Author Note:
I had written this when I was bored in class during my last year of High School; I had recently read through the Web Novel Japan Summons (an good concept but terribly flawed execution) and the novel 1632. I decided I would upload it to Wattpad just to get over my fear of something having to be perfect to be presentible, and somehow it made its way around the Japan Summons fanbase and I ended up getting a total of 30,000 reads on Wattpad; THIS is offically the most popular thing I've ever done in my life---something I put almost no thought into around the start. When I started getting comments, I decided I would actually have a story to it---so I did come up with a full plot, but I ended up losing motivation after a while because I was simply not passionate about it. Anyways, here's the full thing reuploaded here!
Chapter 1: The Arrival of A New Nation
The ball of fire spiralled onto the land, its dark-orange flames drifting behind it: the prophecy had come true; for the first time since the creation of the world, a new hero would be summoned... or, more specifically, heroes. It had been prophesied by the grand wizards of old that one day, in the distant future, the gods would bring forth a fire to scorch the land; in its place, however, would rise a new land, the Land of Warriors. To be specific: a nation of great warriors and craftsmen would be brought forth from a distant continent; in the rise of this new nation, a great war will begin, one more bloody than any other.
When the ball of fire nearly reached the grassy land, it let out a deafening boom!—one so loud that almost every country on the Trafane continent heard it; and, with a sizzle, the ball of fire broke; its flames spread across the land, torching everything in sight. Within minutes, everything (trees, animals, houses) had all been burned to ash, never to be seen again. The fire dwindled slightly as the night went on, creating a light show for the world to see—and, with the riveting smell of cattle, wood and plant life concocting in the air, the fire suddenly stopped, simmering down into nothing. Over the land covered in black smut appeared the 'Land of Warriors' in an instantaneous flash.
It was far larger than the land could hold, with it expanding the continent outward nearly a thousand miles. At the edge of the country waved a flag, crinkled and deformed from the wind: a striped flag (red and blue) with a large blue square in the corner; inside the square was 50 stars neatly placed side by side.
***
The Great Empire of Oplar had been the dominant power within the Trafane continent for nearly 300 years; the main source of this power had been their military might: over 100,000 cavalry units, 10,000 magicians and 20,000 infantry; with such a humongous army, it's no wonder every other nation coward in fear at the sight of their extravagant flag: a white background with the coat of arms plastered in the middle, a throne with a crown above it and two knights proudly standing beside it.
The Grand Wizards (who ranked second to nobles) called on the Senate to discuss the noise they had heard the night before. The Senators, men who were personally chosen by the king to represent each province, would always meet inside the king's palace when called. The meeting room had a wide, circle-shaped, stone-cut seating area for the Senate. In front of them was the King, wearing six layers of purple and yellow clothing that loosely fitted over his fat body; a jewel-encrusted, gold crown rested on his head. Standing before the King was a short, stubby man with a scrappy beard, wearing purple robes; this man went by the name Ezax. Within the last few years, he had become the most powerful and prominent member of the 10 Grand Wizards.
"Your Majesty!" he said, "you must hear this!—last night, countless witnesses say they heard a thunderous noise; not only that, but many more have said that a godly light had blinded them... that can only mean one thing—"
"What would that be?" the king said, unintentionally snorting; "could it be the work of the Elves? Or maybe—" Ezax interrupted the king, saying:—
"It is far different, your Majesty." He gulped, both in nervousness and excitement. "You've heard about the prophecy? The one about how a nation would be summoned by the gods just before war struck?"
"Yeah, what—" the king's calm expression switched to one of realization; his eye's had grown fifty times larger; he sucked in his fat stomach, attempting the best he could to lean forward; "you don't think..." he said, his professional domineer crumbling; from it arose a frantic look, much like a little kid. Ezax said:—
"I'm afraid I do, your Majesty. Indeed, all the signs are there, the light, the noise that shook the entire world... perhaps we should send out some soldiers to investigate?"
"Are you crazy?" the king retorted. "If the prophecy is true, then this must be a nation comprised of only warriors. They probably train every young man to serve in the military; even we don't do that. It's only a matter of time before we upset them, and lose everything we've spent the last 600 years working for; we have to make peace as soon as possible. No military aggression is allowed, you hear me?" Each Senator nodded their head, with some scoffing under their breath.
Chapter 2: Preparation for War
Word spread quickly about the Land of Warrior's arrival; within the next two days, the entire continent had practically heard it one-hundred times over!—and, well some feared it, others picked up their swords in glory; they saw an opportunity to solidify themselves as legends forever. One such case was the tragic downfall of the Ustia Kingdom. A glorious and proud nation, they had been causing trouble on the continent for almost 200 years, responsible for hundreds of small skirmishes across the land.
But, for all their big talk, they couldn't walk the walk. For comparison, a barking chihuahua would be scarier than their small army of only 5,000 infantry, 420 magicians, and 4,000 cavalry units. The ruler of this country (King Wilkie) had been a wartime hero: or, so he says—truth be told, he hadn't seen a single day on the battlefield, but that didn't stop him from boasting.
