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

by Lawlis, Daniel

  Chapter 4

  That night when Kihlgun got up, he knew something was wrong. It shouldn’t be dark. It should be light out. Dergonnen had never woken him up to rotate watch over the Sodorfians. Nonetheless, he decided he would tongue-lash him for that later. After all, they had probably only gotten a half hour behind the Sodorfians at the most, and that could be recovered easily. He slithered down slowly, summoned Dergonnen, and the Moscorians began following the Sodorfians tracks once again under the light of the bright silver moon. Suddenly, a sickening realization dawned on him.

  The tracks were not following the prescribed route.

  “Dergonnen, tell me the Sodorfians only left a few minutes ago!” Kihglun screamed.

  Silence.

  “Dergonnen?!” Kihlgun screamed again.

  “I’ll be honest,” Dergonnen began, fearfully, “I was tired. The cool breeze and the soft grass against my body were just too much . . . I . . . I . . . I fell asleep. When I woke up it was nighttime. I assume they left just moments ago.”

  Kihglun felt like screaming, but instead he simply kept his cool and said, “Dergonnen, such is not acceptable for the Vechengschaft, much less for a Moscorian. If we manage to catch up with the Sodorfians and everything goes as planned, I might just forget the whole thing. I might. But if we don’t, I’ll report you to Feiklen, and you know what that means. Now let’s go!!”

  Dergonnen gulped nervously. He knew exactly what would happen if he were reported to Feiklen: his head would be decorating the sharp tip of a spear like a grisly ornament.

  “Let’s just hope that they don’t have too much of a head start on us,” said Kihlgun—“I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let some Sodorfian outsmart me!!” The Moscorians began sprinting.

  The night before, Polunk had told his fellow Sodorfians something: not that the whole escape had been rigged—he was going to wait until they crossed the border before doing that—but that he was sure they were being followed. Although it had escaped his notice the first day when he had taken his turn to stand watch while the others slept, on the second day he had seen a grass-covered figure slowly slithering towards him and the other escapees. He had done his best to make sure he didn’t appear to have seen the person—who he had no doubt was a Dachwaldian soldier from Arbeitplatz. He kept silent about what he saw until last night, when he told his fellow Sodorfians that he believed they were being stalked and that he thought it would be very prudent to switch course the next night, their final night, as they neared Sodorf.

  He had been unnerved to see that the Dachwaldians were staying right behind them from the get-go, not allowing a day’s worth of travel to stay between them for tracking practice purposes, as he had originally surmised. His concern at this miscalculation on his part almost convinced him to deviate from the course on the second-to-last night, but Mr. Devil’s Advocate had again begun to argue with him, pointing out that if he deviated on the penultimate night that would give the Dachwaldians enough time to recover from the surprise and then get back on their trail, and if they ever had had the slightest intention to let him survive they no longer would upon discovering the betrayal. After all, Devil’s Advocate had said, the benefit of surprise will be ephemeral; seize it before it fades away.

  Polunk had to concede there was logic in that, but he countered with a new idea, something that before he hadn’t even considered previously: Why not travel during the day when you deviate from the course? It had come to his attention that not all of the Dachwaldian trackers were as disciplined as the others. They all seemed to be more or less equally skilled at stealth, but he noticed that some fell asleep while they were supposed to be surveilling him and the other escapees. He heard their breathing get heavier, even heard them snoring sometimes. Given that they had to sleep at some point too, and given that they would only send one tracker up close to Polunk and the other escapees during the day to watch them, he figured the other trackers had to be sleeping during that time. Thus, if the tracker who had crawled closely to them was sleeping, that meant they were all sleeping. He knew that as soon as he heard the breathing get heavier that would be their one chance to actually make a break for it and forego whatever dreadful plans the Vechengschaft really had in store for all of them.

  He knew that if the Dachwaldians suspected even for a moment that he was breaking away from his normal routine they would attack and kill all of them. But by Kasani, he felt this was probably their intention anyway, so he had nothing to lose by taking a chance and tricking them.

  Sure enough, about two hours after the Sodorfians lay down to rest early that morning, Polunk heard the breathing of the soldier surveilling them get deeper and slower and deeper . . . and slower.

