

The War With Dachwald (second and last volume of Dachwald series).

This book is a work of fiction. All names and places are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2014 by Daniel Lawlis

All rights reserved.

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(Adjustments to photo made by Daniel Lawlis)

1The War With Dachwald

Chapter 1

Most of the Sodorfians were excited. They reckoned if they were going to have to train hour after hour, they may as well finally get the chance to see some action and test their skills. Within an hour, nearly all of the Sodorfian army was heading north. Ten thousand were left stationed at the City of Sodorf; another ten thousand would be stationed at Seihdun; but the rest were going into Dachwald. About eight hours later they reached the border.

A strange feeling swept over General Fuhdor as his horse exited the forest that demarcated the boundary between Sodorf and Dachwald. His heart beat faster. It all seemed surreal. He had spent most of his life reading military history, dreaming about one day becoming a conqueror, and now it appeared he just might have the opportunity to be the heroic conqueror he had always dreamt of. And what could be more heroic than defeating the ancient enemy of the Sodorfians and saving thousands of Sodorfians from a fiery death? Those kinds of bragging rights never expired. Accomplish that, he thought, and you can retire peacefully knowing you've earned a permanent spot in the history books.

Taking a deep breath, almost as if expecting some invisible wall to be present there, his mind still unable to completely grasp the enormity of his next step, he nudged his horse with his knees, signaling it to proceed forward. As his horse's hoof touched Dachwaldian soil, he confronted no invisible wall but found that his heart was galloping in his chest in stark contrast to the calm gait of his horse. As if every step further reinforced the reality of what he was doing. His expression, however, remained so stoic not even the shrewdest of observers would have sensed the powerful emotions running through his mind.

As they continued deeper into Dachwald, General Fuhdor expected there would indeed be enemy lookouts, but he expected he wouldn't run into any large forces of Dachwaldians until he reached Castle Dachwald. After all, it would only make sense for the Vechengschaft to force the Sodorfians to fight them there. It was their best strategic position. They could hold out there until the sun ran out of gas. And behind the safety of their walls, Fuhdor knew they would pummel the oncoming Sodorfians to pieces with rocks like a snapping turtle devouring its prey while safe underneath its large, hard shell.

This was the kind of fight they wanted, but he was going to have none of it. If they wanted to hide behind their shell, he would just have to crush the damn thing into pieces and then eat out the soft underbelly. He'd be damned if he was going to allow them to fight the way a turtle fights. Turtles—he'd hated them ever since boyhood. Ever since his big brother Sidgon, the biggest toughest kid in the whole wide world had been bitten by one when they were playing in the creek when they were kids, and he was only three, and they were hunting crawdads, and they were having a wonderful time, and then Sidgon was screaming and blood was going everywhere, and Fuhdor didn't know what to do, but his Big Brother told him to run quick and get Daddy, and Sidgon's toe had been torn clean off by a snapping turtle the size of a well-fed pig, and Daddy had gone after the turtle saying he was going to kill it and he was sure Daddy was going to get his toe eaten off too just like his Big Brother, or maybe even his whole leg, but Daddy was faster than the turtle; he ran around it, turned it upside down and then stabbed its soft underbelly repeatedly until the big mean turtle stopped trying to bite.

The clarity of the memory astonished him and sent a chill down his spine, as he felt the same sensations he had on that day so many years ago. It may as well have happened yesterday; he'd have known the details just as closely. After patching up his older brother's toe, his father, a widely admired general, had sat both of them down and told them he had something very important to tell them. "Boys, some things in life are just too strong to attack head-on. They're tough and hard like the shell of that turtle. But everything, everything, has a soft spot, and that's what you have to do. Find the soft spot, expose it, attack it, kill it."

It had left an indelible mark on his psyche. Castle Dachwald's soft spot was how far it could shoot its projectiles. Outside that projectile range, his army was safe and sound, and the Dachwaldians wouldn't dare come out, not if they wanted to stay within their protective shell. With his new trebuchets—over one hundred feet tall and capable of launching objects twice the distance as a normal trebuchet—he was going to stay outside of their range and hit, hit, hit the castle until its shell was all gone. Then, only underbelly would be left. Soft, slimy, ornery, righteous-punishment-deserving underbelly, and his troops would cut that underbelly into so many pieces the gods themselves wouldn't be able to sort them out.

