Chapter Text
When Igris received an urgent message from Bellion, summoning all the Shadow Legion commanders for an emergency tactical meeting, he immediately imagined the worst.
The timing itself could not be worse. His lord was at rest, and Igris did not like to leave him unattended at such times. Bellion’s message, however, had stressed on the importance of his speedy arrival. It could only mean that the matter must be of such consequence that it could not suffer even the smallest delay.
Suppressing his misgivings, Igris abandoned the reconnaissance report that he had been reading and silently departed the Monarch’s Chamber. The message revealed nothing of the nature of this emergency, but considering the current state of their campaign, the possibilities were endless. In the short time he took to cross from one side of the castle to the other, Igris was able to come up with no less than two dozen scenarios that might turn their present outlook from unpromising to downright disastrous.
The proposed meeting, to his surprise, was not held in the War Room, as was the norm. Instead, every shadow soldier ranked general and above found themselves crammed inside the Grand Marshal’s private quarters—which, though boasting a lofty ceiling and more than generous space, were nevertheless too small for the purpose.
Bellion clasped his massive hands together at Igris’ entrance. “Good, now that Marshal Igris has arrived, we shall begin,” he announced, nodding at Fang who had a quill and a roll of parchment floating at his side, ready to take minutes. There were about thirty others present in the room, of various shapes and sizes. While high-ranking shadows were able to manipulate their forms to some extent, the number alone proved to be a challenge for a space so limited.
Bellion moved toward a small round table by the windows before turning around to face the crowd. Igris narrowed his eyes when he saw the two objects arranged on said table. The last time he had seen those exact two objects, it had been mere hours before, and they had been sitting on his desk, inside the privacy of his office. Other than the King, he was the only one in this realm who used a clock and a calendar in any regular basis, and so the reason why they had been moved here without his permission was utterly beyond him.
Bellion cleared his throat. “Thank you everyone for coming so promptly. I hereby call this meeting to order. A certain information of the utmost significant and urgent nature has just reached me and it is imperative that we should decide on a response as soon as possible. Before we proceed, however, I should like to ask Marshal Igris, for the benefit of everyone present, to clarify on one or two points related to the information in question.”
At once, Igris found himself harbouring the deepest suspicions. Bellion was his oldest acquaintance and comrade-in-arms, and it was exactly this familiarity with each other that had taught him to be cautious of the Grand Marshal’s reasoning and intent, which often defied common sense.
“Since I am unaware of the exact nature of this information, I cannot answer with any degree of certainty,” he finally chose the most noncommittal reply, looking pointedly at his clock and his calendar.
Bellion, no doubt understanding his accusation, managed to look abashed. “Yes, of course, I was just getting to that,” he said quickly, and then resumed in a more formal tone, “The information I was referring to concerns a certain human custom. I have recently been made aware of its existence from a conversation with Marshal Beru, but the actual rules and significance still escape me. For one: what, exactly, is a ‘birthday’?”
Igris stared at him, incredulous. The question had barely revealed its full implications when Beru suddenly spoke up. “If I may, Grand Marshal. ‘Birthday’ is a human word constructed from two separate words of entirely different origins that nevertheless preserve their original meanings when combined. If we should take the first word…”
A lengthy discourse on the exact meaning of ‘birth’ ensued, to which the others listened in fascinated silence. This, Igris could somewhat sympathise with. As shadow soldiers, their existence was bound to the powers of the Shadow Monarch, and so the concept of birth was entirely alien to most of them. Beru compared the phenomena to their own awakening as shadow servants, which might not be accurate but at least retaining the same nuance.
‘Day’, however, posed a greater challenge. It required, first, a full understanding on the concept of ‘time’, which was a demanding task even for the most enlightened teacher. Igris listened to his fellow Marshal’s increasingly confused attempt for some moments with rapidly mounting irritation before finally deciding to interfere.
“Marshal Beru is correct in essence,” he said, putting an emphasis on the two last words. “Over the course of their life, humans will commemorate the event of their birth every year, which also serves as a way to tally their progress in term of how long they have lived.”
“And what is a ‘year’?” Bellion inevitably asked.
Not for the first time, Igris wished that he had made his educational classes mandatory, not only to soldiers under his command but also those of higher ranks. His curriculum included a semester’s worth of lecture on the concept of time and its division into smaller units in human reckoning, such as years and months down to minutes and seconds, as well as its basis on the laws of celestial objects.
