Lixen mounted his horse and rode off at a full gallop.
The rain continued to fall hard. Sivingdon was as perplexed as he was outraged. He noticed most of the tracks weren’t even visible at all now. His only hope was that something would change for the better soon, and his trackers would still be able to follow some of the tracks. He had confidence some still could, but time was running out fast. His mind began to engage in endless speculation about who could have been behind the attacks. The apparent fatalities of a number of Sodorfians complicated what would have otherwise been the obvious explanation that the Sodorfians wanted war. But would they kill their own troops in order to accomplish this? he asked himself.
Chapter 22
About two or three days later, the nobles were starting to grow anxious, having heard no updates on the situation, and were wondering what was taking so long. Fritzer decided to organize a meeting so the nobles could discuss whether they should send more troops to find out the cause of the delay. As the nobles began to pour into the temple, a horseman was heard barreling down the road.
“Make way!! Make way!!” the horseman shouted. Startled women and children rushed to the sides of the road to get out of the way of this horseman, who apparently had urgent business. Bundor, one of the Sodorfian nobles, was making his way towards the temple for the meeting when he heard the commotion. He could hear the pounding of the horse’s hooves against the hard stone road growing louder and louder. Bundor shouted inside the temple, “Hey, come out here!!”
The nobles looked at each other in bewilderment and quickly began walking towards the entrance. As the horseman came nearer, Bundor noticed a rope around the rider’s torso securing a passenger that was either dead or unconscious. He approached the horseman, who brought his horse to a halt just outside the temple entrance.
“Found’em just outside of Seihdun,” he announced. “Found’em just like this. I was goin’ on a hunt, and lo’ and behold I come across this here fella runnin’ down the muddy road barefoot, drenched in blood, and scared to death. He was shakin’ all over and stammerin’ terrible. The last plain words he spoke before passin’ out was something like, ‘Get me to the City of Sodorf; I must speak with the nobles!’ I spent a few years in the Sodorfian army, and I could tell by his armor, in spite of all of the blood coverin it, that he was a Sodorfian regular. I hadn’t been to the City of Sodorf for a long time, and I knew it was going to be a long ride, but I could tell that this young fella had somethin real important to tell y’all, so I rode down here as fast as I could, armed only with ma bow n’ arrow, to deliver’m to you. He couldn’t ride by hisself, so I had to strap him tightly on my horse while I rode. It wasn’t exactly a comfortable journey—no, sir!”
Fritzer emerged from the temple and was horrified. “Uchinweld!” he uttered in astonishment. “What in Kasani has happened?” he asked, quickly approaching the Sodorfian regular. “Quick! Let’s get him inside. Hurry!”
Fritzer and Bundor each grabbed one end of the pale, nearly lifeless body and took it inside the temple. They then took off the soldier’s bloodstained armor to see if he had sustained any serious wounds. Upon examining him, it did not look like he had . . . at least not physical ones. Some scrapes and some bruises but nothing more.
“He must just be in shock,” one of the nobles said. The man’s face was deathly white. He was breathing, but sporadically. For a few moments he would breathe lightly, and then suddenly begin wheezing and struggling for air.
“We’ve got to find out what this man had to say before we lose him!!” Fritzer screamed. “Someone bring cold water now!!”
One of the nobles stepped outside the temple and barked the order at a servant standing outside the temple. He quickly ran towards the nearest well to comply with his master’s request. He came back about twenty minutes later with a bucket full of ice-cold water. The Sodorfians had a system of deep underground tunnels that brought freezing cold water from lakes high up in the mountains to wells located throughout the city.
The bucket was brought inside the temple and handed to Fritzer.
“Hold him upright,” he said.
