in their path.
It was by mere chance that Roshi tripped over a loose rock that jutted out of the ground. Genji was sent flying, blinded by the rush of black and yellow until he slammed into a pile of bodies. He was surprised when the pocket of air he had hit reappeared as Blue Boo, who was crouching protectively over an unconscious Crazykoopa. Roshi was back, gliding over the blockade of enemies between them to land beside the fallen Terrapin. The Lieutenant pulled a healing agent out of the Yoster’s saddle and fed it to Crazykoopa, who soon woke up with a slight headache and a feeling of anguish over what had happened.
The surrounding army, now taking notice of the group of friends, was intent upon a chance for a kill. So it was that Roshi, Crazykoopa, Blue Boo, and Genji fought back-to-back, fending off a swelling river of foes against impossible odds. The dinosaur evened the support with a steady round of egg missiles, creating a helpful gap in the Enemy’s surround, while Genji wielded his sword expertly alongside Crazykoopa. Blue Boo threw his flaming boomerang, claiming twenty lives with each arcing toss and steadily forming a ring of defensive fire around them.
All was going reasonably well until the stream of adversaries was unexpectedly stopped. Out of the glaring holocaust stepped an enormous beast, the raging figure of Bowser silhouetted against a sweep of dark flames. He looked at them curiously, tilting his head in a brief moment of interest. The blood of the ragged clothes of their friends dripped and hung from his ravenous teeth and the gleaming pearl spikes of his shell and armor.
“You must be the one who commands this dying army,” he said, motioning to Genji. “Come forth and fight me.”
“How did you do it?” asked Genji, frightened immeasurably by the sudden sight of Bowser. “How did you gather such a great host?”
It was easy to see that the battle was lost. All around them, as they had fought for survival, the armies of the Mushroom Village were steadily failing, now less than one-fourth the original strength. And through all of this, only a small dent had been made in the opposing force.
Roshi whimpered involuntarily as his friend slowly but surely made an approach towards the Koopa King. Leave him alone!” he shouted and charged.
Bowser grunted and swiped a fist of claws along the Yoster’s face, biting deep gashes and sending the poor dinosaur spiraling across the ground. Both Blue Boo and Crazykoopa rushed the demon, flashing their swords against the night, lunging forward to slay the infamous tyrant, but they were dispatched as if by the swat of indifference.
Now only Genji stood under the lengthening shadow of Bowser, a towering menace, a fortress of fear undaunted by justice or virtue. He stabbed upwards, but his sword was quickly batted aside. As the dragon Koopa opened his mouth to spew a river of cleansing fire, Genji closed his eyes, preparing himself for what lay ahead.
When he reopened them, though, he was shocked to look upon the recognizable face of Geno, the fabled Star Warrior. “How is this possible?” he asked, almost drowsy.
“Look around you,” said Geno warmly, and smiled. “The tide has turned in our favor.”
They were flying high above the armies of Raul, rushing over the waves of darkness on wings of pale morning, the clouds of a blue sky in spring. All around them, the borne forces of the Cumulus descended with great skill upon their enemies and dealt judgment for all the lives they had taken. Lightning and rain harnessed by the collective prowess of the Nimbian people struck on the heels of the fleeing foes, crisping hundreds of Koopas and other vile servants of Raul. They fled in madness through the gap in the Northern Wall, rushing over the rising plains to the Vista Hill.
Only Bowser remained, standing in the middle of a bloodstained field, facing off with the Shaman Merlon. Dried crimson stained the olive drab of the Koopa’s shell, combining with his soulless red eyes to solidify his appearance as a twisted devil of torment. Merlon stood his ground, nonetheless, glowing in a red aura of pure energy as Geno, Genji, Jinx, and the few still alive after the night’s battle landed on the clouds provided for them.
“You know that this is not over,” Bowser began, his voice deep and drenched with malice. “I shall taste your flesh before this is over, Shaman.”
“Go back into the abyss, wretched demon,” Merlon intoned, letting his voice rise and fall in time with the lingering thunder. “You are nothing now but an empty skin, slave to some other man. Tell me, who is it? Who has claimed your soul, Bowser?”
“Do not bandy words with my servant, you coward,” a new voice said, still coming from Bowser’s guarded snout. “I am the human you want, the death of all things unworthy on this polluted planet. Make your pleas or hold them until the grave.”
Merlon was motionless, a statue of control. “I have a separate ultimatum. Leave this placid land alone, and do not shed any more of its people’s blood. I do not know where you come from or what part you have to play in the events since the coming of that storm, but you will not be allowed to win this war.”
With a swift movement of Bowser’s tail, Merlon was lifted by an invisible hand and thrown into the air, hovering and screaming. Black and purple smoke trailed from his shriveled cloak, and his eyes curved in a boundless sea of suffering. There was a contemptuous cackle that reverberated across the lengths and breadths of the plain, casting a grim shadow over the rising sun in the east. Merlon fell to the ground, steaming and gasping for breath.
Bowser leapt into the air, landing on an unsuspecting Nimbian’s cloud and shredding the pilot in two. Oddly enough, the transport did not reject him. “I am the Destroyer and the Executioner. None may command me, and by no other will I lay my will. You have spoken with Raul, the Lord of all that is, and all that ever will be from this point forward. I sent to you this day a meager fraction of the forces that bow to me, a simplistic device with which to cripple your people’s strength. Fly now, flee into the wilderness and hide in shame. The armies of the Koopas are taking flight across the globe, and soon every plot of land and section of sea will be under my domain. When I return, it will be your last!”
Jinx and a team of Nimbian Healers rushed to the aid of Merlon, while Genji, Geno, Crazykoopa, Roshi, and Blue Boo watched Bowser as he was carried away towards the castle. At long last the storm was receding, and a new day had risen over the ruination of the Fungi Fields.
Crazykoopa and Blue Boo turned to Toad Town, starting on their expedition to Sarasaland. Geno and his friends, including a recovering Merlon, stayed behind with the Mushroom people, leading them slowly to the refuge of Tadpole Pond. Far away, other quests were being endeavored, and upon the fates all rested the grim burden of a world taking its last breath.