(Which, then, of course required some explanation on the matter of the planet’s revolution around the sun, at which point he began to notice that most of his audience had grown restless. Fang and a few others, who possessed a more logical bent of mind, were nodding along with his explanations, but Jima and Kaisel were visibly starting to fidget. The High Orcs and the Giants were scratching their heads. Beru was glaring at him resentfully, and Bellion’s eyes had lost their focus for some time.)
Igris decided to cut his explanations short. “That should be enough, I think,” he said coolly.
“Fascinating.” Bellion clapped his hands in obvious relief. “Is it safe to conclude, then, that this ‘birthday’ is an important celebration for humans?”
Igris suppressed a sigh. He could already see where this was heading. “Yes. It has not always been so, but in more recent times, it is indeed the custom to celebrate one’s birthday.”
“Excellent,” Bellion declared, beaming around. “Then it is decided. We are celebrating the King’s birthday.”
This announcement was greeted with loud cheers and enthusiastic applause. Any notion of celebration would certainly be welcome to the Legion, especially considering their increasingly monotonous life in this place where nothing was supposed to exist. Igris could understand that, to some degree, but it was not to say that he was entirely without misgivings.
He waited until the commotion had died down a little before expressing his doubts. “Are you certain this is wise?”
Before Bellion could answer, Beru had exclaimed. “Preposterous! Are you suggesting that to celebrate such a momentous day, the very day this bleak and desolate world was finally blessed with the glorious presence of OUR KING, is not wise? What blasphemy!”
“I am suggesting nothing of the kind,” Igris replied icily. “I am merely questioning the wisdom of holding a celebration in the middle of such a difficult campaign, which result is still uncertain at best–”
“Of course the result is certain!” By now, Beru’s eyes had begun to shine with murderous glint. “What you call uncertain is only a question of time, for absolutely nothing and no one can escape OUR KING! Your doubt is a testament of your faithless heart and I shall inform THE KING about this!”
“As if His Majesty would listen to baseless accusations from a bug–”
“Faithless creature! Faithless excuse of a knight! Faithless air inside a tin can! Faithless–”
“I shall not tolerate fighting inside my quarters,” was the Grand Marshal’s decree upon sensing a sharp increase of hostility in the air. Igris, who had reached for his sword, loosened his grip but did not remove it entirely. Beru hissed in his direction twice more before finally subsiding, if still every bit as reluctant.
“Both of you have raised excellent points,” Bellion spoke again, still using the same stern, formidable voice. “Therefore I should like to establish some facts first. Marshal Igris, is it not true that the King’s birthday is nigh?”
Still seething, Igris deigned to look at the calendar and the clock on the round table. Now he understood the purpose of appropriating these items from his office.
“That is true,” he said stiffly.
“If you will explain.”
With some reluctance, he approached the table and indicated, first, the calendar and the number he had circled earlier today. “Here, we can see that this very moment, in human reckoning, is the 7th of March.” And then he moved on to the clock, whose dials were both pointing at the number ‘10’. “And here, it shows that there are scarcely two hours remaining before the 7th day ends and becomes the 8th, which is the King’s birthday.”
“In other words, we have only very little time to prepare if a celebration were to take place,” Bellion concluded. At a baleful look from Igris, he hastily added, “We have been remiss in not celebrating it before. Surely the importance of such an event cannot be exaggerated?”
Igris had to snort at the hopeful tones in Bellion’s voice. Technically, Bellion did not need his approval. The Grand Marshal was the leader of the entire Legion and therefore outranked him. Still, eons of fighting side by side meant that they were now familiar enough with each other to recognise their respective expertise. Igris knew that Bellion trusted his judgment unreservedly when it came to certain matters.
That Beru was clearly thinking along the same lines was obvious when he suddenly spoke up, “If you have decided, Grand Marshal, then let your decision be known to all. Anyone who questions your ruling merely because they think they are the favourite of THE KING and therefore know better, should receive punishment at once!”
It took considerable effort, but Igris forced himself to pay no heed to the taunt. “If there must be a celebration, then please keep it moderate at the very least,” he said instead, pointedly addressing Bellion and ignoring a certain ant. “Bear in mind that His Majesty dislikes both excess and ostentation. Any display of either will only make him feel uncomfortable.”
“What nonsense!” Another cry came from Beru, this time with a hiss. “OUR KING is so magnificent, so glorious, so utterly beyond compare! It should be a measure of our respect to at least try and accomplish a like degree of magnificence, however unattainable such heights may be–”
“One must ask if this celebration is nothing more than an attempt to satisfy one’s sense of pride instead of a genuine display of gratitude to our lord and monarch–”
“Faithless deceiver and perjurer! How dare you slander my loyalty to THE KING!”