All the same. They're damned anyway.

The pieces for the trebuchets were carried in wagons. They would be assembled immediately upon arrival. However, these wagons couldn't travel as fast as the rest of his army, so they were all moving at a slower pace in order to stay together. The trebuchet equipment had to be protected at all costs. He calculated the reduction in speed would probably delay their arrival to Castle Dachwald by at least two days. Nonetheless, he was confident they could be productive during that time. In fact, he was hopeful they would run into some Vechengschaft before reaching the castle so that his men, who would no doubt greatly outnumber them, could have a taste of combat. Get their feet wet.

As they tread across Dachwald, General Fuhdor could not help being a bit struck by the sight of what was clearly immense agricultural damage. It looked like a cloud of locusts or something of that nature had gone through and just destroyed everything, yet everything besides the crops seemed perfectly okay. He found this interesting, but it still didn't convince him there was any chance of the Dachwaldians not being at fault in this whole conflict. Five hundred and twenty-four smashed and sliced Sodorfians were proof of that.

They're going to pay.

As they continued walking, he noticed how scared many of the Dachwaldians were to see their lands being invaded. Women screamed and went running inside their homes seeking refuge. He also noticed that, in spite of the fact that he saw many Dachwaldians as they continued to ride north, he had yet to see a single Dachwaldian male, except for young boys and old men.

(all fighting-age Dachwaldians must have been conscripted; you might be up against a lot more troops than you think)

They continued traveling north until they could finally see Castle Dachwald off in the distance. He looked at the small towns dotting the landscape around the castle walls. If they get hit by my projectiles, he told himself, too bad, so sad. The castle was still far off in the distance. He decided he better not get too close for comfort. After all, it would be at least a couple more days before his engineers arrived and began assembling their trebuchets.

"Set up camp!!" he ordered in a loud voice. His troops began doing so. They all slept uneasily that night.

They had been trained well, but still many of them had an innate fear of Dachwald. To a certain extent all of the propaganda and military history they had been taught over the last six months sapped their confidence rather than increased it. After all, it may indeed be true, they reasoned, that the Dachwaldians were horrible monsters, but this wasn't a popularity contest—this was war. And being so monstrous might not be so bad in this business, they further reasoned. However, despite these fears that were gnawing away at their confidence, they also had hatred. And a desire for revenge. This hatred and desire for revenge were currently at war with the fear and trepidation they were experiencing. A war in and of itself raging inside their heads like an invisible maelstrom.

Many of them hoped for a chance to kill a Dachwaldian right up close. Before entering Dachwald, General Fuhdor had ordered that as many as possible stop by to see what the Sodorfians that had recently escaped from Dachwald had been through. The sight of emaciated bodies, whip marks, brandings, and other physical punishments did the trick. Just like General Fuhdor wanted, they all became nearly blind with rage. Revenge was on their mind as they slept. They kept about three hundred sentries awake to watch out for an ambush. Each sentry had to be on the lookout for about two hours, and then rotated with another Sodorfian.

Suddenly, a Sodorfian messenger came to General Fuhdor, and said, urgently, "General, I have very important news for you!"

"What news do you have?"

"General, one of the Sodorfians that escaped believes he knows where at least one of the death camps is—the one that they all escaped from! He was still in shock when you visited the escapees, but he began showing signs of recovery yesterday and said he was pretty sure of the location. I showed him a map, and he pointed to it!"

"Where is it?! I must know immediately; we must act immediately!"

The messenger produced a map and handed it over to General Fuhdor. "Here you go, sir," he said. "As you can see, it appears to be located just northwest of here . . . perhaps about four miles away."

General Fuhdor scanned the map carefully, his blood boiling.

"I'm gonna show those bastards what happens to people who try to annihilate Sodorfians. Bugler, sound the alarm; get everyone ready for battle. We're heading northwest!"

After the first bugler sounded the signal, all the higher-ranking officers came to General Fuhdor to receive their orders. They knew as soon as they heard the sound of the bugle this was no joking matter. About fifty high- and middle-ranking officers came to General Fuhdor. They comprised captains, lieutenants, colonels, majors, and a few of the most experienced sergeants.

