“Master, I’ll have the men begin work on that immediately!” Feiklen said. “The Sodorfians have had their last taste of military success—that I promise you!”
The Dachwaldians set to work. The first thing they did was go to the nearest forest and cut down two thousand of the largest trees. While they were doing that, they sent a large number of Dachwaldians back to Dachwald to get the necessary equipment for transforming the trees from awkward clumps of wood into perfectly shaped, pheorite-stuffed missiles. About three days later, the Dachwaldians returned with the necessary machines. They began working hard immediately. Day after day they toiled from dawn until dusk, taking one tree after another, putting it in the large machine, stripping off the bark, hollowing out a shaft in the center of the tree and placing pheorite therein, and hollowing out a large portion at the bottom of each tree into which a large boulder would be inserted to increase the tree’s weight enough to cause it to stretch the Achenpulp hundreds of feet as it descended into the shaft. While a large portion of the Dachwaldians were busy cutting down the trees and turning them into missiles, another large group had the laborious job of rolling the numerous large stones from Dachwald into Sodorf that would be needed to force the trees down the shafts.
Unfortunately, there was no getting around the necessity of moving these huge stones from Dachwald to Sodorf. These stones had taken months to carve to just the right shape so that they would fit right inside the base of the trees, and Tristan did not want to wait months to see his archenemies slaughtered: he was growing more and more impatient by the day. Fortunately, the stones were perfectly globular, so they didn’t have to be carried—they could be rolled. Furthermore, the Dachwaldians were also fortunate in that the main path from Dachwald to the City of Sodorf, while surrounded in many places by mountains and large hills, was relatively flat. This was very significant, for had it not been, the stones would have been very difficult to transport. Pushing them uphill would have been next to impossible, and pushing them downhill would have been nearly impossible to do without losing control and the stones rolling off into the forest.
Tristan had his soldiers attack villages throughout the area, putting all inhabitants to the sword and burning every structure to the ground. He wanted the Sodorfians in a state of utter terror. This way, he reckoned, they would be less likely to try ambushing his soldiers at night and destroying the missile launch structures that his men were building. His soldiers were all too happy to oblige him. They happily went from village to village, smashing, smiting, stabbing, and slaying all those not quick enough or smart enough to flee when they approached.
Three weeks later all was ready. Tristan’s men had set up five hundred tunnels to launch the missiles towards the already terrified Sodorfians inside the city. His men had cut down four thousand trees and carved them into missiles. Tristan called a special meeting with all the Moscorians and General Sivingdon.
“Valiant warriors,” Tristan began, “we are on the verge of finishing what will be the last stage in the utter military defeat of our perfidious, vile enemy: the Sodorfians. After tomorrow, the country will be ours. Your men will be given three weeks to roam about freely, killing, burning, and pillaging to your hearts’ content! If ever a group of soldiers earned such a reward, you have. This will mark an important chapter in the history of Dachwald. Even at the apogee of our power in the Seven Years War, we never had such total dominance over Sodorf. Dachwaldian patience, determination, and ingenuity have paid off. Once we take out this city and put its inhabitants to the sword, we will be stronger than we have been for millennia. The true zenith of Dachwaldian power was many, many centuries ago, at which time all of these lands were ours, as were the lands east and west of Dachwald’s current boundaries. We will rest for a brief time after conquering Sodorf, but we will not rest forever. Those who stole our eastern and western lands will soon enough learn, just as the Sodorfians are now learning, that those who steal Dachwaldian lands will neither be forgotten nor forgiven. No matter how many years pass, no matter how many centuries pass, no matter HOW MANY MILLENIA PASS!!” Tristan finished, screaming. Fortunately for Tristan, none of those present knew history well enough to spot the mountain-sized exaggerations he had just made about Dachwald’s former borders, but he did truthfully state that Dachwald had long ago conquered lands far beyond its current borders.