  Finally . . . snoring.

  He had immediately roused the Sodorfians, and they made their getaway.

  To try not to attract attention, they avoided the temptation to begin sprinting, which, of course, was exactly what they wanted to do. They walked briskly, but they walked nonetheless. Fortunately for them, they didn’t attract too much attention as they plodded through the fields. They saw an occasional farmer, but he either didn’t see anything particularly important about them, or was too lazy to do anything about it if he did. Polunk’s plan was to begin really making a dash for it as soon as it got dark. He knew that the Dachwaldian soldiers pursuing them were going to be really furious that he had deviated from the course that they had laid out for him and ten times more so that he had the audacity to do so during the day, when he shouldn’t have been traveling at all. As it got dark, they began to really pick up the pace, tired though they were.

  Unfortunately for Polunk, he had the disadvantage of having one group of people chasing him from behind, a group of people chasing him from the east, of which he was not even aware, and a group of people waiting to intercept him at the border.

  “Faster!” Kihlgun screamed at his fellow Moscorians. “Feiklen will have all of our heads on a pole if we don’t kill Polunk!” They were literally sprinting by now, and carrying their crossbows and camouflage netting while running was no picnic.

  Running hadn’t been in the plan.

  They were only about a mile from the border. The Sodorfians were about half a mile from it, and they were also sweating profusely and running like there was no tomorrow.

  Polunk knew that if the Dachwaldians had any bad intentions—and he was sure they did—now was going to be the time to reveal them. He knew the Dachwaldians must be furious that he had deviated from the prescribed course. Onward they ran, huffing and puffing.

  Polunk could see the large forest ahead. Only several hundred feet away.

  “That’s Sodorf!!” he said excitedly to those that were running with him; “Freedom isn’t too far off!”

  Chapter 5

  I just might make it, Polunk thought to himself as he and the other escapees sprinted as fast as they could towards the southern border. We’re about two miles west of where they expect us to arrive.

  The brisk pace was definitely taking its toll on their battered bodies, especially on Aisendall, but it’s amazing what kind of energy sheer terror mixed in with a pinch of hope can provide. Although he was probably in the worst shape of his life at this point due to the malnutrition suffered at the camp, he could never remember running with what seemed to be such a limitless supply of energy and drive.

  “Come on, fellows; we can make it!”

  They wanted to believe it. All of them were panting and gasping for breath, like a group of gazelles running from imaginary lions, but they were possessed with almost godlike energy. The grass they were running in was rather tall. They were actually running in a meadow that was in between two of the farms that had been hit the worst by the mysterious vandals.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, Polunk heard a WHOOOSHHH sound, and nearly simultaneously he felt a sharp object go flying through his stomach.

  It was an arrow.

  “AGGHHH!!” he cried out in pain, but kept sprinting forward, trying to i
gnore the searing pain that was going through his stomach, not to mention the blood that he was quickly losing. Some of the others paused to look at him.

  “DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME; KEEP RUNNING!!” he shouted with so much intensity at them that they really had no choice but to listen.

  WHOOOSHHH!!! Another arrow struck him hard, this time in the leg. “UCHINWELDDDD!!” he cried out in pain and anger. Now, despite his nearly maniacal desire to cross the border, he was slowing down quite a bit. The others were starting to get ahead of him, which was good—he didn’t want them to become sitting ducks for the sharpshooter that was having such a heyday with him. Another arrow whizzed right by him, just barely missing.

  How come they’re not shooting at anyone else?!! he asked himself angrily. It didn’t make any sense, and dammit, it wasn’t fair! This was a stalk-and-kill exercise; they were going to kill all of them; that was the plan—or, at least, so he had thought.

  WHOOOSHHHH!! WHOOSSHHHH!! Two arrows hit him almost simultaneously right in the chest, sending him flying onto his back. As he fell, he saw that his fellow escapees were nearing the forest, and, amazingly, he did not see any of them being shot at. He tried to stand up to keep moving towards the forest, where, hopefully, there would be Sodorfian troops to usher him into safety. Six more arrows immediately went through each of his legs like nails through wood. As he fell, the ends of the arrows that were sticking through his legs dug into the ground, which caused them to remain immobile while the rest of his body continued falling; the result was that the arrows twisted around and tore his flesh horribly. Blood was soaking his clothes; he knew he didn’t have much time left.