***
King Wilkie stood around a large, wooden table that sunk into the wet, muddy dirt; around them flapped the flimsy fabric they called a tent. The kingdom had three bases outside their borders, of which, two were only 30 miles away from the Land of Warriors. His general, who wore a full set of iron armour and had a gigantic, scratchy beard, looked directly at Wilkie and said:—
"My King, you must reconsider this..." the king scratched his puffy, brown hair and said:—
"Nonsense! This is my chance to bring glory and honour to our nation!—for far too
long, we've been nothing more than a joke to the world. I want to change
that. The citizens believe my made-up stories of bravery—and yet, we've
never once won a war."
"But—"
"General, think of it like this: me, being known as the man who conquered the prophesied Land of Warriors... I would go down in history as one of the greatest men ever!"
The general sighed, saying: "I respect you, Your Majesty, but this is suicide; but, if that is your desire, then let's continue." He pressed his long, pale finger on the big map spread out across the table. "If we move straight forward, we could easily swamp their border; it's risky, but it could work."
"Then, we shall head out tomorrow night!" he said.
Chapter 3: The First Battle
King Wilkie—alongside 100 magicians in lengthy pink robes that dragged along the mud—and 2,000 knights that sat upon horses elegantly galloping, marched towards the border of the enemy. The general looked at his map: if his calculations were correct, they would arrive at the Gallup River (which encompassed the western border between their kingdom and the Land of Warriors) within the next ten minutes; when they made it, they would proceed to charge directly into the country, and burn any farms they came across. If we take a few civilians as prisoners, the general decided, we could ransom them for a peace deal; the war will end quicker than it started that way. The king had gone above and beyond styling his horse for this battle: it had a tight-fitting, iron-clad suit of armour covering its body, with a red blanket laying over it. The blanket—being made of silk, had four thick, puffy yellow fuzzballs on each corner.
He threw his hand in the air, signalling his men to stop. Once each knight had calmed their horses, and the magicians had all straightened their backs, he said:—
"Remember men: you are not fighting for yourselves, or me, but the glory of the kingdom! You will give it your all; if you die, you will die in glory! And if you live, you shall be rewarded with a plentiful amount of rum and woman." The men let out a fake cheer, all well internally thinking, since when have you given us anything? And why would we fight for ourselves? Nevertheless, they followed their king into battle, running and riding horseback through the sludge and muck. From an outside observer, it truly looked remarkable: men of all shapes and sizes, skills and quirks, standing before a common cause, and facing death in the face; that didn't last long.
Zoom! An odd sound filled everyone's ears: it was a fast sound, like a boat moving through the water; only, there's no way a boat could fit on such a narrow river; come to think of it, they were still a good four minutes away from the river! So, what could have made such a loud noise? Then, they saw it, a bird-shaped contraption flew over them, its black wings soared through the sky with a graceful taunt. From its bottom opened a hatch. A slew of steel ovals with square red tips fell from it. They landed one after the other over the army, obliterating half of the knights in a fiery explosion.
The Magicians cast their spells against the machine, chanting in a foreign language. It was no use, however, as the machine shot tiny (almost invisible) projectiles from its face; within minutes, all the magicians had been turned to corpses on the battlefield.
The general, having trouble calming his horse, said:
"My King, we must turn around. If we don't we will all end up dead, including you. And sir, I can't say for sure, but I think they might have captured the power of a dragon. If that's true, then—"
"Enough of your yapping," the king said. "We've come so far... if we turn back now, what will our foes think? We'll be the laughingstock of the world."
"Your Majesty, you mustn't be so stubborn. We will—" he said; those words were the last words he ever uttered; not a moment later, the projectiles hit him, turning his body into a gory mess. The stench of burning meat filled the king's nose as he watched the world burn before his eyes, the fire melting the dirty landscape like ice, and the corpses transforming into ash.
He got off his horse and ran faster than he ever had. Why? Because (in his mind) going home empty-handed would mean dishonouring his people. That mindset got him killed; a huge gust of fire encircled him, before erupting into a huge explosion that took off his legs; bleeding to death, he looked up one last time: the river stood right in front of him. Behind it was a long pole with the striped-star flag that belonged to the enemy; the Land of Warriors was just in reach; but, as he reached out his hand, his eyes shut forever.
Chapter 4: The Day After
"They what?" the Oplar king panicked, running his fat fingers through his hair. He hadn't slept for the past two days, working tirelessly on his plan to save the empire; but, just as he finished his draft, Ezax had entered the room. In thorough detail, he described everything he had been told by the Ustia diplomats: how the king, alongside his army, perished overnight—and, most importantly, how no one could recall seeing a single enemy soldier ravishing their camp. The Oplar king, now pacing around the room to and fro said:—
"Could this have been the great war from the prophecy?"
Ezax shook his head; "no, Your Majesty... I fear that this is only a glimpse of things to come. So far, no one has met a single man or woman from the Land of Warriors; theoretically, there's still time!—but, it won't be easy. The Ustia Kingdom has already angered them, and (quite honestly, Your Majesty) the future isn't looking too bright."