Igris was about to resort to a more drastic measure, such as inflicting bodily harm on a fellow Marshal, when the Grand Marshal himself suddenly brought his fist down on the table, loudly and forcefully, knocking Igris’ clock and calendar to the floor in the process.
Igris took in the disastrous outcome in silence. He was going to kill Bellion after this, hierarchy be damned.
“I have made my decision,” Bellion announced in an unusually loud and booming voice. “Marshal Beru will be in charge of preparations for the site of the festivities. Marshal Igris’ warning has some merit, however, so please try and exercise some restraint in the process.”
A low hiss: “But Grand Marshal–”
“That will be enough on the subject,” Bellion cut short any oncoming protest. “In the meantime, Marshal Igris will be responsible for the feast, and I shall organise the main event myself. The rest of the Legion will avail themselves to provide any help they can when required. Dismissed.”
–
First, Igris spoke to Fang—if not quite in secret, then at least without attracting undue notice.
“Bring the results of your experiment to the kitchen when I return,” he gave his order. “I have plan to use them later at the feast, but I shall review them beforehand. How many have you invented?”
“A fair amount,” the response came readily, “but some are not quite ready yet. I may be able to make a quick adjustment or two, but the result will not be certain. I should not like to risk harming our fellow shadow soldiers if something goes amiss.”
“We shall review everything together,” Igris assured him. “If they are not ready, then they are not ready, and we shall not chance it.”
Fang nodded, assured, and took his leave.
Igris steeled himself to confront the next item in his list.
There were several reasons why he, out of the ten thousands soldiers under the Shadow Monarch’s command, was the one in charge of the feast. His experience in food preparation already made him an obvious choice, but Igris was also the only one whom the King would allow to accompany him whenever he made the rare trip back to the human realm, usually to deal with one manner of threat or other.
In short, he was the one shadow most familiar with human customs and its vagaries. His ability to assume a human appearance also played a part, but that was not to say that he interacted easily with humans. In fact, he had always found the prospect intimidating, and today was no exception.
It was daylight when he stepped into the human world, emerging in a deserted street. The place was familiar—in fact, not far from the King’s home. It did not take him long to find his bearings and locate a convenience store often frequented by members of the family.
His appearance in the moderately busy store caused somewhat of a stir. Igris was only too conscious that he stood too tall compared to the majority of Korean people, and the length and colour of his hair certainly did not help. Keeping his head down, he quickly took all the fresh produce and packaged goods he needed, avoiding a group of giggling young women and ignoring a man in a suit who insisted on giving him his name card in the process. Using the money the King had entrusted to him in case of emergency, he made his purchase and quickly departed.
When he returned from the human world, preparations for celebration were clearly underway. Before heading for the kitchen, Igris allowed himself a visit to the Monarch’s Chamber. He was the only shadow who could enter the room without permission, but to exploit this privilege still felt like a serious offence at times.
His lord had yet to wake. He slept curled on one side, brow furrowed as if troubles had continued to follow him even into dreams. For a moment, Igris considered the possibility that something might be amiss. It had almost been twelve hours by human reckoning, and no previous occasion had lasted so long.
His faith in his master’s strength, however, negated these thoughts. As much as Igris hated to admit it, Beru had a point. Merely to entertain these doubts was equal to blasphemy.
Besides, his lord barely ever granted himself this one luxury—to sleep. His constitution as the Shadow Monarch did not exactly demand this sort of respite, unique to mortals and lesser beings. His origin as a human, however, counselled its necessity from time to time, something Igris had not failed to notice.
Taking care to withdraw as silently as possible, Igris closed the door behind him and resumed his way to the kitchen, located in the ground floor of the castle. The castle, itself had been established for reasons along the same lines. The Dimensional Gap was a barren place of nothingness. Once the other Monarchs had gone into hiding in fear of the Shadow Army’s pursuit, it quickly became obvious that their hunt could potentially become a far lengthier endeavour than anticipated. A base of operation of sort was needed, and so the building of the castle had soon commenced under Marshal Beru’s charge.
The kitchen, like the bathroom, was built specifically to cater to the King’s wishes. As the Shadow Monarch, he no longer needed food to sustain himself, but there were moments when he would like to indulge on this or that food, and it was their duty as his servants to see that his wishes were fulfilled.
Igris had long suspected, however, that as in the case of sleep, not eating for a long stretch of time would inadvertently affect the King—perhaps not in the physical sense, but certainly psychologically and emotionally. It made him less human, for lack of a better word. Whether this was something to be desired or, instead, dreaded, remained to be seen.
Fang was ready and waiting when he arrived. The General had prepared an array of samples in one corner, careful not to go anywhere near the main part of the kitchen. He looked taken aback for a moment—that was when Igris remembered that he was still in his human form—but then quickly recollected himself.