  As he looked up at the sky, thoughts and images began rushing through his mind: the work camp, the numerous trees they had been turning into some kind of weapon, the escape, the conversations with Feiklen. None of it made sense. Why are they only aiming at me?!! he asked himself again angrily. Only one of their arrows had missed him, and he didn’t see a single one even being shot in the direction of the other escapees. Then, it hit him, and oh, how stupid he felt! They’re using me to lure the whole Sodorfian army into a trap! Perhaps I was wrong; perhaps the Sodorfians were not going to attack anytime soon, and that was why they needed something to MAKE them attack! That was why they really did give us a legitimate map which actually did help us bypass Vechengschaft patrols and actually did get us to Sodorf! The problem was that they couldn’t allow me to live to tell the Sodorfians that the Vechengschaft had orchestrated an escape for me; that would have, at the very least, made them extremely suspicious! As these thoughts and others like them went through his head, he became enraged. He also had a secret up his sleeve—one that he had never told a single one of the escapees about: he had more pheorite. Not a lot more, but enough that he was going to take some of these Vechengschaft bastards down with him.

  Suspecting that the pheorite that Feiklen had given him was more than sufficient to blow a hole through the wooden wall, he had taken some of it and smeared it onto another rock—a rock that he had obtained one day while working under the blazing sun for the camp guards. He was now going to repay the Vechengschaft for their chicanery and show them that it although it was indeed possible to fool ol’ Polunk, there was a heavy price tag and no discounts.

  Knowing that to stand back up would be suicide, and that on the other hand he was going to bleed to death soon anyway, this left him in a difficult situation. He wasn’t sure exactly what to do. Fortunately, his predicament was made less complex, however, because a few moments later he heard some laughing and, then, some footsteps coming towards him.

  “That was an excellent shot!”

  “Did you see that silly Sodorfian twist and move—he looked like a stringed puppet!”

  “A pincushion puppet!”

  He heard the unsuspecting braggarts coming closer and closer. Then, once he figured they were about twenty feet away, he prepared to redeem himself. This is it, he told himself; time to go down fighting!! He quickly stood up, ignoring the pain shooting throughout his body like daggers as though the pain were a platitudinous comment made about the weather. The Moscorians could not have been more stunned. They thought for sure they had killed him. However, they weren’t scared—not yet. They didn’t realize what he had with him.

  “You again?!” one of them said mockingly, and then they all started to laugh.

  “To IFINDGALL WITH YOU, YOU BASTARDS!!!” They started to laugh only harder, but their laughter was about to end as quickly as a beach party greeted by a tsunami. Polunk took his rock and threw it, harder than he had ever thrown anything in his entire life, right towards the face of the biggest-mouthed Dachwaldian, which was partially covered by a helmet.

  BOOOMMMMM!!! The pheorite exploded on contact, immediately blowing the head off of the arrogant soldier. All six of the soldiers standing next to him were also blown to bits.

  And, Polunk was glad to see, they did not all die immediately.

  They don’t deserve to go easy!

  He noticed a few of them still alive, though badly maimed. He could feel his life draining away from him very quickly now, but he wasn’t afraid. In fact, in all of his life he had never felt more satisfied. He had saved over thirty people from certain death, and with any luck, they would notice something very suspicious about the way in which he was singularly targeted.

  (hopefully the Sodorfian army won’t get led into a trap; if it does, all Sodorf is doomed)

  Whether that happened or not, he felt at ease, since he had at least claimed the lives of some of Dachwald’s most heinous killers. As he looked more closely at the faces of his assassins—at least those still intact—he recognized them. They had been guards at the camp. I have killed mass murderers, he thought to himself, a smile on his face at the corners of his blood-soaked mouth.

  Also, although he had censored it from his mind heretofore, he knew that in all likelihood Krista was dead,

  (dear Krista)

  dead at the hands of killers like these whose lives the gods had been kind enough to allow him to take.

  (I miss her; perhaps I will see her soon, very soon . . . .)