"Nonsense!" the king proudly said, pounding his chest. "We've kept this empire together for 600 years—I'll be dammed before I let her die..."
"Your Majesty... that's sweet of you, but what are you planning to do? How are you supposed to even get close to the enemy?—if we accidentally anger them..."
Smack.
The king slapped the wizard with the back of his hand, contorting his face into a swelled up, puffy mess; losing his balance, he tripped over himself and landed on the hardwood floor with a terrible thud.
"Don't refer to them as the enemy!" the king shouted. "As of now, they will be called our ally, you hear me?" Ezax nodded his head. "Another thing: you will treat them as if they are gods: pamper them as if they are me—and, once we gain their trust, they will gladly fight under our banner, you got that?" Ezax attempted to lift himself up, feeling the pain in his neck as he tried to nod. The king took out a thin, scrap piece of paper from his desk and scribbled something on it; he walked over to Ezax and forced it into his hand. "Send this letter to the Land of Warriors using magic; I want it delivered immediately, or it will be your head, got it?"
"Y—yeah," he replied.
***
Ezax, alongside the 10 other grand wizards, gathered around inside a small, oval-shaped tower made of grey bricks. They each held hands underneath their purple robes, and—after lighting a fire—chanted a prayer three times over; from the fire swirled out a cloud of thick, white smoke, which shaped itself into a flat surface. Ezax, holding the king's note in hand, placed it on top of the smoke; the thin note vanished; twisting itself into letters; it read:
"To the Land of Warriors:
It would humble me if the king of your land came to dinner;
I will prepare the best cooks in the country,
and only serve you the best meals!
My men will organize a carriage around the main trade road just outside our borders.
That said, you will also be given the utmost luxury your entire stay.
Best regards,
King William II of the Oplar Empire."
Ezax took a deep breath, inhaling the musky air. I hope this works, he thought.
Chapter 5: The President Gets Invited To Dinner
The United States of America: the third biggest country on earth by land. Spanning two oceans, they had solidified themselves as an economic powerhouse, and military might. One day, however, things went downhill for them: the entire mainland had been whisked away to another world in a flash! Alaska and Hawaii had been left behind, forced to figure things out for themselves. Within the short time they had been frankensteined onto this strange land, the economy took a tremendous toll, with stocks plummeting faster than ever, and thousands losing their money to oversee banks.
Imported goods from China (such as metals, plastics, and pharmaceuticals) could no longer be relied on; instead, everything had to be done domestically. Large corporations took a blow as well: McDonald's, Walmart, JC Morgan Chase... they each had international departments they could no longer contact—not to mention the mass panic that swept across the nation. Within three days, every bank had lost half of their customers!—and department stores lost most of their inventory within hours. To prevent any 'accidents' from happening, the United States went full isolationist, closing their borders and all travel; after, they sent out a plane to scout out the region; but, once the pilot had seen the invading army, he chose to go against the orders of his commanders, launching the bombs compacted within his planes underbelly, and shot every last survivor insight. Afterwards, he got a dishonourable discharge and life in prison.
***
The incumbent President of the United States—a short, old-fashioned businessman named Alfred Brown—had been elected under the Republican ticket only a year prior; being the oldest president in US history at the age of 80, many were skeptical that he'd be fit for the job; nevertheless, his approval rating was still decently high (around sixty percent); but—after the country had been transported to another world, it dropped to a staggering forty percent! His chances of re-election were dropping by the minute.
Alfred sat uncomfortably in the Oval Office, wearing a tailored navy blue suit and red tie. Pondering his mind in deep meditation, the distant sound of a knock filled his ears: it was the Vice President, who wore a loose-fitted black suit and black tie; with a tablet in hand, he staggered in and plopped his skinny body onto the fluffy white coach.
"How's it going, Mr. President?" he asked with a wink.
"Not good," said Alfred; "to be honest... I should just resign: words can not describe the stress I'm in; the public hates me... at this point, I'll have a lower approval rating than Dick Chaney!" The Vice President raised one eyebrow, saying:—
"Brown, you're doing all you can!—it's not your fault we're in this predicament. The economy was doing so well under your leadership, and nobody can take that away from you."
Alfred pressed his old, wrinkled fingers on his temples; "why are you even here?" he asked. The Vice President got up from the couch and walked over to the president. He held his tablet flat in hand, and, opening his email, placed the metallic device on the President's desk.
He said, "We received a fax from a man claiming to be the ruler of a nearby country—and he wants you to come over for a state dinner... what do you think we should do, sir?" Alfred's eyes perked up; an idea struck his head, forcing a cheery smile upon his face. He said:—
"God
bless this day, I tell you!... to think, after everything that's
happened, we might get this country back on track; and, most
importantly, we might figure out where the hell we are!"
The Vice President said: "That's fine sir, but what should we say to him?" The President jumped out of his chair and curved his thin hands around the Vice President's face.
"Tell him," he said, "that we'd be glad to join him for dinner!—and don't fuck it up, because this may be our only connection." The Vice President slightly nodded his head with a stiff expression. That's the first time I've ever seen Brown swear in the fifty years we've known each other... he thought.