The Moscorians began to cheer. They were ecstatic at how well everything was going for them and that the next day they were going to see realized that which they had dreamed of for centuries, but never quite sure they would see come to pass: the utter annihilation and conquest of Sodorf. At Tristan’s request, General Sivingdon summoned all the Vechengschaft and gave them a similar sanguinary speech. They received it with equal enthusiasm. That night, it was hard for the Dachwaldians to even sleep. All they could think of was the mayhem they were going to inflict the next day, and that henceforth the few Sodorfians that would be allowed to survive would exist only as the Dachwaldians’ slaves, over which they would have complete power of life and death.
The next day, the Moscorians and the Vechengschaft rose about one hour before dawn. They wanted to make sure everything was in place. They made sure that each wooden missile contained plenty of naphtha and pheorite. They checked each piece of Achenpulp to make sure that it was snugly and securely stretched across the top of the deep underground shafts into which the wooden missiles would descend before being launched thousands of feet into the air and then directly into the hapless Sodorfians. Then, just as the sun began to rise off in the eastern horizon—and a beautiful sunrise it was—Feiklen indicated to Tristan that all was ready. Feiklen and all of the other Moscorians picked up a large horn made out of hollowed-out bear bone and blew through it.
BMMMMMHHHHH. The low, ominous sound echoed throughout the valley, sending sheer terror into the heart of nearly every Sodorfian inside the city.
Bunger, a young Sodorfian regular, posted on one of the battlements, was sweating profusely. “W-w-w-what do you think they’re planning?” he nervously asked Furstendein, who was standing beside him on the battlement.
“We probably don’t wanna know,” Furstendein said candidly. “As you’ve surely noticed, everyone is very uneasy about the fact General Fuhdor hasn’t sent us reinforcements. Most are interpreting that as meaning General Fuhdor and all of his men have passed on to the next life—the Dachwaldians aren’t exactly the prisoner-taking type!”
Bunger gulped nervously. He had heard a lot of talk about that very thing. Very few people thought that General Fuhdor was still alive, much less coming to save them. Fritzer had taken over as military commander of the Sodorfian regulars. He also did not like the ominous sound echoing throughout the valley. It was a prelude to an attack, likely a very vicious one, and . . . .
(quite possibly one that would write the last chapter on Sodorf)
He hated that thought, but he was afraid it was true. He was as convinced as Bunger and Furstendein, if not more so, that the Sodorfians had seen the last of General Fuhdor and the 79,500 men—the bulk of the Sodorfian army—he had taken into Dachwald.
I hate being trapped inside this city like a rat. Where’s Donive?! Is she okay?!
He had to forcefully suppress his paternal instincts and make them secondary to the attention he owed to the city as a whole.
(should we maybe go out and fight the Dachwaldians in the open? the Dachwaldians are no novices when it comes to making weapons of war; what do you think all that chopping you’ve been hearing is coming from? you think they’re building log cabins?!)
It had been unnerving over the last several weeks listening to the constant CHOP-CHOP-CHOP-CRASHHH of trees being cut down for Kasani only knew what awful purpose. He knew all too well, despite the encouragement he tried to give his men and his wife, Patsrona, that the Dachwaldians were preparing some devilish devices that they would soon be using against them, while they were trapped like rats inside the city, surrounded on all sides by an overwhelming enemy
force. Even worse, they were now completely out of range of their trebuchets and mangonels. At least for now.
During the last several weeks, he had had his men tear down multiple buildings inside the city, use the wood to build trebuchets, and save the stones as missiles. He had succeeded in building a hundred additional trebuchets, and he planned on using them to their fullest if the Dachwaldians ever got back within range.