“I have a number of choices here for your inspection,” he began, a little too hasty. “These ones on the left are perfectly safe and also adequate in term of taste. I am not so confident about the rest, but the Marshal shall be the judge.”
Igris surveyed the selection of mana-based food with interest. They looked authentic enough, a demonstration of both Fang’s proficiency in magic and his aspiration to succeed. The mana-cakes, in particular, were so like actual cakes that it made him wonder if the other was partial to them.
He started with the cakes. The taste, such as he could discern, was pleasant—in fact, quite similar to his memory of experiencing such delicacies. His lord, being of kind heart and generous nature, had often insisted that he tried a morsel of this or that. Igris took care to communicate as much to Fang, who flushed with pleasure at the praise.
“This is the least I could do, after all the troubles the Marshal had gone through to provide me with so many authentic samples. It is truly an honour to be able to repay your trust.”
Igris smiled wryly but said no more on the subject. What had actually transpired was his lord had come to perceive his occasional requests to procure this or that food as proof that Igris was becoming fond of them, and was only too pleased to grant them. Since the procurement would inevitably lead to the King eating at least half if not most of the food, Igris never tried to disabuse him of this notion.
He went on to the next samples. The difference in taste was rather striking in some, but most retained their faithful imitation, which spoke of the amount of research that must have gone into the planning. It had been almost a year since Igris had first spoken to Fang on the possibility of developing mana-food for the shadow soldiers, and the General had certainly not disappointed.
Fang went on to explain: “The fact is, the action of imbibing these things is equal to adding extra mana into our constitution, which of course will affect us. The quantity is quite small, though, so the effect should also be minor. It usually manifests as various small buffs that will last a little while with no permanent impact.”
So Igris had noticed. The mana-stew added a few points to his strength, while the stir-fry imitation impacted on his agility. The more complicated the formula—with the cakes being the most complicated—then the more considerable the effect. For shadows ranked General and above, however, it should be negligible.
In the end, Igris settled on six or seven choices that most closely resembled the menu he had planned for the feast. “Every soldier ranked General and above will sit down with our lord at the feast,” he added, “so prepare at least some of each kind. I know this is very sudden and I apologise for giving you so much trouble, but I have faith in you.”
“The Marshal is not to worry,” Fang reassured him. “I have a team that can help me in the process. Rest assured all will be ready for the feast.”
Igris nodded. “You have my thanks.”
Fang was about to withdraw when he suddenly paused. “If I may,” he started, hesitating, “I should also like to use this interval to acquaint some of the others with the idea of eating. Quite a few, I believe, is unfamiliar with the action. You and I, of course, are used to it by now, and Marshal Beru has never lost the appetite to begin with, but I am unsure about the rest. What about the Grand Marshal?”
Igris cast his mind back with a frown. He had never, as far as he could recall, seen Bellion eat, the activity wholly unnecessary while in service of Lord Ashborn. Fang had touched upon an important detail, and Igris rebuked himself for not seeing it first.
“True, that might be a problem. How do you plan to acquaint them with it?”
“By distributing a few samples in advance and teaching them how to, well, eat,” Fang said, a faint smile on his face. “It is something our lord does, so I should say that many will be eager to try. In fact, quite a few have expressed curiosity while I was conducting my experiment, so it should not be too difficult.”
“Excellent. Then I shall leave everything in your hand.”
Fang bowed and left the kitchen. If he had at all suspected Igris’ true reason for arranging a feast of this kind, then he gave no indication of it.
For a moment, Igris let the vision he had harboured in secret come to the forefront of his mind. His power of observation back then had not been what it was now, but he still distinctly remembered: the King and his family, gathering around a table laden with food, eating and talking and laughing together.
It was perhaps a mark of selfishness, but more than anything, he wanted his lord to have that on his birthday.
Sighing, he shook the vision away and proceeded with his next task.
–
“I have never seen this form before.”
Igris looked up and found Bellion standing at the kitchen entrance. His normal height would have made an impossible fit through the doorway, but with certain adjustments, he only had to stoop a little to enter Igris’ domain—for such was the kitchen.
“This form?” Igris repeated, uncomprehending at first.
“Your human form.”
“Ah.” He looked at his very much human hands, one holding a knife and the other a cucumber. “Before, there was never any need for me to assume this appearance. But for this task, it is easier.”
Not only that a gauntlet made a cumbersome grip when handling something as delicate as cutting knives, his other senses, too, worked much better for his current endeavour while he was in human form. There was perhaps some logic in that. He was, after all, preparing human food.
