Rise of Dachwald (Boxed Set, Books 1 through 2)

by Lawlis, Daniel

  “I’ve been paying careful attention to the weather lately. There’s going to be a storm in two nights. It’ll have lots of thunder. On that night, you make your escape. You’ll use an explosive to blow a hole through the tall wooden fence surrounding this camp, synchronizing it with a clap of thunder. All my guards are fully aware of this planned escape; if they weren’t, you’d all be killed within minutes. However, you must do your best to make this look believable. If I even suspect that you have in any way, shape, or form tipped off the other prisoners to the fact that this escape is being allowed, I’ll have my guards open fire on you and the other escapees with their longbows and turn you into a pack of human porcupines. Are we clear?”

  “Yes,” Polunk responded tersely.

  “Good. Your fellow escapees are going to wonder where you got the explosives. Think of something convincing. I don’t doubt you can.” Feiklen produced a small rock. “As you can see, this small rock doesn’t look like much. And, you know what, it isn’t.

  “But,” he added, pulling out a small container full of a black substance, “a little bit of this black beauty right here is enough to knock a hole right through that gate. This is called pheorite. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. It’s a rare substance, quite difficult to obtain. It’ll detonate simply by having sufficient impact against an object. Don’t worry; it’s not going to blow up in your pocket. It’ll take a lot more than a little jolt to detonate this stuff. All you have to do is put it on the rock—it’ll stick to it—throw it at the fence as hard as you possibly can, and it’ll explode. Now, I don’t want everyone in the camp hearing this; in fact, it’s imperative the explosion be drowned out by the thunder; otherwise, all of the escaping prisoners are going to be asking themselves why in Kasani the guards aren’t running around cutting off heads and asking questions later. If that happens, you will all be slaughtered. I’m already taking a large risk doing this in the first place, but orders are orders, and these orders have come straight from the top. After you escape, my guards will repair the hole in the fence through which you will escape. You are to escape through the southern fence.

  “The next day, to cover up your sudden disappearance, I’m going to announce there was an escape attempt and that all those attempting to escape have been executed. This’ll send a chill down everyone’s spine, and it will discourage them from getting any stupid ideas.

  “You need to go back to your hut and explain that you have a bold plan to escape and you want to take everyone in the hut with you. Many will think you’re as crazy as an outhouse rat, but you’ve got to somehow convince them. That’s why I chose you. Emphasize you have a map.” As he said this, he pulled out a map and handed it to Polunk. “Here is the route you are to take to Sodorf in order to avoid Dachwaldian patrols. You must follow this route, or you will likely be discovered and killed on the spot. That’s all the help I can give you. Don’t screw this up.”

  Polunk was silent for a moment, his analytical mind scrutinizing everything Feiklen said, but suddenly his subconscious told him that the time for analytical thought was later, not now, and that he didn’t want to give even the slightest impression he was having second thoughts.

  “I’ll do it,” he replied, his quick answer betraying the prolific analysis he had been engaging in over the last several days and that he would continue to engage in.

  “Excellent!” Feiklen said. He handed him the rock smeared with pheorite. “Be careful with this; it would be hard to detonate on accident, but not impossible! Can I count on you?!”

  (I’m sure it would really break your heart if I hurt myself with it, you bastard!)

  “You can,” he replied.

  “Good. It’s settled.”

  Feiklen dismissed him. He had Kihlgun and some of the other Moscorians go around and warn all the guards that the escape was going to be happening within a couple of nights and that they were to do their best to allow the escape to happen without becoming any less vigilant in watching the other prisoners.

  That evening, Polunk walked back to his hut thinking about the upcoming escape. Something about all of this just didn’t add up. It was like being approached by a salesman with an offer so good it made it seem the salesman was getting screwed.

  (and salesmen never get screwed; never, ever)

  Maybe, just maybe, it really was Feiklen’s goal, for some strange reason, to get a large group of Sodorfians back into Sodorf. He couldn’t even begin to think of what good that would actually do the Dachwaldians, but on the other hand if all the Dachwaldians wanted to do was kill him and the other Sodorfians, it was neither feasible nor logical that they’d go to this much trouble and take this much risk simply to kill them.

  (that would be a waste of time and resources; these people don’t strike me as the type of people that waste anything that’s theirs)

  After all, this was an extermination camp. Sure, most weren’t killed right away, but some were, and most had a tendency to do a little vanishing act shortly after registering.

  (and you definitely didn’t wander into a camp full of magicians)

  Not only was he aware of this—he was also pretty sure he knew where at least most of the vanishing acts were performed. In a building that the prisoners walked through on the way to the fields where they were digging ditches and holes. The interior layout of the building was funny. You entered through a large opening, and then once you were inside, a large stone wall was closed behind you. Then, the wall to the right opened slowly, and through that aperture you walked to the fields where you worked. He was nearly a canine when it came to smell, and something didn’t smell quite right in that room. Figuratively or literally. Not a very pungent smell, but there were times when he could almost swear he smelled . . .

  (burnt flesh?)

  He suspected the room had another use: mass extermination. He wondered uneasily what his odds were of surviving this mission.