General Fuhdor brought them into his tent.

Inside was a large map of Dachwald older than time itself. It was based upon work cartographers had done centuries ago, even before the Seven Years War. After the Seven Years War, the treaty allowed the Sodorfians to go into Dachwald whenever they pleased with the best cartographers available and make up-to-date maps. But, they shortsightedly saw no benefit in doing so. Granted, Dachwald's physical geography was not vastly different, but there were differences in the areas of human and commercial geography.

The map would have to do.

There was a village called Ichsendarg, just south of where the extermination camp apparently lay. It was about a three-mile march. General Fuhdor addressed the officers: "Gentlemen, we don't have time for fancy strategies. Our fellow Sodorfians are being slaughtered as we speak. We must act; we have every reason to believe we have great numerical superiority. Let history not say that thousands of Sodorfians roasted in flames while we, with a far superior force, sat on our laurels and argued about strategy!"

"How much of the army shall we take with us?" asked Colonel Osinduhr.

"I propose we take a force of nearly eighty thousand men. I don't want to risk all of our elite Hugars, so I think an adequate arrangement would be 77,500 Sodorfian regulars and two thousand Hugars. That will preserve four thousand Hugars and two thousand Sodorfian regulars to watch our rear flank. We must use overwhelming force to attack these bastards, and our chances will be much better if we make one decisive strike!!" he said, pounding the table in front of him for emphasis.

"But, General," Colonel Osinduhr said, "isn't it rather risky to launch a strike so impulsively and peremptorily without first taking the time to send a reconnoitering party ahead to see if this camp is indeed there and to see how large the opposing force is? This could be a trap!"

"Under different circumstances I would be in complete agreement with you. If the only thing at stake were this army, then, of course, I would first send out reconnoitering parties. But you saw those people back there in Sodorf that escaped the extermination camp! The whip marks, the bruises, the branding marks, the burn marks! You saw all that! You know that what they said is true: That they are roasting Sodorfians alive, just like during the Seven Years War. If ever there were a gamble worth taking, this is it! Besides, I feel confident our army can withstand even the most heinous Dachwaldian booby traps and ambushes.

"Now, I will concede one thing: It is very likely the Dachwaldians know we're coming—that I can't deny. They've got to know by now we're in their country. An army of around eighty thousand men doesn't just waltz in and go unnoticed! Of course they know we're here—so what?! LET THEM KNOW THAT WE'RE COMING!! I really DON'T CARE!! We're going to go to that extermination camp, and we're going to drop every last one of them inside their own devilish pits!! Do you want the history books to say we sat around and strategized while thousands of Sodorfians were being brutally slaughtered?!!

"Every second that goes by, a child becomes an orphan, a husband a widower, a wife a widow . . . will you face these people one day and look them in the eye and tell them you could have saved their loved ones but you didn't because you had your noses buried in a strategy book?! Now, WHO'S WITH ME?!!!" his eyes blazed, daring someone to challenge him.

All the officers stood and cheered. Although they had been somewhat skeptical, this fiery speech had instilled them not only with confidence, but with rage. It was time to take revenge. Time to show the Dachwaldians once and for all to stay the hell away from Sodorf.

"READY YOUR MEN!! IN TWENTY MINUTES, WE MARCH!!!"

"YEAHHHH!!!" his officers cheered.

"Colonel Osinduhr, you will stay here in charge of our rear guard, in case any Dachwaldians attempt to ambush us from the south," General Fuhdor informed him.

"Yes, General."

They immediately left the large tent and passed the news throughout the ranks. Everyone began readying themselves . . . psychologically and physically. They re-sharpened their already-razor-sharp axes and swords. They slapped each other on the back and told each other how tough they were. Then they got into formation.

It was an impressive sight to behold.

Gleaming armor shone in the early afternoon sunlight like precious jewels. They were aligned in neat, symmetrical rows, thousands upon thousands of them, looking like men on a large chessboard.