Bundor grabbed the soldier and sat him up. Fritzer carefully poured some freezing cold water over the soldier’s face and down the back of his neck. The soldier moved a little, as if he could sense the contact the cold water made with his skin, but did not wake up. Fritzer waited a few more moments and then tried again, cautiously. The soldier stirred more this time, and even mumbled something in a soft voice, but didn’t come out of his unconsciousness. Forgetting for a moment the extremely fragile condition the soldier was in, Fritzer grabbed the bucket of ice-cold water and flung all of its contents full-force at the soldier’s face and began shaking him, saying, “Wake up! Wake up!”
Suddenly, the soldier came to, his eyes open wide like saucers, and he began to scream, “No! No! Don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!!”
He began struggling frantically and violently to free himself from the grips of the several nobles trying to hold him still. The look in his eyes was one of an utter lunatic. His pupils were widely dilated. The utter horror and terror in his eyes unlike anything the nobles had ever seen.
“What on earth are you talking about?!” asked Fritzer. “You’re safe; no one here wants to harm you. Calm down!”
The soldier’s eyes darted about rapidly, evaluating his surroundings, trying to figure out whether the men surrounding him meant to do him harm. He was drooling and stammering, and one of his legs was twitching violently.
“For Kasani’s sake,” said Fritzer, “would someone get this man a good stiff drink!!”
Fortunately, for this it wasn’t necessary to even leave the temple, as the temple itself contained a large cache of strong liquor. It was usually only drunk on special occasions and in relatively small quantities, as this was some of the finest, oldest, most expensive spirits in all of Sodorf. However, there was to be no moderation in this case. Bundor brought Fritzer a large bottle of Haftler, one of the strongest brands.
“Hold him steady!” said Fritzer. A few more nobles joined in to help steady the writhing, paranoid soldier.
“Open wide!” said Fritzer. Fortunately, his mouth was already slightly open, since he was stammering and moaning incessantly. A noble standing behind the writhing soldier sensed perhaps he was going to close his mouth as soon as the bottle came near, so he grabbed the soldier’s mouth to keep it open. He did the right thing, because just as Fritzer brought the bottle near his mouth, he tried to close it and turn away. It took all of the noble’s strength to keep this wild man’s jaws open, but he somehow managed. Fritzer began pouring the Haftler right down the man’s gullet. Although still terrified, the soldier felt a warming sensation come over him as the Haftler went down his throat, into his stomach, and started producing its powerfully intoxicating effects. Sensing the slight relaxation of the man, the noble holding his jaws open cautiously let go. The soldier grabbed the bottle with both hands and began drinking the strong spirits with all the vigor and enthusiasm of a lifelong drunk.
After about ten seconds of non-stop guzzling, he pulled his mouth away.
The nobles looked at him anxiously.
Slowly, his leg ceased twitching. The drool that had been running out of his mouth stopped. He started to relax. Although he was now utterly drunk.
“They’re all dead,” he said plainly, looking straight ahead with glassy, nearly lifeless eyes, not looking at anything or anyone in particular.
“All of them,” he repeated, “DEAD!”
Fritzer could tell he was quickly beginning to lose consciousness again, so he knew he had better not waste time.
“Tell us everything,” he said softly, in a soothing voice.
“We were marching,” he said. “The Dachwaldians were in front. They were going to show us the way. They were going to show us where—” Suddenly, the soldier began coughing violently. He wheezed and hacked for a few minutes and then finally regained most of his com
posure. “Forgive me. They were going to show us where all of the damage had supposedly been done to their farmland. Suddenly, arrows came out of the forest from everywhere. It was a well-planned, well-executed ambush. No doubt about it. There must have been over a thousand of them. We tried to flee, but the mud made running impossible and walking difficult. Suddenly, a huge device that must have been tied hundreds of feet up in the tallest trees and attached to a large rope came swinging down. There were spikes all over it. It smashed, impaled, and otherwise tore to pieces hundreds of men. I could see the Dachwaldians—they were the only ones on horseback—fleeing northward as soon as the ambush began. It looked to me as if they all made it out of there alive. It was a trap. Plain and simple. I saw my friends die and—”
Before he could finish, he passed out.