***
Back in the tower, the grand wizards stood silently, each with their eyes closed; their hands pressed together hard and tight, praying for the survival of the empire. But, just as they got on their knees, the fire sunk inward.
Boom! With a mountain of sparks, the fire shot out like a volcano, smoke, and dust filling the room. After it cleared, the wizards were astonished to see a paper fall from the ceiling. With a swift grab—Ezax caught the paper midair; clearing his throat (somewhat obnoxiously) he read the finely printed letters:—
"Dear William II,
The President and I would be delighted to join you for dinner;
I'm quite humbled by your offer and look forward to seeing you.
Please, prepare the carriage for use on the 27th: we'll be ready by then.
Signed, Vice President James Lindon."
Chapter 6: The President's Car
Two men (hired by the king) drove their dainty carriage across the muddy trail; they both sat in front, wearing brown, dirty robes; one—who had a bald head—held a rotting string in his hand, manipulating the horse. The other, having a full set of blonde hair, sat on the rough wood seat, slouching; he said:—
"I can't believe we're doing this: driving the ruler of the Land of Warriors to the capital. I don't think I can handle the stress."
"Relax," the bald man said; "I'm sure we'll be fine. After all: we should be grateful that the most powerful person to ever live will be in our presence."
"How do you know he's the most powerful person to ever live?"
"Simple," the bald man exclaimed: "this is the prophesied 'Land Of Warriors'; if this truly is a nation made entirely of men trained for battle, then—naturally—the king would be a barbarian like no other: a seven-foot-tall giant with a gargantuan magic sword!—a man who's killed thousands of foes until only he remained." This only made the man next to him quiver in his seat, slouching even further down. Twiddling his thumbs, he said:—
"Y—you don't think he'll kill us... right?"
The bald man said: "eh, who's to say; it's just a
hypothesis; he could be the exact opposite: a skinny, short man who can barely lift a haystack."
"Let's hope so." The
bald man squinted his eyes: in the distance was a big, black object:
yet, he couldn't make out what it was. He commanded the horse to stop;
it let out a snarl in protest, but (reluctantly) caved in. He looked
closer: twenty more black objects came into view, some big (but others
small); then, he saw in front of the first black object was a man on a
bike. Odd, he thought. Could the king of this nation be so humble as to take the weakest form of transportation?
However,
that thought did not last, for not a second later, he saw it... it was
no ordinary bike... it moved way too fast for that!—and that sound it
made: a deafening cascade of hellish noises. Not only that, but the
tires... they seemed far bigger than anything he had ever seen. Behind
him were the rest of the black objects... but what were they? Some type
of carriage?—no, it can't be that—no horses could be seen. They all
moved in such an efficient and synchronized way. The man who rode the
bike (alongside the carriages) stopped in front of the two men, who
looked up in amazement. The bald man said:—
"Are you... the king of the Land of Warriors?" The man on the bike raised one eyebrow; then (pointing his finger behind him) said:—
"You mean the president?... he's in the car behind this one." Car?—they thought. The bike, alongside the 'carriage' behind him, drove out of the way, exposing the main attraction: unknown to the two men, what laid before their eyes was none other than the president's car: the beast, a tank that masqueraded itself as a limo; it had every self-defence mechanism imaginable. On the front of the car stood two flags: the American flag, and the flag of the POTUS.
Inside the limo, Alfred and James laid back in their seats, letting the warm air from the cushions absorb into their bodies. Alfred, being the stylish and fashioned man he was, wore a white tie tuxedo, complete with a peaked lapel jacket, a white shirt with a similarly matching white tie, and a top hat that nearly touched the roof. James (being far more lazy—yet extravagant) wore a pin-striped suit and gold cross earrings, with three bulky gold rings on his fingers; he wore no tie, opting to keep his top button open.
"You're always so stuck up and formal," he told Alfred with a snark.
Alfred, in response, said: "You're the man who decided to dress like a gangster."
"It's my style!" James said.
"No, it's not; I've known you for fifty years, and the only time you go all out is when your trying to impress someone: but, when you're with me, you look like an utter slob." James said:—
"Whatever... let's just get this state dinner over with." They both opened their doors, jumping out of the car; with a grin on their faces, they approached the two shocked men; Alfred said:
"Greetings... you must be our driver?" The bald man nodded. "Good, I'm President Brown, the ruler of the United States of America... or 'The Land of Warriors' as you apparently call us."
"And I'm Vice President James Lindon, second in command to President Brown." They both lifted their arms for a handshake, but neither of the two men in the carriage moved; this was the first time anyone from this world had seen a car, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.
Chapter 7: The President Arrives at The Palace
King William II waited outside his palace gate. Anxiety had gotten a hold of him, wrapping its clammy hands around his waist. He knew deep down that if even one thing went awry, the empire built by a lineage of great men would come crashing down. He gulped, looking at the city he ruled over: buildings made of stone bricks, with wooden pillars and broad glass windows; in front of these buildings laid a thick, cobblestone road that travelled upwards. Similar to a small child hugging their mother, the warm embrace of this city said: this is home. Yet, today, the king didn't feel that warmth; instead, he felt cold (like standing in the middle of a snowstorm).