"MAAAARCHHHH!!!" roared the officers. They began marching. The sound of them marching in perfect cadence was like the chomping of a crunchy meal, and it reverberated for miles. It was an intimidating sound. The sound of men marching with a singular purpose. The expression on their faces as determined as that of a prize fighter determined to knock the reigning champ off his throne and onto the canvass for a little nap time. There were sins to avenge today. Sins against their brethren. After a little over an hour, they were within less than a mile from their ultimate objective. As they neared it, they entered into a deep valley. North of where they were marching was a large hill off in the distance. It was large and somewhat imposing, but it didn't look so difficult that they would have to go around it.

"FORWARD!!" shouted the officers, exhorting their men to not lose pace or heart. They continued marching forward. They were now in the middle of the valley—about a half mile from the base of the large hill.

Chapter 2

A large group of Sodorfians were being herded into Arbeitplatz. Children crying. Men and women scared, but doing their best to comfort their weeping children. Lying to them as much as their consciences would allow. They were coming here to work . . . they wanted to believe it, but were uncertain as to what the Dachwaldians truly had in store for them. Arbeitplatz covered several hundred acres of land. The fence surrounding it was about twenty feet tall, and while it was made out of wood, each individual piece of wood that stood vertically to compose the fence was sharpened to a point from which a razor-sharp spike protruded straight up into the air, as if daring anyone to try to get over it. Many of the Sodorfians began asking themselves why, if this was indeed simply a place for them to work, were there such stringent security measures. Perhaps to defend against Sodorfian attacks?

As the mass of anxious Sodorfians poured through the gates, they were all being observed very carefully by the watchful eye of Feiklen. He studied their every move like a cat watching a bird. He watched their facial expressions. The way they communicated with each other. Their eyes. He was looking for a special kind of Sodorfian. He had already seen several that just might fit the profile.

One was middle-aged. His name was Polunk, and his shifty eyes darted around quickly, alertly, scanning the camp's walls, looking at the guards, quickly looking down or away whenever his observations seemed noticed.

A good candidate, Feiklen thought.

Feiklen's penetrating eyes continued scanning the masses of Sodorfians entering Arbeitplatz. After about twenty more minutes he spotted several more Sodorfians that seemed to fit the profile. As the Sodorfians continued streaming into the camp, he had some of his guards take the men he had selected from the crowd and bring them into his office. He wanted these twelve brought in one at a time. He was going to try to find out which could be used for the task he had in mind . . . a task Tristan had demanded be accomplished.

The first was brought in.

"Have a seat," Feiklen said. Feiklen was sitting behind a spacious desk. He had the Sodorfian sit down in the chair in front of his desk.

"What's your name, Sodorfian?" Feiklen asked roughly.

"Achensine," he replied.

"Achensine, do you know why you're here?" Feiklen asked.

"No, sir," he replied.

"You disappoint me," Feiklen said dryly. Having said these words he nodded his head towards Kihlgun, who was standing behind Achensine. Kihlgun walked towards him, put him into a powerful stranglehold and began to squeeze. Achensine tried to push away from the desk with his feet enough so that he could stand up and try to turn around and face Kihlgun and escape the stranglehold.

It was no use.

Not only would he never have been able to escape from such a hold being applied by a warrior as strong and skilled in Gicksin as Kihlgun anyway, but he only had about two or three seconds to do so, because that was all the time it took for Kihlgun to crush his windpipe. Achensine's face turned purple, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he died.

"Very disappointing," Feiklen said dryly. "Very disappointing."

Kihlgun picked up the corpse and put it in the room behind him. He could be disposed of later. There were more interviews that needed to be done.

"Bring the next one in," said Feiklen.

Kihlgun opened the door, walked down the hallway, and then summoned another Sodorfian.

"Come with me," Kihlgun said. The Sodorfian stood up and followed him down the hallway and into Feiklen's room for his interview. Unfortunately, he didn't fare any better than Achensine. After a mere thirty seconds, one of his answers wasn't quite to Feiklen's satisfaction, so, after a nod of the head to Kihlgun, he also ended up in the three-second stranglehold.

This lack of success continued for quite some time. One Sodorfian after another came into the room to be interviewed, and the only thing each succeeded in doing was adding to the growing pile of corpses in the back room.

Only one candidate left. Kihlgun went down the hallway and summoned him.