“Get this man to a hospital!” barked Fritzer. The nobles ordered the servants inside the temple, and they hastily grabbed the soldier and began transporting him to a hospital.
“So,” said Fritzer, “the Dachwaldians once again wish to wage war against us and enslave us; and we believed they came to us in a spirit of peace and lawfulness!” He smiled a strange, angry smile that bespoke his mixed feelings of anger and astonishment at just how thoroughly the Dachwaldians had deceived them. “We will have to look to our defenses,” he announced.
Chapter 23
Upon feeding the konulan to Koksun, Tristan knew he didn’t have much time to spare. It took quite a bit of energy to fly long distances, and he didn’t want to be exhausted when he arrived to give orders to Feiklen, but he didn’t want to call a pholung and wait for it to arrive. The solution was a stash of a substance called Kapur, which was extremely difficult to make. It required at least four to five weeks of work to simply mix properly.
It was a painfully precise combination of anacobra venom and rare herbs called Kilur that had to be mixed with a specific proportion: three percent anacobra venom, ninety-seven percent Kilur. If this proportion was in any way inaccurate, it was rendered worthless. Although a grandmaster of Glisphin and very precise in all his calculations, making this substance was so difficult and time-consuming he rarely did so. Once completed, it had to sit for six months before being used. He marked the bags carefully so he knew how long they had been sitting on his shelf.
In the end it was worth it, however, because Kapur made it much easier for forces to be channeled—at least those which enable flight. He reached up and grabbed a bag. Per the label, it was well over six months old.
He withdrew a mug from a cabinet and walked over to the eastern wall of his cave. He had access to running water, which came from an elaborate system of small tunnels originating from a stream about two miles away, on top of the canyon. He pulled a lever, filled his mug with cold water, poured Kapur into it, pinched his nose, and chugged it all in one gulp.
He felt a strength pulsating through him.
He hated flying during the day. Seeing an object fly through the air that didn’t resemble a bird could raise questions, questions he didn’t want people asking. The solution was a large bird he killed ages ago that was about as long as he was tall. He had removed the bird’s insides and preserved the carcass by keeping it in a cold room and stuffing it with spices. He hated using it, however, because afterwards he had to restuff the thing.
He crawled through the secret passageway and entered his bedroom. Underneath the bed was another secret passageway. One of the floorboards could be removed, which revealed a large handle, which, upon being pulled, caused a section of the floor to fold back. Each individual floorboard had small hinges, so as the floor was pulled away, it folded up nicely. This revealed a staircase, and Tristan descended the steps.
The room was cold. About ten miles from here was a large mountain with a glacier on top. About two hundred feet below its surface was a trap door about twenty feet in width and thirty feet in length designed in such a fashion that whenever Tristan pulled on a large rope—located in this room—the trap door gave way, and about fifty pounds of icy snow came barreling through the trap door entrance and then passed through a series of slick steel passages until being deposited in this room. As the snow slowly melted, it was caught in a series of small holes that led to a passage below the cave that ultimately exited into a small stream in the valley below. Tristan walked into the room and picked up the large, spice-stuffed pholung. He shook it vigorously, dumping all of the spices out, and then went back up the staircase and put the floorboards back in their original arrangement.
The wall inside his bedroom that faced the entrance to the cave was a sliding door with a bookcase on it. He approached it and pulled back on Origins of Glishpin, which exposed a large steel handle he pulled on and slid back the entire bookcase. He dragged the hollowed-out bird carcass into the entrance of his cave and set it down. He went back inside his room to select a weapon. He scanned the large array of instruments of death and finally decided to pick his old favorite—the longbow.
He put it inside the bird, along with a quiver of about two hundred arrows, grabbed his staff, and put it inside as well. Then, he pulled the bookcase wall back into position. Koksun looked at him curiously as he got inside the carcass. There were a few leather straps inside the carcass to hold weapons, and he used these to tightly secure the longbow and arrows. He then got inside the carcass and wrapped his legs around the staff. There were holes protruding from the bird’s carcass that his arms went through, and on the bottom of each wing was a small handle. He took off into the air, occasionally flapping the bird’s wings. He had told Feiklen to have the Moscorians hide just north of the town of Seihdun, along the large dirt path that continued north to the border of Dachwald.