Tristan stood on top of the hill, his arms crossed. He was overlooking the city. This was it: the defining moment of his life. All other achievements, failures, and successes seemed microscopic by comparison now. Scenes from his life flashed before his eyes: they involved many wars. He had been a skilled warrior even before he started to receive training in the dark art of Glisphin. After he had become a master of Glisphin, the grandmasters allowed him to assist them in using magical powers to aid the Vechengschaft in its fight against Dachwald’s neighbors. After several centuries of rigorous study, he had finally been made a grandmaster of Glisphin, a rare achievement for anyone who ever started studying it. Over time, the Dachwaldians had become so successful militarily that they didn’t feel like they needed any magical help; thus, many Dachwaldian warriors lost interest in Glisphin, and soon, he was the only grandmaster left. He had always thought this to be one of the main reasons for Dachwald’s downfall, and therefore he was determined, after this battle was successfully fought, to begin training Feiklen and some of the highest ranking Moscorians in the art. After all, he was not going to live forever, and without a grandmaster of Glisphin to help guide Dachwald in its military endeavors, it might be defeated by any upstart country that could afford to buy a large mercenary army or even raise a large native army. He knew that the Dachwaldians, above all other peoples, had always had a special relationship with nature, and that was what enabled them to be more in tune with the subtle energies nature contained and to be able to harness them and obtain great power. That was all Glisphin really was, except that it was almost always used for some destructive purpose.
If only I could make this moment eternal, I would, he told himself, as he looked down on the helpless City of Sodorf, the final obstacle in his way on the road to the utter conquest and humiliation of his most hated enemy. The sheer beauty of the day only added to his pleasure. Knowing that he had savored it long enough, however, and that it was time to finish the task at hand, he looked over at Feiklen.
“FIRE!!!!” he shouted.
As soon as Tristan gave the command to fire, the buglers echoed the command. The Dachwaldians immediately shoved the large rocks inside the base of the wooden missiles and sent all five hundred of them plummeting hundreds of feet down into circular shafts they had dug into the earth. All pointing towards the City of Sodorf.
WHOOSHH!! WHOOSHH!! WHOOSHH, WHOOSHH, WHOOSHH, WHOOSHH, WHOOSHH!! The sound of five hundred wooden missiles cutting through the air created a frightening sound. Bunger and Furstendein looked up in horror at the objects approaching them.
BOOM, BOOM!! BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!!
Explosions rocked the city. Buildings went up in flames. People were immediately turned into human candles, thousands upon thousands being instantly killed by the first volley alone. Utter chaos broke out. Knowing that it would be futile, nonetheless Fritzer shouted the command to fire. The Sodorfians—those that had not been exploded or set on fire—immediately obeyed, and hundreds of trebuchets were fired at the Dachwaldians. Unfortunately, all of the shots fell short.
Tristan laughed ecstatically. This pathetic, ineffective attempt to fight back was quite comical. Suddenly, just when he was getting ready to give the order for the next volley, Feiklen came running to him.
“Master, there’s something you need to know!” he said pointing westward.
Absolutely furious at the interruption of his most joyous and triumphant moment, he stormed over to where Feiklen was pointing.
“Master, there’s a large army heading this way from the west! It will arrive no later than twenty minutes from now. We must turn to face it, or it will crush us from behind!”
“WHAT IN TARNATION?!” Tristan roared at the top of his lungs, his blue eyes blazing with anger, his body quivering with rage, his fists clenched with fury.
“WHERE DID THIS SODORFIAN ARMY COME FROM?!!! I THOUGHT THAT THERE LAY THE LAST SODORFIAN ARMY!!” he shouted pointing down at the city below, his hand quivering with rage.
“Indeed it is, master. However, the army approaching from the west isn’t Sodorfian. It’s a Sogolian army!”
“SOGOLIANS?!! IN SODORF?!! WHAT IN TARNATION?!!”
Chapter 14
The next day Pitkins was full of energy. Fortunately, Istus was also, and they immediately took off and went flying towards Sogolia.
“I hope Sworin remembers me and his promise!” Pitkins said, half-jokingly.
“He better—for your sake!” Istus shot back.
About an hour later they passed over a large mountain range; the sight was dazzling to behold. Mountains clothed with tall pine trees covering the landscape. The peaks of many of the mountains covered with snow. A stubborn remnant of winter that just refused to let summer conquer it. Lakes dotting their sides.
Home. That’s funny; I never thought I’d refer to this place that way ever again.
When he had been exiled from Sogolia on trumped-up charges, he had grown to hate this land. But now that he saw it once again, his heart simply could not hate it. Its beauty dispelled hatred the way strong ale dispels unhappy thoughts. Even if only for a little while. Below he saw deer prancing playfully through the meadow. The forests were rich with game.