Polunk eyed his surroundings like a fox sensing a trap. His discomfort increased when he noticed that none of the men that had been summoned were even in the room into which he had just walked. His shrewd eyes also immediately noticed the fact that small chips of wood lay on the floor right below the front of Feiklen's desk. Perhaps someone had been kicking at the desk for some reason, he thought to himself. Feiklen eyed him closely as well, and for a brief second as they looked at each other it was as if there was a sort of mutual understanding between them. Two wolves that just happened to be in rival packs. But wolves nonetheless.

"My name is Feiklen. What's your name, Sodorfian?" asked Feiklen immediately.

"Polunk," he said flatly.

"What do you do, or, perhaps better said, what did you do?"

"I was an accountant," he said.

His eyes didn't leave Feiklen's.

"Do you know why you're here, Polunk?" Feiklen asked him.

"You plan to slaughter all of us, just like you attempted during the Seven Years war around 830 years ago. This whole camp is simply an extermination camp. Sure, you might pick a few of the most strapping men to do some very hard work for the new military machine that Dachwald is preparing to unleash on the world, but that isn't the primary purpose of this place. That is just to deceive Sodorfians, make them behave like good little lambs as they come here to be slaughtered," Polunk replied, his gaze never leaving Feiklen's eyes.

Feiklen was impressed. He neither expected an answer that was so accurate nor so blunt.

"Well," Feiklen responded, having a hard time deciding just how to respond to such an accurate summation not only of the camp, but of the overall situation in Dachwald, "suppose I were to concede that perhaps there is some truth in what you say—why do you think you are here, right now, in my office?"

"Well, with regards to the hypothetical premise of your question, if you concede some truth in my words, I would concede then there is some truthfulness in you. As for why I am here, you obviously need some dirty work done. What do I get in exchange?"

Feiklen felt like he had just been kicked in the groin. For a moment he felt like he was negotiating with a fellow Moscorian. For an even briefer moment, he wondered if this person wasn't a Moscorian. Perhaps one he wasn't well acquainted with. He had never met someone outside the Moscorians with such a survival-of-the-fittest mentality. Not only was he surprised at the mere fact that this person had been so perceptive and so bold as to flat-out tell him the truth about what the place was for and what the fate of most of its guests would be, he was nearly blown out of his seat by this man's shameless candor and wits.

"Don't you even want to know what the job is?" asked Feiklen, unable to keep from chuckling a little bit. He felt like he had just met his Sodorfian counterpart.

"No, that can come later. What do I get?"

Yes, he had made a good pick. Too bad you're a Sodorfian. You might have made a great Moscorian, Feiklen thought to himself.

"Well, basically what you get is freedom. You get to escape."

"That sounds good. Now, what do I have to do, and what's the catch?"

"It'll be so easy you might even have a hard time believing it. For reasons I can't disclose, an escape must take place of a group of prisoners, and they must make it all the way to Sodorf. Now, without someone like you, endowed with the wits of a fox, most of these people wouldn't be smart enough to escape out of a box with a map on the inside. As you may have noticed, the layout of this idyllic getaway consists of multiple huts, each of which can hold about a hundred people. What you are going to do is convince as many people in your cabin as you can to escape. The thing is, though, you must do so without them knowing that the escape itself is going to be permitted to occur."

Feiklen paused briefly to try and determine Polunk's reaction to what he had been told thus far. He sensed he was intrigued. He continued, "I am going to explain everything you have to do to successfully orchestrate this escape. There will be arrangements made so that the guards will know when this escape is happening and will allow it to be a success. This is not something that is going to happen tomorrow. You and the rest of the designated escapees will have to spend at least a few weeks here. These few weeks will be no picnic. There will be some rough treatment, you'll get bruised up a bit, but I'll make sure my guards know not to go too far with you. I know this might not sound too great, but the alternative is being thrown alive into a fiery pit," Feiklen finished, shrugging his shoulders.

Polunk's response was devoid of fear or urgency. It was utterly to the point. "How is the escape supposed to work?" Polunk asked dryly.

