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

by Lawlis, Daniel

  The Moscorians’ jaws nearly hit the ground.

  On the scroll was a beautiful, nearly flawless map of all of Sodorf, with precise directions to every lookout tower. “It helps to have friends in high places!”

  Suddenly becoming as serious as a funeral, Tristan furrowed his eyebrows and began to speak sternly: “This is going to be a job for the Moscorians only. DON’T SCREW THIS ONE UP!! You may think I’ve forgiven you for your blunder at Dachwaldendomel more than eight hundred years ago, but, believe me, I haven’t!! I’m not going to live forever; and for hundreds of years I have waited to see Dachwald restored to the power and majesty that it once knew! I have had soldiers far better, far more ruthless than yourselves work for me, although I confess it has indeed been a very long time since those glorious days. There can be no mistakes in this attack. No second chances. No forgiveness. No mercy! I don’t want another Dergonnen incident!”

  Feiklen gulped nervously. No one had yet had the chance to tell Tristan about Dergonnen.

  “Feiklen, you are the head Moscorian; if you think that there is another Dergonnen in your midst, tell me now, or otherwise be prepared to take the blame if things go wrong!”

  “I have full confidence in all my Moscorians, master,” Feiklen responded.

  “Good. I want you to know what the stakes really are! This is it—our big chance! Believe me, if we manage to take out the Sodorfians manning the lookout towers, Sodorf will be OURS!! It will only take a very basic flanking motion to cut off those ten thousand men from the City of Sodorf, and, trust me, the people in the City of Sodorf will not dare leave the protection of their walls! I’ve seen them. They’ve increased their height substantially, and none of the ‘nobles’ are going to want their soldiers to leave the city walls, because if they do they will be left nearly defenseless inside. After we massacre the Sodorfians in the northern town of Seihdun, we can then take our time and set up some of our new ‘toys’ around the City of Sodorf. We’ll build shafts to launch pheorite-stuffed missiles into the city, and all the while we’ll stay out of range of even their most powerful mangonels and trebuchets!” Tristan said, his eyes wild with excitement and aggression.

  “Due to the utter lack of survivors from General Fuhdor’s army, no one in the city will even know what we are digging, much less the awesome power of the weapon. Feiklen, I am going to put you in charge of how exactly you want to divide your Moscorians for this task. General Sivingdon, you coordinate with Feiklen an arrangement for your troops to follow behind. I want there to be three groups: ten thousand circling west and behind Seihdun, ten thousand circling east and behind Seihdun, and twenty thousand marching directly south towards them. SMITE, STAB, SLAY, SLAUGHTER THEM!!” Tristan said, veins now bulging from his long, thin neck, looking like a man on the verge of a stroke.

  “I’ll be around,” he then added, much more calmly.

  He walked off and within seconds was nowhere to be seen.

  Feiklen, Kihlgun, Sivingdon, and about fifty others, both from the Vechengschaft and Moscorians, sat down together and discussed step-by-step how they were going to execute their attack.

  Chapter 9

  More months had gone by in the dark hell that had become Pitkins’ home. Although he really had no exact idea of how long he had been here, he guessed it had been more than half a year.

  It was beginning to affect him.

  The thing that frustrated him the most was he figured there were only three possible ends to this horrible situation. He would go on living in the pit for years and years like a prison convict, being fed daily by Mr. Sees-In-The-Dark until he died of old age. Or one day

  (or night—is there a difference anymore?)

  he would wake up to find Mr. Jailer with an invisible knife drawing a tattoo on his carotid artery. Or he could simply . . . quit. Give up. Raise the white flag. Stop eating and drinking. None of these options were acceptable to him. He had lived his whole life as a warrior, and now he was in the ironic situation where life itself had become defeat, and yet to end the humiliation and degradation would require quitting, which he could never consider acceptable under any circumstances. Well, almost any circumstances. The truth was he was reaching his breaking point.

  He had no reasonable way to count the days but for the longest time had attempted to do so based upon his sleep cycle. That had long ago become futile,

  (had it ever been anything but?)

  as his sleep grew longer and more frequent.

