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Charles stood with his hands on his hips, watching the troops spar with each other.
“Small,” he commented, “but what there is seems to be pretty good.”
“If I had a copper for every time I’ve said that…” Lilly muttered.
“Shut up, Ma.” Charles ordered.
Lilly looked around to see if anyone appreciated her little joke. Sam dutifully ignored her, and the King was looking wounded. She sidled up to him and whispered in his ear.
“Not you, Ronnie. It was just a joke. You are positively royal.”
The small group continued their observation of the training troops. The King had introduced Charles to the gathered troops and informed them of his leadership status. As a result, a few of them attempted to curry favor with their new leader by putting extra effort into their exercises, while others continued to show casual indifference.
“How many troops do you think we will be up against?” Charles asked.
“I would guess at least a hundred and fifty,” Sam answered. “We saw about fifty mercenaries with the Prince before we got here, and we figure about a hundred troops left the Kingdom with him. He may have picked up a few more mercs, so to be safe, lets say two hundred.”
“And it looks like we have maybe a hundred troops here,” Charles said with a sigh. “I really don’t like two to one odds. We’re outnumbered and they have better training. Do we have any advantage? What kind of leadership are they going to have?”
“I think it’s safe to assume that the Chancellor doesn’t have any kind of military skills,” Lilly said. “We can probably say the same for the magician.”
“My son was schooled in military matters,” the King said. “From what I was told, he did very well when he could be coerced into actually attending his lessons.”
“So the Prince is the one who will be calling the shots,” Charles said thoughtfully. “Maybe we have an advantage there. Who provided the schooling? Someone here in the Kingdom?”
“Yes, the Royal Historian.” Ronald answered. “A very old, very wise man. Some say he knows so much about the past hundred years because he lived through them.”
Charles nodded.
“I don’t like the assumption that the magician won’t be able to contribute to the planning,” he said. “In order to get to be a magician, you have to be rather intelligent. Plus, our own magician has been invaluable in our planning, which makes me want to know more about the opposition.”
“Bob is probably the only person that can answer your questions,” Sam said. “He’s the only one who knew him before he got here and started acting like the Kingdoms best friend.”
Charles took a last look at his new troops before turning to face the rest of the group.
“Let’s get the magician and the historian together with the rest of us and see what kind of information we can pull together. We are going to need a plan if we have any hope of succeeding, and we can’t plan without more information.”
* * *
Sam looked at the door to Bob’s lab and hesitated. She could see a sick smoke curling up from underneath it, and her nose wrinkled at a foul odor. She held her breath and pushed the heavy door open. As she stepped inside, she involuntarily gasped. She waved her hand in front of her nose in a futile attempt to wave away the smoke and smell.
“Oh my Gods!” she exclaimed in Bob’s direction. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
“Oh!” Bob jumped a little in surprise. “One moment, please, Samantha. I am at a very critical juncture in this potion.”
Sam stood near the doorway, a hand covering her mouth and nose. Bob stirred a cauldron while various vials and boiling beakers hung in the air around him. Occasionally, one of the containers would splash in a drop of their contents, or empty themselves completely into the rolling mixture. The smoke began to change color, from a pale gray to a sickly purple. Bob steeled himself, then leaned over the concoction and sniffed. His nose wrinkled, and the floating ingredients moved themselves out of the way as he stood upright. He raised his hands and cried a single word.
“Zinthos!”
A huge mushroom shaped cloud erupted from the cauldron, which was immediately punctured by a great fountain of flames. The flames swirled malevolently for several moments before dying back into the cauldron. Bob waved away the last wisps of smoke and peered inside. He nodded with satisfaction before finally turning to address Sam.
“Now, what can I do for you?”
“Dad and the King want to have a strategy meeting,” she said through her hand. “We are getting the historian that trained the Prince in military matters, and need you there to give us any information on their magician. What the hell are you making?”
“This?” he asked, glancing into the cauldron. “It’s a fantastic new potion of my own design. Placed into small glass vials, it can be hurled at the enemy where it will break and create a very foul smelling cloud that clings to anyone it comes in contact with. Most unbearable.”