Avoiding the direct question momentarily, Feiklen sat back in his chair and said, "You know, I'm impressed with you. It's actually quite difficult for me to even believe you are a Sodorfian. Never in my life have I ever met a Sodorfian with such a keen sense of survival. It's awe-inspiring. Now, as far as how the escape is going to work—I can't go into detail on that at this time. Although I certainly have a good feeling about you and feel you can be trusted, I believe actions speak louder than words. What I want you to do now is to go back amongst the rest of the Sodorfian inmates and simply blend in. Don't worry about our arrangement; all of my guards will know who you are, and while there will be no overt favoritism towards you, they'll make sure you don't suffer any serious injuries. I'll have my eye on you: that I promise you. Don't jump to the insane, dangerous, erroneous conclusion that you are the only one amongst the prisoners who is doing special work for me in exchange for favors! There are others. I have others whose sole purpose is simply to keep an eye on you. And if you let it slip out to one person that this escape is going to be permitted to happen by the Dachwaldian guards, I'll have you roasted so slowly and painfully, you'll scream yourself hoarse hours before you actually die! Are we on the same page?!"

"I've got it," he responded directly. "I do have one question, however. Until I am notified by you, do you even want me to drop hints suggesting that perhaps escape might be a good idea, or should I not even mention anything like that until the designated time?"

"Wait for now. Before the method and the exact circumstances of the escape are actually decided, I don't want you to even suggest to anyone that you want to escape. Now, obviously, general statements indicating you're not happy here and that you would like to escape are fine; if you didn't make any comments like that, you'd stand out like a crack in a mirror. What I don't want you to do, however, is suggest you actually have an escape plan or that you know of a possible means of escape."

"Understood."

"Good. Now, go out and join the rest of the prisoners. You'll be assigned to Hut H; you'll be shown where it is. And remember, I have my eye on you!"

Polunk's expression communicated that he understood. He was escorted outside by Kihlgun and then handed over to another Moscorian guard and taken to Hut H.

Kihlgun walked back to the room.

"What do you think, Feiklen?" he asked; "can we trust him?"

"I think so," he said. "I must admit I admire the cold-blooded instincts of that SOB. It's a shame that we'll have to kill him anyway just to make sure he never reveals our arrangement to anyone," he said chuckling.

"Yeah, a real shame!" Kihlgun concurred, laughing.

Feiklen unfortunately wasn't lying to Polunk when he told him that he'd be treated roughly at times. On several occasions, one of the Moscorian guards gave him several good knocks with a wooden staff and barked at him to work harder or he'd be cleaning latrines with his tongue. Some people in Hut H were flogged; a few were branded. Some of these punishments were meted out to keep up appearances, but many were given simply due to the cruel nature of the Moscorians. Over the next several weeks, Feiklen kept his eye on Polunk like a snake watching a mouse. He did a particularly large amount of spying on him through a small window through which he could observe all of the prisoners. He watched them toiling away, digging ditches and holes and performing other menial tasks. Feiklen was looking for any sign that the prisoners were giving Polunk any special attention. The kind of attention a man with an escape plan got in a place like this. He didn't seem to. Everything seemed just right.

Once he became convinced Polunk could indeed be trusted with this secret and that he was disciplined enough to encourage the prisoners to escape, he decided to begin preparations immediately. He had Polunk brought into his office. The last several weeks had taken their toll on Polunk, but he still appeared strong. He had some bruises on his face; he had become a bit thinner; but, if anything, he appeared even more alert, his survival instincts more acute.

"You've managed to survive here for the last several weeks—that in and of itself is no measly accomplishment," said Feiklen. "I've been watching you closely, as I said I would. Watching to see if the other prisoners are looking at you in any special way, as they most certainly would if you had revealed our little secret. They don't appear to be. Furthermore, my informants have confirmed you haven't revealed anything, so I'm gonna go ahead and proceed with the plan. If all goes well, within weeks you will be not only out of this prison camp, but out of Dachwald altogether. This will be good for you because, as you've learned, Dachwald's a damn dangerous place for Sodorfians. They're fish swimming in a lake full of alligators. My advice would be to not stop in Sodorf. I'd just keep on heading south like a pack of snarling wolves were snapping at your heels. I think you, being an intelligent man, can understand why this would be advisable," Feiklen said.

"What do I need to do?" was Polunk's laconic response.

"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 that 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, remembered 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)

Nighttime arrived. He sat up on his bed in silence. Finally, working up his courage, he nudged the person lying on the top of the bunk bed, and said, "Hey, I have something very important to discuss; please, come this way."