  As he thought about her long, soft hair, and warm, soft body, he felt all the more at peace about facing death. He would soon be united once again with his beloved in a place where no genocidal Dachwaldians would be admitted. His attention swung back to the issue of his countrymen, and as his heart beat its final beats, he uttered a prayer: “Please, don’t let the Dachwaldians succeed!”

  And then he died.

  About ten minutes later Kihlgun’s party arrived, and they were happy to see Polunk dead.

  “Rotten Sodorfian!” Dergonnen said.

  “Yes,” Kihlgun concurred, “but I have to admit I respect the sneaky bastard! He even managed to take a few Moscorians down with him. He behaved like a Moscorian, not a Sodorfian, from beginning to end. And if it hadn’t been for this back-up team of Moscorians in between Castle Dachwald and the border coming to the rescue, they all would have CERTAINLY made it! Feiklen was definitely right in picking him for the job. But you—”

  He stopped his sentence midway as he spun around and stuck his sword clean through Dergonnen’s stomach. “YOU have not acted like a Moscorian!! You have acted worse than the lowest Sodorfian!!” Having said this, he then pulled his sword quickly out of Dergonnen’s stomach, grabbed him, and slammed him onto the ground.

  “The whole mission could have been compromised because of you! If it weren’t for the exemplary performance of the other Moscorian team that compensated for your folly, all of the Sodorfians would have escaped, and Tristan would have had all of our heads!!”

  None of the Moscorians looked at Dergonnen with the slightest sympathy. Moscorians would cease to be Moscorians if they allowed such weakness to stink up their ranks like horse dung in an otherwise fine casserole.

  “Shall we bury him or just leave him here?” one of the Moscorians asked.

  “Under different circumstances,” Kihl
gun began, “I would just leave him here. But, unfortunately, Tristan said that we have to remove all traces of military equipment and military personnel as we head northwards to the designated place.”

  “I’m so thankful,” Dergonnen groaned; “thank you for not leaving me here to die a slow, miserable death.”

  Kihlgun chuckled. It was not a friendly chuckle. “Oh, Dergonnen, I said that we had to remove all traces of military personnel; I didn’t say I was going to have you shipped back to the north. Men, dig a pit! We are going to remove all traces!”

  “NO!” shouted Dergonnen in terror. “Please don’t! I beg of you!”

  Kihlgun was impassive.

  “DIG!” he repeated. The Moscorians quickly got to work digging a pit to put Polunk, the dead Moscorians, and Dergonnen inside of. Terrified at the prospect of being buried alive, Dergonnen reached for his dagger. He was going to end his own life. Kihlgun quickly reached down and grabbed it from him.

  “Let me tell you something, you worthless parasite: Polunk died a hero’s death! He not only overcame enormous odds to get such a sickly group of people this far without getting lost or injured; he even went down fighting! Although he had Sodorfian blood, his conduct was much more like that of a true Moscorian than yours ever was. You didn’t have any of the disadvantages that Polunk had, and yet you couldn’t even keep watch without falling asleep! Although it is true that the Sodorfians must be subjugated, and mostly exterminated, I don’t think even Tristan would have any qualms about allowing such a noble man to live—had his death not been so vital to the success of our mission! Our Dachwaldian chivalry requires us to make exceptions, even amongst the most perfidious races, for such exceptional men as Polunk! You don’t deserve to die an honorable death when you, a Moscorian, have been utterly surpassed by a SODORFIAN!!”

  After these harsh words, Dergonnen no longer offered any protest. He knew that he had erred too gravely to ever expect forgiveness. The best he could do at this point would be to simply accept his fate, as horrible as it was. After about thirty minutes, the Moscorians had dug a pit about six feet deep and five feet wide. They threw Dergonnen in first. Fortunately, by this point he was nearly dead anyway. He was losing a lot of blood and was barely conscious. When he hit the bottom of the pit, the impact knocked him unconscious. He never regained it. Next, the slain Moscorians were placed in the pit, and then, finally, Polunk was ceremoniously lowered into the pit, on top of all the others. Then, dirt was thrown on top of all of them, and the ground was smoothed out to the point it didn’t even look like a grave had been dug there. It was the first time a Sodorfian had ever been buried with Moscorians.