“I believe that,” Sam replied. “It really stinks in here.”
“Oh, its not completed yet,” Bob explained. “Once I have it bottled, I will cast the final curing spell. It is much too odorous to attempt to bottle after completion. When you get a whiff of the completed potion, it will cause violent retching, and the only way to get the stench off of you is to bath in salt water.”
“So,” Sam said in a slightly angry tone, “while we are out trying to get some troops trained to defend the castle, you are down here mixing up joke potions?”
“No, Samantha,” he answered, voice suddenly cold. “Each of these vials will incapacitate as many as five enemy combatants. This will remove more foes faster than any of your weapons.”
“But they can come back after getting the stench off to fight again,” she argued. “Mine don’t.”
“I do not use my skills to take life, Sam,” Bob said. “The men this potion affects will have to travel three days to the nearest natural salt water, retching and heaving the entire way. The three day journey back will not seem to be worth the effort if they believe they may have to do it all again.”
“They can still return to fight again,” Sam repeated.
“I will not use my talents to take a life.” Bob said with finality.
They stared at each other for several long minutes, each silently challenging the other to continue the argument. Sam finally gave way.
“Can you leave your stink bombs long enough to come to the meeting?”
“Yes, at this point it will need to steep for about an hour before bottling,” Bob answered.
“Well, let’s go then,” Sam said as she turned and started for the door. “The historian should be there by now to tell us what the Prince is capable of.”
“Very helpful,” Bob said, not moving. “Sam?”
Something about the new tone in his voice stopped Sam, her hand inches from the door. Bob slowly walked forward until he was very close to her, not meeting her eyes.
“I know that you don’t agree with my methods,” he said softly, “and you may not understand them. But I sincerely hope that you can respect them.”
“You’re wrong, Bob,” she answered after several moments, “I do understand your position. And I want you to know that I do respect your position, almost as much as I respect you.” She paused before continuing. “I can only say that in my experience, a wounded foe always comes back, they always want to finish what they started, they always want revenge. I once felt as you do, but long years of re-fighting the same battles that I thought I had already won have changed my mind. A fight that was over in minutes turns into a year long battle, because they just can’t get it through their head that they lost.”
Bob moved even closer to Sam, and took both of her hands in his own. He bent his head and looked her in the eye.
“I don’t harm them, Sam. I may embarrass or humiliate them, but I don’t physically harm them unless it is the absolute last resort. I never have to deal with the vengeance of a orphaned child, or a man who has lost a limb. They don’t return, because I leave them with little doubt that they will be struck helpless again. You fight with strength, and with skill. These are two qualities that can be improved upon, with the right effort. If you leave them alive, they feel that they can train, become stronger, until they can win. And they will keep training until they do. Most people don’t know how to fight against my magics, so they recognize the futility of trying. I have never fought the same battle twice.”
Sam stared into his eyes, somewhat shaken by the sincerity and conviction in his voice.
“You,” she said in a whisper,” are an extraordinary man Bobrogonzo. I hope your beliefs don’t get you killed.”
“I hope the same for you, Samantha. You are much braver than I, and stronger. But when you fight, the slightest mistake, the smallest of hesitations could mean your life. If harm were to befall you, it would be most… disagreeable to me.”
Sam released a hand and slipped an arm around his waist as she asked, slyly, “And why is that?”
“I can hear the outcry now. ‘Look! There goes the pervert magician, reanimating beautiful women for his sick pleasures!’ I hate pitchforks.”
Sam smiled, and then stretched to give him a quick kiss.
“You are growing on me, magician,” she said.
Bob glanced quickly at his midsection in mock alarm.
“Not yet, but hold me any tighter and that may no longer be true.”
Sam released him and slapped him playfully on the arm.
“Come on,” she ordered as she quickly exited the laboratory. “We have a meeting to get to.”
Bob watched her depart until she disappeared around a corner.
“Ow,” he said, rubbing his arm where she had slapped him. He smiled and hurried to the banquet hall.