He watched as the carriage he prepared strolled across the road, bouncing up and down with each bump. Thinking back to it, such a rubbish little thing was no fit for a ruler! What would this... president think about it? Would he be mad, or would he be glad? Regardless, he would soon find out, as not even a moment later, the carriage came to a stop. One of his knights (wearing a full suit of armour) rushed over to the side door and said:—
"Ladies and Gentlemen: today is an exciting day! Travelling hundreds of miles, the king of the Land of Warriors has decided to grace our presence!" The common folks dropped everything; they each darted their curious little eyes towards the carriage; one, who seemed far too skinny, whispered to his wife, saying:
"What do you think he looks like?"
"Can't say," his wife said: "he's probably huge... the definition of masculinity!—I bet with one punch he could kill us all without even trying." That would be terrifying, the husband thought. With a quick grab, the knight slowly unveiled the treasure behind the curtain.
"Brethren, I give you..."
"Uh," James said, his face confused as ever; "the President is sitting on the left-hand side." The knight looked up in shock, before scurrying his frail body to the left-hand side, and redoing his introduction.
"Brethren, I give you: the king of the Land of Warriors!—or, the President, as they call him!" Alfred Brown stepped out of the carriage; he took off his top hat and said:—
"Greetings, it's wonderful to be visiting your beautiful country." Out of all things... the husband thought, the king of a barbaric warrior culture... being a sweet old man—
King William II quickly rushed over to Alfred, feeling a wave of relief; grabbing his hand, he interlocked their fingers and said:—
"Hello, thank you for coming; I must say, you don't know how much this truly means to me."
Alfred said: "It was nothing... after all, when a possible ally comes our way, I can't miss the opportunity."
"Indeed; say, why don't you come in? Dinner will be ready in a few hours."
***
The King walked Alfred and James through his palace, passing all sorts of expensive treasures: picture frames made of pure gold; statues of past kings (somewhat exaggerated, of course). Alfred said:—
"I must say, you have quite the place."
"I'm flattered," the king said: "but it's certainly not as grand as your palace... My President?"
"It's Mr. President," Alfred corrected; "but, on the topic at hand: my office is quite nice to be sure, but nothing made of gold like this." The king turned his head slightly, peeking at James. That guy... the Vice President, I think they called him?—he's practically made of gold: each one of those rings is worth at least a few thousand gold coins; are they lying to me?—no, they're trying to appear humble... they know my plan! Curses, of course the Land of Warriors would sniff out my scheme! He cleared his throat—somewhat awkwardly—and said:
"I beg my pardon, but I've called upon the Senate to meet with you before dinner; I hope you don't mind."
"Don't worry," Alfred said. "You said we had a few hours anyway."
Chapter 8: The Vice President Negotiates with the King
After a few short, awkward minutes of walking, the President, Vice President, and King had all made their way towards the Senate; upon opening the humongous wooden door, a room filled with fifty or so people graced their presence. The men (old, with the exception of some young) all had stern faces, without a single ounce of joy showing. Perhaps it was because they had been called suddenly; nobody likes being called into work at random, even if you are a noble. Clearing his throat, the King said:
"My friends... Senators, Noble—"
"Get on with it already!" one of them shouted. Taken aback, the King tried to recollect himself; finally, he said:—
"With me today is the King of the Land of Warriors (alongside his second-in-command): Mr. President and Mr. Vice President." The stern faces—almost suddenly, morphed into shocked, bewildered expressions; he's got to be pulling my leg, they collectively thought. There's no hell in way... that—
"Greetings!" Alfred said; "I'm President Brown, the king of The Land of Warriors." He tried winking at James—unfortunately, it didn't grab his attention. Alfred thought of correcting them, but—in some selfish way, being referred to as king made him feel joyous; it reminded him of when he was a kid: when adults called you 'mister', it gave you immense satisfaction, didn't it?—and at Alfreds age, any remembrance of childhood felt magical! William II said,
"Please, don't stand around all day: there's a seat prepared for you two... come, make yourself comfortable." In the middle of the room stood two thrones: gold-carved masterpieces, complete with jewels and red, silky, cushioned seats. Quickly, they plopped down into the chairs; my God!—how amazing did they feel!—like sitting on a cloud. It must have been fine material, Alfred and James decided. The King sat down as well, and told them:—
"Now, in order of business, I'd like to ask you for a favour."
"And what would that be?" James asked.
"I'm sure you're aware of the prophecy?—the war that will soon break out across the continent?"
Alfred, with a stressed complexion, said: "Can't say I have."
"Well... to make a long story short: your nation was brought here by the gods; upon your arrival, a war will break out amongst the Trafane Continent." Some pagan nonsense is what I say!—thought Alfred.
"To accommodate this war," the King continued, "we ask you to lend us some of your men... if only a few; in return, we'll present you with whatever it is Mr. President desires." Alfred was about to spout something; but, before he could utter a single word, James stood up; he walked over to the King: with a swift motion, he clenched his meaty hand around William's face: the heat and roughness of his hand sent chills down the King's back.
