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

by Lawlis, Daniel

  “I almost forgot, you old rascal, but I see that sword on your belt!” Sworin said, howling with laughter.

  Pitkins was laughing, but not for lack of the punch having been a serious one. A red circle could be seen clearly under his right eye, and it would make a nice black eye before evening.

  Pitkins saw Istus’s expression and said, “Sworin, you’ll have to forgive Istus here . . . he’s having a bit of culture shock. In Sodorf, friends don’t often say ‘I told you so’ with a punch to the face.”

  “Well, what kind of friends are they?!” he said laughing.

  Pitkins then looked at Istus and shrugged, smiling, “It’s our way of encouraging each other to think carefully before ignoring a close friend’s advice. I’ve gotta say . . . I’d been away for so long and so distracted by everything I had forgotten completely that my welcome home wasn’t going to be completely without strings attached,” and then he fell into nearly hysterical laughter on the ground, grateful beyond description for the blessing of being both awake and momentarily distracted from his terrible circumstances for the first time in he didn’t know how many months.

  “I’ll be sure to make my friends carefully in Sogolia,” said Istus. Then, both Sworin and Pitkins fell into uncontrollable laughter.

  Finally, when it seemed the tension had been eased sufficiently by the unexpected display of pugilistic prowess, Sworin grew serious. “I made a promise to you many years ago that if you ever needed my help, I’d give it to you, even if it meant providing an army. Although many years have passed since then, a promise is a promise. We shall go to the king at once and inform him of the situation. Given our tumultuous past with Dachwald, if Dachwald is trying to create an empire for itself, if we’re not their next target, we’ll be close on the list. King Valen will actually be quite pleased to meet you and reinstate your knight status. As I told you when I came to see you in Sodorf, your name has already been cleared, and you are technically still the general of the Nikorians. In your absence I have been their general, but I will gladly assume a secondary role if you will once again lead them . . . will you accept?”

  “Gladly,” Pitkins said firmly.

  “Good. Then all is settled. We shall go to the king at once, and after a few formalities, we will get down to business immediately!”

  “Agreed.”

  Off they set towards the palace, but, just as they were leaving, Istus said, “Pitkins, I wish you well with this endeavor. But it’s time for me to go now. I have a lot of hard, dangerous work to do with the pholungs, and even the konulans, back in Sodorf and Dachwald. Getting them to rebel against Tristan will be crucial if your army is to stand a fair chance at winning this war. If they remain loyal to Tristan, he’ll know immediately of your entrance into Sodorf, and he’ll ambush you, trust me, no matter how many scouts you send out, no matter how cautiously you proceed. I wish you luck. I hope you wish me the same. I’m certainly going to need it. I believe I know which pholungs and konulans will turn against Tristan; I hope I’m not wrong.”

  Pitkins was touched. He owed his life to this bird. Although ironically it was this same bird that had brought him to the dark dungeon where he had spent the most miserable months of his entire life, he now realized that if Istus hadn’t done it, another pholung would have. But that pholung probably wouldn’t have had the courage to free him from his prison and oppose Tristan. He didn’t know quite what to say.

  “Istus,” he said, looking him squarely in the eye, “you’re one of the bravest, noblest creatures I’ve ever met. Perhaps I should hate you for imprisoning me, but having observed some of Tristan’s handiwork, I realize just how intimidating that monster can be, and therefore just how brave you are to dare oppose him. This I promise you: I will do my best to bring an army the likes of which Tristan has never seen—at least not in a long time. Do your part, and, I promise you, we will prevail.”

  “Pitkins, together we’ll crush the Dachwaldians.”

  And having said that, Istus flew off into the distance.

  Sworin and Pitkins rode on large, tall white horses to the palace. As they did so, they took advantage of the last moment of leisure they would have for quite some time to talk about the old times. Wars they had fought together, ambushes they had survived, festivals they had attended, and many other things. They had been friends and fellow warriors for years and had saved each other’s life on more occasions than either could count. Their trust in each other’s word and abilities was as solid as stone.

  Approaching the palace, Pitkins nearly lost his breath. Large marble towers jutting boldly into the sky. The sharp, angular rooftop covered in gold. Large stone pillars supporting the front of what was a very large entrance.