  (if the Dachwaldians really do need you and your fan club to make it back to Sodorf, regardless of their motives, that’s still a CHANCE of escape, that’s still a ticket the hell out of here; you won’t see better odds inside here)

  Nonetheless, the main problem, insofar as his survival was concerned, was that there was certainly no way the Dachwaldians would want him to ever be able to live to tell the Sodorfians that they had been permitted to escape. That didn’t fit well into the vague mental picture he was trying to paint as to why in the world the Dachwaldians might possibly want this done. But as soon as he concluded that, the devil’s advocate in his mind immediately shot back with a barrage of counterarguments:

  Maybe they’re afraid of what they’ve done, and they want to make the Sodorfians think they’re remorseful. Perhaps they’ve just suffered a major defeat at the hands of the Sodorfians, and they think an act of mercy will help them earn a lighter punishment for their crimes. Or perhaps Feiklen is acting alone, or virtually alone, with a group of rogue soldiers who aren’t in agreement with mass murder. Or perhaps, somehow, someway, a friend of yours, or a former client of yours, knows someone who knows someone who has put in a good word for you and bargained for your mistake—yeah sure, and that person also bargained for the release of whomoever the hell you could convince to come with you! Hah!

  Then another thought struck him: Perhaps the Dachwaldians simply want to practice their hunting skills. That thought sent a chill down his spine. It made sense. Perhaps, somewhere outside the camp, waiting like lions in the grass were a group of elite Dachwaldian troops about to practice their hunting and tracking skills against real humans.

  But, the devil’s advocate countered, wouldn’t that be too easy? I mean, what challenge would there be in hunting down a group of emaciated prisoners from a camp? Well, maybe they’re green troops, and they’re going to start with something easy.

  His mind then switched gears to a completely separate theory: Maybe Feiklen is looking to destroy a rival. If he can pin the blame for our escape on this rival, it could give him the pretext to have tha
t rival executed!

  He felt an ephemeral relief upon considering this possibility, as it made it seem plausible Feiklen might not only permit but want Polunk and his entourage to make it all the way back to Sodorf. After all, unless Polunk and the others made it out of the country, it would be more properly described as an escape attempt, and perhaps in that scenario Feiklen would have a harder time getting rid of his rival permanently.

  But then the devil’s advocate was back: Feiklen seems to be the top-ranking person here. If there is an escape, that could backfire on Feiklen. The buck stops at the top, so if he is the top-ranking person here he could be held responsible by his superior for having lax security at the camp.

  He engaged the devil’s advocate head on: If Feiklen is the top-ranking person here and he has a rival here, all he would have to do is pin the blame on his rival, have him executed, and then create a carefully drafted report explaining how his rival’s negligence had led to the unfortunate escape and detailing all the enhanced security that had been implemented afterwards. After all, any frame-up has its risks. Perhaps, Feiklen has simply calculated that he can manage them.

  The devil’s advocate fired back: But there’s no scenario where Feiklen’s not better off with you dead. Even if your successful escape all the way to Sodorf would perhaps make it easier for him to executive his rival—if he even has a rival—it would still be more convenient for him to have you killed. Otherwise, word could eventually get around that Feiklen himself allowed the escape. Do you really believe Feiklen would allow that?!

  He realized the devil’s advocate was proving an implacable foe. After all, he didn’t know if there was a rival. That was just one motive he had randomly decided to explore based upon no evidence whatsoever. There could be dozens of other motives—some of which briefly started to pass through his mind—but he as he continued pondering the dubious motives of the Dachwaldians, another part of his mind kept coming back full-circle to one simple, undeniable truth.

  (you won’t see better odds inside here)

  That was the one argument that could silence the stubborn devil’s advocate inside him. No matter how low the chances were of him making it through this escape alive, they had to be better than his chances staying in here.

  However, it dawned upon him that, whereas he had spent lots of time worrying about the Dachwaldians’ motives for permitting the escape to happen, he had not yet given hardly any thought to the difficulties in actually carrying out the escape. The first hurdle he had to leap over in this plan—which was was basically a field of hurdles about fifty miles long and fifty miles wide with booby traps and pitfalls covering nearly every square inch—was that of persuading a group of people to escape. He thought about his uncle. Good ol’ Uncle Wilhelm. People had often said that Uncle Wilhelm was one of the few people who didn’t need to worry about the devil taking his soul. The reason why, they surmised, was because Uncle Wilhelm could turn around and bargain for its return using the devil’s own trident as the bargaining chip.

  Polunk believed it.

  But he was no Uncle Wilhelm.

  Not on the best day of the week, and certainly not on the worst. He was an accountant. “Give me a book as thick as my leg with one accounting mistake in it, and I’ll show you the error by breakfast tomorrow, but I couldn’t sell a starving man roast beef at half price,” he often told people.

  They believed him.

  He often found himself worrying about numbers at the most inopportune times. On his first date with his wife-to-be,

  (Kasani, I hope she’s okay)

  they had gone to a town that used a slightly different currency than the one being used in his hometown. His date—Krista was her name—was sure that Polunk had decided he didn’t like her. He struggled to maintain small talk over dinner. He was visibly distracted during the play they watched. That crook, he thought to himself, cheated me on the exchange rate. I know he did.