It was an ugly day. Still raining hard. Lightning flashed intermittently across the sky, sometimes striking a tree and causing branches and splinters to go flying in different directions as if a small case of dynamite had just been exploded. Tristan was not particularly worried about the lightning. He could sense the forces in the sky that formed it and carefully moved when necessary to avoid a collision.
About two hours later he saw the path far below him. Seeking to enter the forest stealthily, he chose to first land on top of one of the largest trees—a huge massive tree that stood at least six hundred feet tall. From the top, he scanned the ground carefully, looking for any sign of the Moscorians.
Nothing.
This pleased him. If he couldn’t see them, they were hiding well, which was what he had ordered.
(unless they’re simply not here)
He breathed deeply, smelling the air. Sure enough, he smelled them.
He decided to scout the area before making further efforts to locate the Moscorians. Flying away from the large, six-hundred foot tree, he began circling the area. Upon flying north about ten miles, he saw hundreds upon hundreds of Vechengschaft waiting right next to the border. With his eagle-like vision, he could even see some of their faces and expressions. Some of the Vechengschaft looked like they were really looking forward to doing some fighting. That fighting spirit will eventually come in handy, he thought to himself.
He circled back to the top of another tree more or less in the same area on which he had been perched before, except on the other side of the path. He scanned the ground again, his eyes devouring every leaf, every twig, every speck of dirt, like a hawk. Just when he was about to become seriously frustrated, he saw something move. Down on the forest floor, hundreds of feet beneath him, some leaves rustled. Tristan reached inside his pocket and removed a small shell with a pebble inside it and shook it until it made three clicks.
He counted to thirty.
He heard numerous shells make two simultaneous clicks all throughout the forest. He smiled. There was still hope.
Tristan climbed out of the carcass, lowered himself to the ground, and clicked his shell again.
From underneath the leaves, like sprouting plants emerging from the soil, hundreds of Moscorians slowly rose. Fog and mist hovered above the ground. The Mosc
orians were all heavily armored. Not a single inch of exposed skin on their entire bodies. The portion of their helmets covering their faces was made out of solid steel carved in the shape of a skull. They had camouflage netting draped over them, laced with a combination of mud, branches, and leaves. A large Moscorian approached Tristan cautiously.
“Master?” he said in a low voice. It was Feiklen.
“It’s okay; you can speak up,” said Tristan. “I’ve scoured the area. There’s no one within miles. Right now, our primary concern is setting up an ambush. Soon silence will be of absolute necessity, but until then we have a large amount of work to do.”
“Yes, master,” Feiklen said, in a low, guttural voice.
“How many Moscorians are with you?”
“Three hundred,” Feiklen responded, “all equipped with longbows and other weapons.”
“Good,” Tristan responded; “however, arrows alone won’t be enough. We have to create a large booby trap. I have the perfect trap in mind. The first thing we have to do is cut down a very large tree.”
“My men can do that.”
“Good. It needs to be over one hundred feet long and at least twenty feet wide.”
“Yes, master.”
“Have a group of men begin work on that, and then report back to me.”
Feiklen went off into the forest with a group of Moscorians to find a tree that matched Tristan’s specifications the closest. As soon as they had done so, he had them begin chopping it down with their large halberds. Then, Feiklen returned to Tristan to see what would be required next.
“Show me what kinds of sharp objects you have available for this booby trap,” Tristan ordered. Feiklen brought him to a location about fifty feet away from the path, where he removed a large number of leaves, revealing a frightening array of spears, spikes, and other instruments of death. One object, in particular, caught Tristan’s eye, however. A short, yet wide, T-shaped, steel object. Along the top of what looked like a T were numerous sockets which obviously had some use.
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