“I just hope Sworin’s available,” said Pitkins. “After all, it was he that made the promise to me, and without him, there’ll be no army.”
This was a reality of which he had been aware all along, but one which he had done his best to push from his mind. This was his only shot at saving Donive and Sodorf from annihilation; it would do no good to worry about factors outside his control, such as Sworin’s whereabouts.
By Kasani, I swear that even if by the time I find Sworin all hope is gone for Sodorf and Donive, I’ll still raise an army and slaughter every last one of those perfidious Vechengschaft and Moscorian fiends!!
For the first time in so long he shuddered to even think about it, fate was on his side. As Pitkins continued to direct Istus towards the mansion where Sworin lived, he saw who he was nearly sure was Sworin himself standing outside his large home.
“That’s it! His house! Sworin’s house!!” Pitkins shouted excitedly.
Istus was also excited. If he was going to have even a small chance of convincing a number of pholungs to join him in his rebellion against Tristan, he was going to have to give them a good reason to think they would be successful. Having an army backing him would be a nice touch.
Sworin stood outside in front of his home. He was teaching his young son how to hold a sword properly. Since his son was only six years old, he was only using a wooden sword, but Sworin had made it out of heavy wood so that it would still give his young son good preparation for holding a real sword. Suddenly, looking up at the sky, he noticed that an abnormally large bird was heading straight toward him!
“Run to the house, Ipkin!” Sworin said sternly.
Ipkin immediately obeyed.
Reaching for his longbow, which he never allowed further from his grasp than a vain woman allows her handheld mirror, he fitted it with an arrow and prepared to fire at the rapidly approaching beast.
“DON’T FIRE, YOU MORONNNN!!!” shouted Pitkins at the top of his lungs, not wanting to take any chances with either his life or Istus’s. Sworin rarely missed with his longbow.
“What in the blazes?!” Sworin exclaimed, startled to hear a voice coming from the bird. “I know that voice. It sounds familiar,” he said, as the large bird continued hurtling towards him. Still not wanting to take any chances, he neither took his finger off the bowstring, nor his eye off the target.
&nbs
p; “IDENTIFY YOURSELF, OR I WILL SHOOT!” he admonished the approaching creature.
“ARE YOU JOKING?! WHO DO YOU THINK IT IS?!!!” Pitkins shouted angrily at his old friend.
A confused look came across Sworin’s face. Wait a second; that sounds like . . . no, surely not! he thought to himself. “IS THAT . . . IS THAT YOU . . . PITKINS?!!”
Istus landed on the ground a few yards away from Sworin.
“Formally, it is Sir Pitkins III,” he said in a jokingly smug voice.
“Sir Pitkins III, is it, indeed?!” Sworin responded, a smile on his face. “Well, Your Lordship, I ought to put several arrows in your heart for sneaking up on me like that on the back of such a beast.”
Then, seeing Istus’s reaction to his choice of words, he quickly added, “I mean, on the back of such an exotic creature. By Kasani, how in Uchinweld have you been, old friend?!”
The two immediately shook hands and embraced like long-lost brothers. It had been so many years since they had seen each other, and yet now it seemed like it had not been very long at all. Pitkins explained to him the whole situation: the kidnapping, the rise of the Dachwaldians, Donive, the fishing mace, the City of Sodorf being under siege. Sworin, with all the wisdom and patience of an experienced warrior and general, listened carefully, patiently, and thoughtfully to everything that Pitkins said. After hearing everything that Pitkins, and Istus, had to say—and overcoming his initial shock upon learning the bird could speak—he paused for a few moments to absorb this tidal wave of information.
Then, in a firm, resolute voice, he responded: “Well, the most important thing is . . . I TOLD YOU SO, OLD BUDDY!!” and having said that Sworin leaned back and punched Pitkins right across the face full force with his right hand, sending him toppling over and crashing to the ground like a branch from a tree. Istus froze, not sure how to respond to this sudden change of circumstances.
Rise of Dachwald (Boxed Set, Books 1 through 2) Page 35