  It was the carriage driver. Polunk had given him 25 weichtagen for the ride, and the man had given him 2 weichgahen back.

  He smelled a rat.

  By the time dinner was over he was close to mentally cracking the exchange rate formula, having been listening attentively to bits and pieces of financial transactions being discussed around him, and the closer he got, the surer and surer he was that that no-good, two-bit carriage driver had pulled one over on him. He cracked it right as the play was coming to an end, and while everyone else was sobbing and dabbing their eyes

  (just what in the hell had that play been about anyway?)

  his erstwhile seemingly cold, uninterested personality suddenly warmed up as if some invisible sun had begun to shine on him.

  “I should have gotten THREE weichgahen back! THREE!!” he had yelled excitedly. This sudden outburst frightened Krista more than a little, and she was just hoping he had enough money to get her back home so that they could go their separate ways, and she’d pray to Kasani her path never crossed his again. But then, Polunk changed.

  He calmed down.

  He realized what a horrible impression he was giving. He realized how damn BEAUTIFUL she was!

  He started to ask questions.

  He listened.

  Krista soon opened up like a flower in springtime. By the time they made it back to the carriage, he was so enthralled with Krista that he simply handed the dishonest carriage driver a handful of coins and said, “Keep the change, old pal!”

  And they kissed. That first night, lights on in her parent’s house, waiting for her to come home, they kissed. It was love and romance from that moment on. Polunk later realized that it was only when he was around Krista that his mental wheels stopped turning so much, at least not so needlessly. Numeric formulas lost their romantic appeal. Her lips were far more inviting. They had had a happy marriage, but the Dachwaldians ended it. When they came for him, he told her to run like Kasani and not look back. She listened. He hoped she was okay. But he dared not do much more than hope.

  And now, here he was, Mister Number Cruncher himself stuck with doing a job that would have been cake for Uncle Wilhelm, but one that he was about as suited for as a dog for a piano recital. The one thing he had gleaned from observing Uncle Wilhelm in his business dealings was he always seemed to know how to use fear and the concept of scarcity to close a sale. His mind flashed back to one memory in particular.

  No, thank you, I have a perfectly good knife; I don’t need another one. Thanks.

  Okay, but it’s a shame what happened to the Windelsons just last week. Nice family, the Windelsons. Three bright young children. College-bound all of ‘em. To lose their ma like that just when they had the world by the shoe strings, just not fair, I tell ya’, it’s just not fair. Well, I’ll be off now. Thank you for your time.

  Mrs. Windelson?! Who’s that?

  Oh, just a sweet lady that was a very dear friend to me. She was just making that apple pie that’s famous nearly everywhere that people wear pants. Well, well . . . . No, I best be going.

  Well, go on. Tell me what happened.

  I’m telling you Kasani’s truth. That woman cut more apples in her life than a dog chases cats. She—

  Yes, go on.

  It wasn’t her fault. She was paying attention and—

  Well, what happened?!

  The knife just broke off right in her hand, buried itself in her wrist, and snatched her life clean from her with the ease that a pickpocket swipes an apple. Died minutes later. They just don’t make knives the way they used to, they really don’t. . . at least most people don’t. If you ask me, most people using their knife to cut anything are playing with fire. They may as well put a rattler in their baby’s crib and hope it’s still cooin’ and smilin’ when they come back ten minutes later! I myself won’t let my wife or daughter use one unless it’s of the right brand.

  There’s a brand that’s safe?!

  Sure, but just one.

  It was at that point that Polunk, just a young, precocious tyke at the time, reme
mbered Uncle Wilhelm pulling out a nice, ornately engraved knife and showing it to the frightened-out-of-her-mind mother of six. She didn’t want some half-ass knife snatching her life from her with the ease that a pickpocket swipes an apple. No, sir! He then went on to explain all the rigorous testing this and every knife of this brand had undergone, and it had been guaranteed by the Dachwaldian Department of Cutlery Safety Standards (whatever the hell that was anyway) to be safe for all cutting purposes. At that point, the woman realized she better get as many of them as she could right then and there. You never know how long it will be until another opportunity like that comes along, and if you snooze you lose. Uncle Wilhelm then went on and on and on, house to house, making slight adjustments here and there to his stories and his tactics, as needed, and by the end of the day, he’d had enough money to not need to worry about anything but fishing and catching up on his favorite novel for quite some time. And once that money ran out, he’d do it again. It didn’t matter what the item was, and it didn’t matter where he went. It sold. Yes, Uncle Wilhelm had been one hell of a salesman. But this flashback was only making it all the more clear how different he and his dear uncle were.

  (must think like Uncle Wilhelm must think like Uncle Wilhelm must . . . .)

  And he was right. He better start thinking like Uncle Wilhelm if he was going to convince a group of people that their best chance of survival lay in following a young accountant on a wild escape attempt with nothing but a damn rock in his pocket. He found himself wondering how Uncle Wilhelm would have handled it.

  (Uncle Wilhelm wouldn’t have needed the rock)