  “I see there have been some upgrades since I left!” Pitkins observed.

  “Indeed,” Sworin responded as they rode towards the temple. “Our harvests have been plentiful, and we have been quite successful at defending ourselves against the Metinvurs, so, yes, things have gone quite well for us.”

  Entering the palace, Pitkins stood back while Sworin went and solemnly approached the king. Kneeling on one knee, he said, “King Valen, Sir Pitkins III has returned!”

  King Valen nearly fell out of his throne. “Sir Pitkins . . . III?!”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  In a gesture unheard of for a king, King Valen approached Pitkins and kneeled before him. “Sir Pitkins, if you can ever forgive the grave injustice that this kingdom did to you, I will be eternally grateful. As I’m sure Sworin has informed you, the person who framed you for the crime for which you were wrongly punished was executed many years ago, and our kingdom has mourned your absence ever since. Please, tell me, is there anything at all I can do for you?!”

  Embarrassed by the deference being shown to him, Pitkins prostrated himself on the ground face first. Although he had not been involved in royal situations such as these for many, many years, he had certainly not forgotten his upbringing. No respectable knight would ever allow his king, under any circumstances, to bow lower than he did.

  Prostrated on the ground, Pitkins said, “I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude to Your Majesty for receiving me back into your kingdom. I am truly honored.”

  “Sir Pitkins, this very moment, I shall re-knight you in front of all present.”

  The one hundred or so people that happened to be in the royal hall gathered around to observe. Pitkins rose from his prostrated position, but still kneeling. Tapping both of Pitkins’ shoulders with a long, traditional Sogolian sword, King Valen said, “In front of all of those that bear witness, I once again dub thee Sir Pitkins III. Rise a knight!”

  Everyone cheered wildly. The temptation to have a massive celebration was great, but old King Valen was wise enough to sense that Pitkins had not come back to be re-knighted, much less for lavish festivities. Taking him into his private quarters with Sworin, the king asked Pitkins if there was any way he could be of service. Pitkins explained to him the whole situation.

  After hearing him out, King Valen said, “They sound as vicious as the Metinvurs! Even worse perhaps. You’ve come at a good time—the Metinvurs haven’t attacked for over a year, and the armies of this great country are waiting for action. We better hit them hard before they hit us. It’ll only be a matter of time before they head west towards our land. Tell me how many men you need, and they’re yours!”

  This was merely tactful speech. Having been a general and in charge of the protection of Sogolia for many years, he knew that whether it was peacetime or not, the Sogolians still needed to maintain a sizable army in Sogolia for defensive purposes.

  “How many soldiers does Sogolia currently have?”

  “Sixty thousand Sogolian regulars, ten thousand Nikorians.”

  “Your Majesty, if you will be so kind as to give me thirty thousand Sogolian regulars and five thousand Nikorians, I would be eternally grateful.”

  “Consider it done. Just please make sure you bring them back quickly! If the Metinv
urs find out we are at half our strength, they will be emboldened, possibly enough so as to launch an attack on us. I’ll send out messengers immediately to gather them so that you can begin training them for combat against this new weapon. As far as weaponry and armor are concerned, consider the treasury yours!” King Valen said warmly.

  This was not tactful speech. He knew the king meant it. King Valen knew Pitkins wouldn’t exaggerate the threat of an enemy invader. Pitkins had proved his military analysis impeccable time and time again. After they had finished a few additional formalities, and after Pitkins had been introduced to a few of the new governors of Sogolia, the king dismissed them, knowing that they had a lot of work to do.

  After they had been dismissed, they set off towards a large building a few miles south of the royal palace that contained the finest Sogolian sword smiths, blacksmiths, and metalsmiths.

  As they rode their horses towards the building, Sworin turned to Pitkins with a concerned look on his face. “Pitkins, are you sure you know of a way to counter this fishing mace weapon?” Sworin had never heard Pitkins describe an enemy weapon with such awe, and this unnerved him.

  “I think so. But not having any fishing maces here to practice against, our first trial run is going to be in a battle that will decide the fate of an entire nation.”