  (or was that only imagined?)

  He had tried to count the days based upon the length of his beard but had given up on that quickly, since had never grown a beard longer than a few weeks’ worth of unsightly stubble and thus had no meaningful reference point. He did notice, however, that his beard touched his chest if he ever so slightly looked downward.

  Having given up long ago on calculating the time spent in this unbearable prison, his waking hours had long become filled with contemplating the most efficient way to end his stay in spirit even if not in body. Although not particularly appealing, he had many times imagined himself running towards the wall head faced downwards in order to deliver himself a blow that would end it all. He realized the consequences of failure would be unpitying. A lump on his head the size of a stone. A headache that could last for weeks. A broken neck that would leave him alive but paralyzed on the ground for who knows how long.

  Then there was starvation. He had once deprived himself of food for what were surely at least a few days but had given up on that approach. Too slow. Too painful. He’d gladly try ramming his head against the wall before slowly snuffing out his life by starvation. He had also had the sordid wish that he had been imprisoned with at least one other person so that one could strangle the other to death as quickly and painlessly as possible, after which the survivor could break off a bone from the deceased and stab it directly into his throat.

  In spite of his lack of any real hope that he would ever escape this prison, he exercised every day, feeling himself a fool for doing so. He figured that, since his one option for ending his life seemed to be to smash his skull or break his neck by running as fast as he could against the wall, he had better keep himself in sufficient physical condition to be able to perform such an act. Otherwise, he would have no option but starvation. But the slightest hope of escape sometimes flashed through his mind like a shooting star as he completed a series of exercises. It always disintegrated into the bitter acceptance of defeat shortly thereafter.

  One day, as he lay in abject misery contemplating his unsavory options for ending his life, he heard something.

  Wings flapping inside his cave.

  This did not overly surprise him. Several times he had heard small birds flying around the cave. He knew there was an opening to it from the outside—it was through that opening that he vaguely recalled being taken into this hellhole.

  “You’re strong,” he suddenly heard a voice say. “I never would’ve expected anyone to survive such a long time in these deplorable, gloomy conditions. Most wouldn’t. Most haven’t.”

  “Come down here and fight me like a man, or just kill me now, you coward!! I guess I wouldn’t expect you to ever have the spine to confront me man to man!”

  Pitkins heard what sounded like laughter . . . but not human laughter. “I’m afraid there has been some confusion; I’m not Tristan. I’m a pholung. One of Tristan’s many spies.”

  “Tristan? Who in Uchinweld is Tristan? And what exactly is a pholung?”

  “Tristan is the last surviving grandmaster of Glisphin. He’s the one who had you taken here. He’s the one who brings you food and water every day. Pholung is a species of large birds. Tristan imparts the gift of speech to a small number of us and raises us from birth in order to make us his spies. He teaches us from the time we’re young that all pholungs can speak but that we are forbidden from doing so with one another without his special permission, something he rarely gives. Since we’re forbidden under pain of death from speaking to on
e another or revealing to anyone we can speak, and since we tend to be pretty solitary animals anyway, there are a fair number of talking pholungs who don’t realize most pholungs can’t talk. But a lot of us have figured it out, even though Tristan doesn’t know that.

  “The reason Tristan doesn’t want us revealing to anyone we can speak is because of this that no one notices anything special about us. We look like any other pholung. Tristan forbids us to speak to any human other than him because if others knew we could speak, they would also clamor to utilize us as spies and scouts. The konulan is a very small bird, and Tristan has imparted speech to many of them for the same purposes. It makes it very easy for him to keep great power, always be several steps ahead of his enemies. Although many pholungs hate Tristan passionately, none feels it can trust its fellow pholungs, and therefore we are always unable to band together to resist Tristan. Not only does Tristan offer rewards to any pholung that reports disloyalty, he has very strict punishments for failing to report it. The disloyal pholung is killed, often in the most painful manner—depending on Tristan’s mood at the time—and then is fed to Tristan’s cat, Koksun. If he’s particularly angry, he’ll restrain the pholung, and let Koksun eat it alive. Some say that’s just how Koksun prefers it.”