“It is a very pleasing form,” Bellion said with a nod. “I quite understand His Majesty’s partiality.”
Igris gave him a withering look. “Are you here to talk nonsense?”
His old friend grinned at him. “Not quite. I am here to remind you that there is no need to take out your irritation on Marshal Beru. After all, his jealousy is not quite unfounded. You are the favourite of our liege.”
“I have no wish to discuss this,” Igris said coldly.
“Then let us move on to the next subject. Are you truly against the celebration?”
Instead on answering, Igris chose to focus on his current task—which is rolling a portion of rice and various cut vegetables inside a sheet of seaweed. He had observed the Queen Mother make it numerous times for the family. This, along with the spicy stew, appeared to be the King’s favourite.
“Both you and the ant are correct,” he finally said after slicing the roll into twelve near-identical pieces. “We have been remiss in not celebrating His Majesty’s birthday in the past.”
“I refuse to believe even for a moment that you have forgotten,” Bellion declared with a snort. “You, who loves His Majesty so ardently.”
“You know not of what you speak,” Igris said with as much dignity as he could muster. Not that Bellion’s allegations held no truth in them. He had honoured the King’s birthday every year, usually in various small ways that barely merited any notice. To begin with, his lord was never one to remember his own birthday—but if he had, in fact, noticed Igris’ efforts, then he had never seen fit to mention them.
“True, I must bow down to your superior knowledge in this matter.” Bellion supplemented this speech with the very gesture, exaggerated as it was. A moment later, however, his countenance grew serious. “On the matter of the celebration, I must admit that I have my own motives.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“You are not the only one who pays close attention to our lord,” Igris said with a touch of acerbity.
“Then I was not imagining things? His Majesty seems– is rather despondent of late?”
Igris felt a frown crease his brow. “Is it any surprise? Too many cares burden his mind. And the state of our campaign, such as it is, certainly does not help.”
It had been almost two years since their last confrontation with any of the Monarchs. Out of the remaining seven, only Tarnak, Monarch of Iron Body, had fallen to their relentless pursuit. The others had gone into hiding in cracks and crevices so obscure and remote that not even a shadow could reach.
The new Shadow Monarch no doubt possessed countless qualities, all of them remarkable, but the gift of patience was not among them. This endless period of waiting and searching and investigating every lead down to the smallest thread did not sit well on him. Igris had noticed this, and, apparently, so had Bellion.
“I was mystified at first,” Bellion spoke slowly, “and it took me some time to discover the cause. This Shadow Army is different. The King’s state of mind greatly affects the soldiers’ morale, much more than it used to, under Lord Ashborn. I wonder, is it a human trait?”
“The reason does not matter,” Igris replied sternly. “It is our duty as shadow soldiers to adjust to our lord’s demands.”
“You misunderstood me.” Bellion raised his hand in a placating gesture. “I meant no criticism. As you say, it is our duty to adjust. Besides, this trait could work to our advantage, especially in the heat of battle. Unfortunately, it could serve as a deterrent too.”
“Hence why you wish for a celebration.”
Bellion shrugged. “It is only an idea, but may not there be a way to improve His Majesty’s spirits? Perhaps something different, or a change of pace, as humans would say, such as a celebration?”
“I agree,” Igris said with a sigh. “It is a good idea.”
Bellion gave him a strange look. “Then why are you opposed to it?”
“I am not. If you recall, the nature of my objection was due to the timing, not the celebration itself.”
“But what better timing could there possibly…” Bellion paused, staring. “Oh. Oh. I see. So that is why.”
“You are mistaken,” Igris declared, infusing every shade of severity into his voice, except it was too late. Bellion was now openly grinning at him.
“It was because Marshal Beru was the one who told me about this birthday custom,” he said gleefully. “Something so important about our liege. That is why you were upset.”
“I was not upset.”
“A more feeble untruth has never been spoken.”
“Even if I was, it had nothing to do with any fact concerning our lord.”
“So you simply disliked Marshal Beru.”
“Yes.”
“Very well.” Bellion nodded in a magnanimous fashion. “I shall pretend to believe it and we shall leave it at that. Now…” He bent down and scrutinised the inviting array of food spread on the kitchen table, “can I sample one of these?”
“Absolutely not. These are for our lord.”
“Just one!”
“You have taken enough without permission. Speaking of which, I expect to see my clock and my calendar back on my desk in the exact condition as I left them this morning, or help me, I will find you and beat you and I will not stop until you beg forgiveness from His Majesty for treating his gifts so carelessly.”
“Yes, yes, I'm going!”
End Chapter One