  “You keep things interesting,” Sworin said, trying to sound tough but starting to feel a nervousness he hadn’t felt in years. He wasn’t afraid of death, but he was afraid of leaving his son to be raised without a father.

  “We’ll have to do our best to try and simulate what a fishing mace does so that we can at least increase our chances of making it work.”

  Over the course of the next week, Pitkins and Sworin worked closely with the best metalsmiths in Sogolia to design the device Pitkins envisioned. For the next week, all the Sogolian troops, including the Nikorians, trained about fifteen hours a day with the new device. They did their best to simulate the fishing mace attacks they would soon be facing. Pitkins knew they needed more time to prepare, but they simply didn’t have it. He would have to depend entirely on the raw talent that had so many times gotten his troops through battles they shouldn’t have survived. Pitkins, Sworin, and the Sogolian army—the Nikorians led by Pitkins, the Sogolian regulars by Sworin—set out for the City of Sodorf. Pitkins knew they did not have much time. His mind drifted back to Donive. Back to the dream he had.

  Please let her still be alive. Please.

  Chapter 15

  “WHERE IN UCHINWELD DID SOGOLIANS COME FROM, I ASKED?!!!” Tristan shouted at the top of his lungs to Feiklen.

  “Master,” Feiklen began—we had no reason to suspect an attack would be coming from the west. The Sogolians and Sodorfians never had an alliance. They haven’t had political or diplomatic ties for centuries! Why should we have ever suspected they would lay their necks on the line to save Sodorf?! Furthermore, it seems very strange that none of your pholungs reported their entrance into Sodorf! They should have reported them days ago!”

  “What did you say?!” asked Tristan, his voice now nearly in a whisper. A chilling whisper.

  “Master, it’s just that it seems strange that your pholungs didn’t report them days ago—Sogolia is many miles from here.”

  That does seem strange, Tristan thought—MORE than strange . . . impossible.

  (your pholungs have betrayed you)

  No, they wouldn’t DARE . . . at least, not all of them.

  (if some, then which ones?!)

  Thoughts such as these rushed through Tristan’s mind rapidly as he tried to compose himself and decide how to deal with this very large, very unexpected threat.

  You must pull yourself together. Worry about the pholungs later—right now, you have an army to deal with!

  Although he knew every second he waited to meet the threat of this advancing army was going to make it more difficult for his men to establish a good formation and plan of attack

  (or defense . . . plan of defense?)

  against them, he couldn’t resist himself—“FIRE ONE MORE VOLLEY!!” he shouted, his eyes nearly red with rage, his fury uncontainable.

  The Dachwaldians without hesitation shoved a large rock into their designated wooden missiles. The immense weight of the stones brought the wooden missiles about two hundred feet underground, at which point the large stones fell through a hole in the tunnel; the sudden loss of thousands of pounds enabled the Achenpulp to stretch violently back to its original shape, sending the wooden, pheorite-and-naphtha-stuffed missiles flying high into the air towards the City of Sodorf.

  The first volley had already caused a huge amount of damage. Fritzer, who had been standing on top of one of the towers, had been lifted clear off his feet from the first volley of explosions—even though it landed at least fifty feet away—and sent flying through the air. He landed on top of a building—a small, one-story tavern—and the air went rushing out of his lungs as his back hit the roof hard. BAMM!! Many people had fared much worse than him. The first volley had killed thousands, and the quickly spreading fires were claiming more and more lives. Suddenly, he heard the dreaded sound again.

  WHOOSHH!! WHOOSHH!! WHOOSHH, WHOOSHH, WHOOSHH, WHOOSHH, WHOOSHH, WHOOSHH!!

  The wooden missiles cut through the air like angry bees. Fritzer mustered all of his strength and stood up. He saw hundreds upon hundreds of wooden missiles coming right at the city. Knowing that within a few seconds things might get so chaotic that he would not even be able to give orders, he barked out the command, “ALL SOLDIERS, ATTACK! ATTACK!! WE CANNOT STAY HERE!!”

  He shouted this over and over. Fortunately, the bugler managed to call off his command, and other buglers followed suit, before the next volley landed. Fritzer knew that, regardless of how low his army’s chances were of defeating the Dachwaldians by charging them, they were going to be obliterated to a man if they stayed within these walls much longer. Then . . . came the impacts: BOOM!! BOOMM!! BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!! The wooden missiles beat the ground with the rapidity of a woodpecker striking a tree.