The prisoner looked at him a bit curiously. Polunk started walking up to everyone in the hut, nudging them, waking them, urging them to come and listen to him. Some people told him to "get lost;" some had even harsher words, but most people were curious about what this quiet, reserved former accountant had to say all of a sudden. Finally, there was a huddle of several hundred people all waiting to hear his important news.

"How would you guys like to make a break for it?" he asked.

Laughter broke out. It was mild at first, but like a contagious sickness it quickly spread amongst his audience. It was as if a tightly wound-up spring had finally been released. Most of these people had not so much as smiled in weeks, let alone laughed. Before long, many of them were rolling around on the floor like a group of people at the funny farm. Finally, Polunk, although he understood their reaction, could take it no more.

"THIS IS NO JOKE!!" he shouted angrily at the top of his lungs.

(yeah, that's what Uncle Wilhelm would have done; yelled and yelled and yelled; you know how yelling leads to liking)

The laughter immediately began to die down. They were stunned. Having been around Polunk quite a bit over the last several weeks, never once had they hardly even heard him speak, much less raise his voice.

"THIS IS NOT A JOKE!!" he repeated, his face turning red with anger.

"Just hear me out! I'm not crazy! I've been doing a lot of thinking and a lot of observation ever since I arrived at this hellhole, and I am confident I know of a way for us to escape from this horrible place!"

People were listening now. Their laughing gas had run out. This former accountant had something to say, by Kasani.

"First of all, just let me say this: I don't deny that attempting to escape from here will be very dangerous and may indeed result in us getting put to death. On the other hand, let me state the obvious: none of us has a chance of lasting much longer here anyway!! Our diet is atrocious, and, as you likely have noticed, anyone who starts to have a slower pace while working always ends up disappearing. I think it goes without saying they're not magicians performing a vanishing act and they're not being shipped away to Sodorf—they're being slaughtered somewhere here in the camp! It might be done away from our eyes, but I'm sure I'm not the only one here who knows that is what is really going on. You're not blind; neither am I."

"But how could we ever even begin to make such an escape attempt practical?" asked one of the Sodorfians, who was listening intently and eagerly to what Polunk had to say; "I mean, the camp is surrounded by a tall wooden fence made out of solid oak. It is sturdy, and due to its smoothness it would be impossible to climb up it. Even if one could, the tops of the wooden pieces are carved to a sharp point, and, as if that did not make climbing the walls difficult enough, there are also razor-sharp spikes protruding from the tops of the oak pieces!!"

"Who said anything about climbing over it?!" Polunk shot back. "Listen to what I have to say before trying to rebut me! I didn't say anything at all about climbing over the fence; I don't intend to escape that way."

"Well, how then?!" asked another impatient, skeptical Sodorfian; "Please don't tell me you're going to suggest we try to tunnel our way out. Think about how foolish that would be: It would take months before we could even begin to get a tunnel long enough to get us out of this camp. Most of us will probably not even survive here that long if we're lucky. Just think about how tired and sluggish our work during the day will be if we spend our nights digging underneath the ground like rodents! We'll disappear within a week!! We—"

"Did I say anything about tunnels?" Polunk asked impatiently. "No, I didn't. Here is the answer," he said and pulled out the rock that was covered with pheorite.

One of the Sodorfians simply couldn't resist. "Oh, I see the ingenious plot now: You're going to climb outside your cabin at night, throw your rock at one of the guards, knock him unconscious, and then, once the other guards see how tough you are, they're gonna run for cover! Or, better yet, maybe they'll simply hand the camp over to you and surrender!!" he said mockingly.

He laughed and so did the other Sodorfians. It felt good to laugh. For a fleeting moment they had thought Polunk might have really come up with an ingenious idea and maybe really did still have all his marbles. That hope vanished, however, when he pulled out that pitifully small rock and said that was the solution. They didn't hold it against him though; the camp was taking its toll on all of them, and Polunk was just another casualty, they reckoned.

"Have any of you dimwits ever heard of pheorite?!" Polunk asked in a vehement tone; "Or am I the only one here who made it through first-year chemistry?!"

The room fell silent.

They knew what pheorite was. But none had ever seen it before.