  “Well, I guess I must assume then that the only reason you’re breaking the rules and talking to me is because you either feel that I’ll be dead soon anyway, or Tristan has ordered you to do it. Why should I trust you? After all, it was one of your kind that dragged me here in the first place!”

  “It was indeed one of my kind. However, it was not just one of my kind. Oh, how I wish that my guilt were so indirect—that it were merely by association!”

  “Do you mean—?!”

  “Yes, as much as it pains me to say it—it was I that brought you here.”

  “You feathery devil!!” Pitkins shouted. With an energy he hadn’t felt in months he jumped at the wall, trying desperately to reach the top, where he could tell the bird was perched. It was no use. He proceeded to emit a long litany of angry shouts and curses.

  “Every word you say is true. I only hope that you’ll be able to forgive me. If you are still willing to listen to me, let me address your earlier curiosity about why I was willing to break the rules and come and talk to you. Well, it’s not simply because I think you’ll be dead soon, although I think that if Tristan’s conquest continues the way it has been you don’t have much time left. How much do you know about the prophecy?”

  “I know nothing of a prophecy.”

  “More than eight centuries ago, the Sodorfians managed to reverse the horrible fortune they were having in the Seven Years War and inflicted a crushing blow against the Dachwaldians at the battle of Dachwaldendomel. The majority of the Moscorians were killed there, and from that point on the war went in the Sodorfians’ favor. Finally, the Dachwaldians were forced to take refuge in Castle Dachwald. There was great arguing amongst the nobles, the king, and the military higher-ups. Some wanted to fight to the death; others wanted peace, even if that meant they would have to give up their Sodorfian slaves and accept the conditions of a Sodorfian treaty. The Moscorians, the elite fighting unit of the Dachwaldian military machine, were those who most wanted to continue fighting. To the death if necessary. Their leader, Tristan, your current captor, also wanted to fight to the death, but then he saw a strange vision as he performed a Glisphin spell. In his vision he saw that if the Dachwaldians didn’t surrender they would be crushed entirely. If they waited, however, to rise again only after a Sodorfian from the lower class was knighted due to an act of bravery, they would have success, provided that they kept the person imprisoned until Sodorf was decimated. Then, the imprisoned Sodorfian was to be publicly burned alive as an offering of thanks to Veihgung, the Dachwaldian god of war, and then an era of unimaginable power and conquest would begin for Dachwald. Sodorf does not have much time left, and therefore you don’t either.”

  “You feathery fiend! You kidnapped me that night while I was with my wife, Donive. You didn’t even let me say goodbye to her. I’ll never get to see Donive again,” he said, trying hard not to allow his emotions to show.

  “Pholung, let me tell you this, if you value your life, leave now, or I will break my fingernails off if that’s what it takes to climb up this accursed wall to reach you and strangle you! And if I fail at that, I will let Tristan know of your betrayal, and then you will become his cat’s next meal, or maybe you’ll join me while I’m burned at the stake! Oh, if only you had let me know that night you kidnapped me the great danger Sodorf was in, I could have done . . . something . . . . Furthermore, I’m not even a Sodorfian by birth. I moved there from my homeland.”

  Pitkins paused. The pholung sensed something wasn’t right and chose to stay silent. A few minutes passed. Pitkins’ throat tightened, and a couple of silent tears made it past the defenses of his steely eyes and rolled down his face, escaping like prisoners from his soul, a success that stood in stark contrast to his body’s inability to escape this prison despite its most ardent yearning. “I . . .” he began, his voice cracking. Exerting as much control as he could over his rebellious vocal chords, he started again, “I could have . . . .”

  “Have you lost your mind?” the pholung asked. It didn’t sound sarcastic. It sounded concerned. “What could you possibly have done? Don’t blame yourself. Your prowess with a sword is perhaps second to none, but would you have taken on the entire Dachwaldian army by yourself?!”