  More buildings were disintegrated, and by now large portions of the entire city were ablaze. The Sodorfian temple itself had been badly damaged, though not obliterated. The force of the blast once again knocked Fritzer off of his feet. This time he fell straight to the ground, although fortunately for him he happened to land in a horse trough, which had about two feet of water in it, softening his fall. Groaning in pain, he stumbled towards his horse.

  “LONG LIVE SODOOOORF!!” he cried over the sound of the roaring flames and the sounds of those that were suffering badly from broken bones or merciless burns. Only five thousand Sodorfian regulars were even left, but those that were shared Fritzer’s determination to go down fighting. Mounting their horses, they began streaming out of the city. Fritzer rode at the front of the soldiers emerging from the blazing city. For a brief moment he thought of his family. Patsrona and Binstel had been hidden in a large underground room beneath the temple. It was the place where most of the nobility had put their families. They’ll probably never make it, he thought to himself.

  As he thought of Donive, he grew sad. I’ll never even have the chance to say goodbye to her, he thought to himself mournfully. She was probably dead already, slain at the hands of the diabolical Dachwaldians. Strangely, the more he thought about it, the more peace it gave him.

  At least she’s already dead; I shudder to think of the horrors that will befall Patsrona and Binstel.

  They would perhaps be enslaved or tortured to death. But such thoughts were of no use. Right now he needed to focus, focus hard, on taking down as many Dachwaldians as he possibly could, and just pray that somehow Patsrona and Binstel would escape or that their death would at least be swift and painless.

  “FORWAAAAARD!!” he shouted, his sword held high in a gesture of defiance and determination, as his men began to climb up the hill.

  Tristan couldn’t believe his eyes. “I didn’t think the Sodorfians had the ner
ve to fight when they knew they had no chance of winning!!” he said out loud to no one in particular. The Sogolians were steadily moving towards the battlefield.

  “A CURSE ON THE SODORFIANS!! ONLY THEY COULD HAVE SUCH LUCK!!” he yelled bitterly. Feiklen snapped him out of his unhelpful tirade.

  “MASTER!!” he said with a sternness and firmness with which he had never addressed Tristan, “What are our orders?!!!” he growled.

  Tristan snapped out of it. They were being approached on two sides, and the distance was closing fast.

  “We have the high ground!” Tristan roared excitedly, beginning to feel the renewed optimism a condemned man must feel when he realizes the trapdoor on the gallows won’t open. “Our numbers seem nearly even. LET US NOT WASTE TIME!! We know the Sodorfians are pathetic fighters, but we can’t be sure about the Sogolians. Our armies haven’t met for centuries. Keep enough men at the top of this hill to neutralize the Sodorfians; meanwhile, send the bulk of your army to crush these perfidious Sogolians! Show them what happens to those who dare offer aid to the subhuman Sodorfians!!”

  “Yes, master!” Feiklen said, and then immediately consulted with Kihlgun and the other Moscorian leaders. They decided two hundred Moscorians and three thousand Vechengschaft at the top of the hill, armed with longbows, should be sufficient to hold the Sodorfians off long enough for the rest of the army to take out the Sogolians. The buglers immediately began trumpeting out orders. The Dachwaldians fell into position. Those on the top of the hill began mercilessly showering the advancing Sodorfians with arrows.

  Pitkins was at the front of the advancing army. His army formed a large U shape, the circular part facing the Dachwaldians. This seemed strange to the rapidly advancing Dachwaldians. In fact, it seemed downright silly.

  “STEADY!!” Pitkins barked at his men as the tightly packed, square-like formation of Moscorians and Vechengschaft rapidly approached them. The Sogolian army was a sight to behold on any day, but especially so on this day. The Nikorians wore snow-white armor adorned with gold patterns. The Sogolian regulars wore darkish brown uniforms with brilliantly white patterns sewn on the front, sacred symbols of the Sogolian military tradition. The two masses of well-trained warriors drew nearer and nearer like approaching herds of rival bison.