"Wh—"
"I want you to give us
one province inside your land—and I want to choose where. With that, I
request a map of your nation (as to make the choice smoother). I will
also offer a one month transition period, similar to that of Hong Kong."
What the hell is a 'Hong Kong'?—the King thought; however, his questions went unanswered, for James continued:—
"We'll have full right to extract whatever materials we want... you got that!" The King thought, dumbfounded: they had been so nice; why were they acting this way now?—yes, that's right! They really were tricking him! His hypothesis was right. However, he couldn't give away vital land! It would be humiliating to lose an entire province... no, if his empire wanted to survive at all, he needed to make sacrifices. Swallowing his pride—both figuratively and literally, he said,
"I'm sure our subjects would be honoured... and—we can get you a map as soon as possible! I'll hire the best cartographers in the land. Now, could you let go of my damn head?" James—reluctantly, let go, freeing the King from his grasp. "As long as you uphold your side of the deal (that being: sending over men, suggestively to the capital) we will give you as much land as you want."
James straightened his back, proud as can be!—however, Alfred... he was far, far less impressed; with a stern scowl upon his face, he said: "Excuse me, Your Majesty, could me and Mr. Vice President excuse ourselves for a moment?"
"I don't see why not," the King said. Hastily, Alfred shoved James outside the room.
The atmosphere was silent.
Nobody said a word.
After a few short minutes of this, one Senator broke the awkward silence, saying, "What was that? You just sold out our damn country?"
"It's the only option I had," the King said; "This is the Land of Warriors: we need to get some of their men if we want to survive the upcoming war; the empire will fall if they're the enemy."
"There won't be an empire if you continue with that line of thinking!"
***
Closing the wooden door, Alfred slightly turned his old head towards James; he said:—
"Why did you get up in his face?"
James replied, "It worked for Al Gore, so..." Alfred facepalmed.
"Al Gore lost that election!"
"Oh come on," James snarled; "Only because they kept recounting Florida."
"Didn't you support Bush..." Alfred paused: then, he grabbed James' tie and said: "This is no time to be arguing about the 2000 election!—more importantly: what were you thinking?—asking our only connection if we can colonize them?"
James stuttered. "I have a very good explanation—"
"Then say it."
"We've been relying on domestic materials for the last few days (now that China and our old allies are gone); that won't last forever. We'll eventually run out of materials. We need metal coil for phones—oil for cars (most of which we lost with Alaska) and not to mention more medicine will have to be made domestically. We don't have the rare materials to do that. Importing these items are important, and much more than before: given the technology of these people—it seems we're the sole manufacturers of cars, computers, etc.
"I didn't want to resort
to it either... but in our current situation: getting more land is the
only way we'll survive..." Alfred slowly let go of his tie.
He felt strange.
Like... he had just—well, it's hard to say for sure, but it sure made knots within his stomach.
Chapter 9: The Royal Dinner
The royal chefs had finished preparing the feast: over two pounds of pig—the tender meat cooked over an open fire, accompanied by a heaping of marinated salad; the flames stripped the charcoal naked, sending the ashy exterior seeping within the crusty pork. By seven o'clock, every man in the palace had made their way towards the dining hall: a sizable, shiny marble room—who's floors lacked any furnishing—that is, except for a lengthy wooden table, with a white cloth laying on top; expensive, handcrafted plates were situated at each seat: a proud display of the Empire's wealth!
At the very end of the table sat King William II (alongside Alfred and James); their chairs—unlike the other nobles, had cushions, and a large backside. Once everyone had their plates filled, the King said:
"Before we begin, may all of us be blessed by Lord Barista!—come, gather hands." Everyone (with much reluctance) interlocked their fingers with one another... that is, except for Alfred: his old, piercing eyes stared in disgust; this "blessing"... the hard-spoken words, ones which he couldn't even understand, manoeuvred its way into his ears—cutting them from the inside. Oh, Lord... that state visit to India had made him hurl, but this was far worse: to see such... heathenism on display could make any man's stomach quarrel: a sacrifice of civility.
***
After supper, the King announced that a party in the honer of their guests would be thrown; with the snap of his fingers, two guards scurried in with a barrel of alcohol. The Senators (being the pompous idiots they were) had all gotten intoxicated. The King and Ezax had not; instead, they used this opportunity to observe their guests.
"You know," the King said, "Mr. President seems—far different from my expectations: I thought he would be a tall and barbaric monster... yet, he seems so innocent; even during the negotiations, it was the Vice President who stood his ground (such a scary man). Do you think the Land of Warriors has a puppet king?—that the President is just the Vice President's toy?" Ezax—seeming unfazed, replied:—
"You ratchet fool! Do you not see we've been deceived? Knowing you, such a thought has plagued your mind, hasn't it? Look at that man, the President: wearing luxury clothing."
"Okay," the King said; "He's royalty: he's bound to show off his wealth: even for a man who radiates with phony humbleness—no nobleman can resist impressing others."