  Pitkins breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. Several more minutes passed.

  Then, calmly, Pitkins began to speak. “I could have gone back to my lands of Sogolia, and perhaps . . . just perhaps . . . . I could have assembled an army; I could—”

  “An army?!” the pholung said excitedly, but skeptically.

  “Yes. An army.”

  “I find this interesting. Despite all of the intense investigation and surveillance I and the other pholungs conducted, the only thing we could find out about you was that your origins were a mystery. We were aware of your claim to come from deep within the forests of Sodorf, and since you refused to ever provide details to anyone beyond that, and since no one in Sodorf knew exactly which part of the forests you came from, there was no way for any of us pholungs to disprove your story. Furthermore, your command of the Sodorfian language is flawless, so no one questioned you were of Sodorfian birth. If I had known that you might have been able to help assemble resistance to crush Tristan and his monstrous Moscorians once and for all, I might have risked my neck to help save you that night when you had been slashed with the Nilur-coated blade. But, alas, I thought you were just a lone hero, someone who could alone never possibly defeat someone as powerful as Tristan and his Moscorians, who are far deadlier now than they were even during the Seven Years War. They have spent every day of the last 830 years devising ingenious military devices and perfecting their martial skills. They have already wiped out 85,500 Sodorfians while hardly suffering a casualty themselves!”

  “I would still probably kill if you given the opportunity, but I can’t resist asking you a couple of questions. First, just what in Uchinweld is Nilur, the substance you say was used against me? I have been wounded many times in battle, but never have I suffered like the time I was sliced by that would-be assassin’s blade when I was with Donive.”

  “Of course not—Nilur is one of Tristan’s most hideous inventions. It contains a powerful anticoagulant; that’s the reason why even a deep cut will quickly close itself and stop bleeding, leaving more of a welt than a cut. Also, it contains a powerful hallucinogen triggering strange, frightening visions. It enables Tristan to get completely inside the afflicted person’s mind and command them to do his bidding.”

  “That sounds quite familiar.” Pitkins paused, then asked, “Why are you telling me all this? You said you might have opposed Tristan had you known I could assemble an army against him. But you didn’t know, and you didn’t oppose Tristan . . . . And yet, simply by coming t
o talk to me today and telling me about Tristan’s plans, you committed treason against him before you even knew of the possibility I could help Sodorf. ”

  “It’s . . . it’s . . . not pleasant to tell. Until a few days ago, I was the father of eight young, vivacious pholungs and the husband of the most beautiful pholung in all of Sodorf and Dachwald. Several days ago, they all went missing. I searched the forests everywhere—the lowest valleys, the tallest trees, the deepest caves—but nowhere could I find my dear family. Not wanting to face the possibility that Tristan was responsible, but not knowing of any other options, I went to Tristan’s lair. Without hardly looking up from a book he was reading, he simply informed me that they had all been killed for disloyalty. He then told me to hightail it out of there before I was fed to Koksun! Reluctantly, I backed down and simply flew away. But, let me tell you, I had never been closer in my entire life to openly defying that monster!! I was so sorrowful as I flew away that I simply wanted to die. I considered flying full-speed towards a rock and ending it all. The last time I had seen my young birds, I’d promised them I was going to take them hunting for worms . . . they were so excited. I thought about just diving beak-first straight towards the ground and ending it all. Or going into an anacobra’s lair and waiting for the inevitable bite. But . . . something changed inside of me. I suddenly realized just how precious life can be, and yet how worthless life is when living in fear of a cruel tyrant. As I felt sorry for myself, thinking about the great loss I had suffered, I couldn’t help but remember the fact that by all of my spying, I had probably caused a far greater amount of harm to other people than what I had just suffered, as great as that was! I’ve been instrumental in Tristan’s success. I helped him poison the crops of most of Dachwald. I helped neutralize the guards at Castle Dachwald, enabling a coup d’etat and an installation of a group of warmongering psychopaths.