"That's not what I meant. That outfit... its black—a deep, deep black: in all my years I've only seen this colour one time: the cloak of the demigod Flarus; that colour can only be created via a spell, one which even I cannot cast." The kings eyes-widened.
"You—you don't think..."
"That's right," said Ezax. "The King of the Land of Warriors is a barbarian, but not in raw strength. No, he's a grand wizard taught by Flarus himself!—a student of the Devine. We had been blinded by his frail age, unaware of the true chaos inside him." The king pumped his chest out (letting his fatty belly bounce around); he placed one hand on Ezax shoulder and said,
"Here's what we'll do: you, being the magic guy, talk to the President; I, being a man of great wealth, will talk to the Vice President. We must find out more about their country: even the best empires have their weak spots. I fear they won't be friendly to us forever (they barely are now); they've already taken a good chunk of our land, who's to say they won't take more? We must be prepared for when that day comes."
Chapter 10: Alfred talks with Ezax
Alfred held his
wine-glass firm, the red liquid inside sloshing to and fro. The majestic
(albeit dirty) fluid mesmerized him: but he couldn't figure out why.
Something, just something was off about it. Could they have
tainted his drink?... no, why would they do that? Maybe it was just the
imperfection that fascinated him! Yes, the sheer ugliness grabbed his
attention, for no reason in particular.
No, not that either.
After all, bad alchohol is nothing out of the ordinary.
So what was it? His question got answered almost instantaneously: the liquid inside his glass started turning a crystal-clear colour—one so brilliant, it gave the Maldives Sea a run for its money. Then, without any warning, a lady appeared in the glass, one which Alfred didn't recognize. His old eyes flickered; her youthful complexion made him feel as though his stress and wrinkles ceased; her long grey hair sparkled, waving oh so perfect... wait, no, what was he doing! Getting lost in some delusional daydream, that wasn't like him... but he couldn't look away.
He felt his head tilt inwards, the woman's once young face turning skeletal, it's forceful appearance sending him into never-ending hell—"Mr. President," said Ezax, "If you're not busy, may I have a word with you?" Alfred (still stunned) took a deep gander at the pale wizard's face. He then returned his attention to the glass: the image of the woman ceased to exist, reduced to nothing but a faint short-term memory planted deep within the back of his mind.
"Um—er—eh—of course not, I'd be happy to discuss anything you like." Ezax to one big gulp; he said,
"I know I mustn't ask Mr. President such personal questions, but before you became the leader of a great nation, were you once a wizard? If not, perhaps a mage or priest?"
"No," Alfred said, awkwardly holding his glass with two hands. "But I was a Baptist Minister in my youth, but that was fifty-something odd years ago now."
"Oh, Is this Baappptiisst a god your people worship?" Alfred's eyes shot up as if he had witnessed a murder.
"Oh goodness no! I'm an Evangelical..."—eee-van-jel-lickal? thought Ezax—"I worship one God only, and that's Christ almighty. Just the thought of being a priest for some false god makes my stomach turn. No, that can't even begin to describe the sickness I feel from that! Regardless, I wanted to devote my life to Christ back then: nothing made me happier than to please God with my everything; but life took me elsewhere. Ordination was not my calling, it seems. You know what..." Swiftly rummaging through his thin coat pocket, Alfred pulled out a beaten wooden cross—attached to an even thinner string. Placing it in Ezax hands, he stood straight and said, "Whenever your in trouble, I want you to hold tight to this... uh, holy object, and say,
"Our Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy Name. Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, As it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, As we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, But deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, The power, and the glory, Forever and ever. Amen." Alfred bent his aching back downwards, before blessing the cross. "Bless you, and may Christ find his way into your heart. I promise, as long as you have this object (a cross we call it) and God's blessing, you will be saved from any danger."
Chapter 11: A Forceful Conversation
James sat against the rough wall, lighting a thin cigar between his fingers. Despite the many warnings from Alfred, he had gone and snuck a small pack of cigars anyway, concealing it under his belt buckle. It wasn't as if he wanted to do it. The craving came from an impulse, a nagging desire sprung from the ground, its sick hand dragging its victim deep below the ground.
Yes, he remembers that hand, the one which gave him his first cigarette at ten: the devilish claws, scratching up his tiny chest, ready to slash his face any moment. His mind filled with its haunting eyes, a pale, greenish-red swirling up and down, ere fading into a small circle. His hand clenched; the memory of that man... nae, just the thought of that vermin made him belch. Despite his usually weak stomach, seeing his rotting corpse once more would bring him immense delight.
However, before his mind could become fully entrenched, the King had made his way over to him, patting his enormous belly with a friendly chuckle.
"Ho, ho! How's it going, Mr. Vice President?" he said, laying his arm across James's slim shoulders. "Say, we didn't get to finish our little conversation back there, how's about we continue it?" The Vice President raised one eyebrow—he seems... more informal than his usual demeanour—and said,
"Sure. After all, you never specified how many men you want. 10,000? 30,000? You name it!"
William, flustered, put his hands in the air and said, "goodness no, I could never ask you to bring your entire infantry."
"Don't be alarmed, we have far more men than that. 30,000 is only 2.5 percent of our entire personnel." As if the hand of a barbarian had lodged itself into the King's chest, a wave of sunken realization spread throughout his body. How could he have been so stupid? Of course, the prophesied Land of Warriors would have an army succeeding theirs; the dominance of the great nation built by his forefathers had blinded him! But, he couldn't let that bring him down, he needed to focus. For his people. For the Oplar Empire, and, just as important, himself.
"How about thirty-thousand, then, if that's so little of your men." James gave a smirk:
"Why not. After all, this is why we're here, right? To aid you in this supposed prophesied war? If only something like that were true. Having a straightforward narrative that will happen no matter what... would make life so much simpler. I still can't figure out how our country got sent here, though; scientifically, it seems impossible. An entire chunk of land just instantly vanishing and reappearing... so outlandish when I say it myself."
"Mr. Vice President, surely you are joking. Not to question your faith, but even a fool knows it's the work of the gods..." Then, and without any warning, the skinny hand of James Lindon wrapped around the King's neck, cutting off his airflow. Looking straightforward, he saw his eyes contorting; checking to see if anyone was looking. Sweat entrapped his fatty body. His faced turned blue, and he couldn't move his head, forced to stare directly into the dark, pulsating eyes.
"Listen to me, and listen to me carefully: we are not friends, and you will not bring up such folly with me. Do so again, and I won't have our men help you, and instead burn your whole country to the ground. I will bomb every last church, destroy every school, and make sure everything you know and love will be gone. You got that?" The King desperately tried to shake his head, pleading to be freed from his clammy prison. Once the hand let go, he fell to the floor with a thump!—and began breathing in a rhythmic pattern, trying to process what just happened.
Chapter 11.5: After The Party.
The parties wild atmosphere had subsided by sundown. Some drunken senators had collapsed to the floor, whereas others attempted to make it outside before they vomited on the floor (to varying degrees of success). This left Alfred, James, the King, and Ezax the unlucky group not drunk enough to endure the odd awkwardness radiating the room. The four had gathered in the centre of the room—facing each other in an uneven circle, their eyes connecting with one another. At one point they could swear someone most of chuckled, but no evidence of such thing happening could be recalled. No one said a word. No one dared to even lift a finger. It had been this way for the last five hours.
Five. Freaking. Hours!
Dear Lord, these three wouldn't even blink, why the hell were they doing this? They didn't know either. After their initial conversations, one side became too nervous to engage with the other. As a result, the other side wouldn't either. There was not a single note of music, and the only ambience they had been the near-passed out senators hacking that evening's dinner. Though rain tapped the windows, the glass was far too thick for any noise to be made. The tediousness could be seen across their tight face. "Please," they begged in their minds, can this situation just come to an end?" Their pleas were answered soon enough.
"So, uh, Mr. President and Vice President," the King said, a low-pitched belch coming from his dry throat. "It has been a magnificent night, and we've been so truly grateful to have you accompany our great land. Please, why don't you stay another night? Tomorrow, we can discuss which territory you'd like to have, in exchange for 30,000 of your men. We can arrange you a guest room right here in the palace! What do you say?" The King forced a jolly smile across his face, only to sink it downwards once more. Neither the President nor Vice President spoke to each other. Instead, they looked at each other, forcing their eyes into the corner of their eyes. What were they doing? Perhaps they knew some sort of telepathy magic?
He then looked towards James's lower torso: he was—doing something odd with his hands; twisting them into weird shapes. Taking a moment to think, the King realized it most likely was a secret language! But what were they communicating? Had he been too pushy? Before he fell too far into his active mind, the President cleared his throat; he said,
"That would be wonderful, your majesty. But if you don't mind, we'd like to go for a little walk down the hallway, would you mind?"
"Of course not [here he frantically threw up his hands] take as much time as you need, the servants won't be ready preparing your room for another hour."
After making their way down the hallway (near the statues they had seen earlier), Alfred looked at James with a forceful look.
"What was that?" he asked. "What were you doing? You made us look like weirdos back there."
"It was sign language," James protested, "I thought it would be a good way to tell you we should accept his offer, but... you know, in a cool James Bond way—"
"How did that have anything to do with James Bond?"
"Well," he said, "I don't know, I guess secretive or something?" Alfred wanted to facepalm so hard, but resisted the urge, for his forehead was already starting to swell from how much he had done it today.
"By the way," Alfred said, "I know sign language, yet I couldn't understand it. Why would that be?" James pondered for a moment.
He said—"Well, I was speaking Italian Sign Language; perhaps you only speak American Sign Language?" Alfred swiftly grabbed his tie. "Of course, I only speak American Sign Language, you stupid..." The King could hear their yelling from the dining room. Must be a deep philosophical discussion, he thought.
End Note:
If anyone wants to know how it would've ended: James is actually a 70s gangster who impersonated an army guy who died in Vietnam to become part of a rich family, he attempts to overthrow the United States government, but is thwarted. In the end, Alfred sacrificies himself to save the world and he becomes President a changed man. Cheesy, but I don't know what I was thinking a few years ago lol.