"That's right," he said; "this rock you're looking at right now is smeared with pheorite. As you may know, some of the prison camp guards have utilized my knowledge of accounting to help them balance their books. With all of the rearmament going on in Dachwald, there are a lot of numbers to crunch. Although they hate me and think I'm some kind of subhuman, they don't seem to have any qualms about taking advantage of my ability with numbers. Unfortunately for them, I happened to notice where they keep their explosives. Knowing about the sticky properties of certain forms of pheorite, yesterday when I was working I took this rock right here and put it into my pocket. When I entered into the guards' headquarters to check their daily expenditures and saw that none of them were looking, I quickly pulled out this rock, smeared it with pheorite, and then quickly put it back into my pocket before they could see me. This little pheorite-smeared rock right here can easily blow a hole through that fence large enough for us all to run through!"

"And the noise?!" one of the Sodorfians immediately asked.

"For those of you who know even the first thing about weather, you can tell by the way the clouds were acting all day today that there is a storm coming, and it's going to be a bad one indeed. There will likely be quite a bit of thunder, and that thunder will help to cover the noise of the explosion. Look, I know it is risky, but I also know that you have eyes; and the observations you have made with your eyes have surely told you that your odds of surviving here very long are nil. Have you not noticed how many people have 'disappeared'? Sure you have; you'd have to be blind not to! People only last here as long as they can work hard, and as you know, the diet here is so insufficient that inevitably none of us will be able to work here at an adequate pace for more than a few more months. What will be our fate then?! We can either hope the Sodorfian army comes and rescues us before that fateful day arrives—the odds of which are not very good—or we can make a break for it! How would you like to be remembered—that is, if our people even survive the Dachwaldian scourge? Would you like to be remembered as yet another group of poor Sodorfian victims who allowed themselves to be slaughtered like lambs? Or would you rather be remembered as the Sodorfians who made a break for it—who at least tried to escape?! Let's say we're all caught trying to escape—then we will be remembered as those who died trying to obtain liberty! That's not an ignominious way to die in my opinion. In fact, many of our fellow Sodorfians have already been killed here, and they won't be remembered as heroes, but as sheep!! That's not how I want to be remembered!! And, after all, dying while trying to escape from here is the WORST-CASE SCENARIO!! Think about that. Let's say that we actually make it into Sodorf. We could take up arms against these Dachwaldian bastards and come back here and slay them all!!"

"YEAHHH!!!" they shouted loudly in agreement with him and then quickly hushed up for fear of alerting the guards. These last words had struck a chord. They were tired of being pushed around.

"I'll follow you," said one of the Sodorfians. "I don't want to spend another day in this hellhole; I hate it here. And if escape gives me the chance to go to Sodorf, join the army, and fight, I'll relish the opportunity to spill the blood of these cruel, racist, Dachwaldian psychopaths!!"

"I'll follow you!" said another. "And me," announced another. Before long there were about thirty Sodorfians willing to follow him. All the rest, though loving the idea in theory, were simply too scared and figured their odds of survival would be better if they stayed in the camp and followed the rules.

"Okay," said Polunk, "we'll wait until the big storm comes. I believe it'll come tomorrow night, but we'll see. I'm honored so many of you are willing to trust me on this. I think we have a chance of making this escape work. I stole a map in the guards' headquarters, and this will show us how to get to Sodorf from here. I've been paying very close attention to it, and I think I've found the best way for us to make it to Sodorf without being apprehended. We'll avoid all major roads and heavily populated areas. We'll do our best to avoid running across any guard patrols, but of course I can't make any promises on that—I forgot to ask the guards for a copy of a map showing all their patrol areas," he said chuckling, and the rest of the Sodorfians laughed with him— at least those that were going to attempt to escape. Those that had decided against it considered this no laughing matter. They believed within a few days all of these plotters would be publicly executed to show the horrible consequences awaiting those who dared defy the rules. They weren't looking forward to watching it but figured watching it was better than receiving it.

"We'll travel only by night," Polunk continued. "Traveling during the day is out of the question. Too dangerous. I know there are a million things that could go wrong, but in regards to that, I can only repeat what I've already said: better to risk death and live valiantly than submit to tyranny. There are millions of problems that could arise during this escape, and there's really no way to plan for all of them. We have no weapons, but even if we did, we must avoid confrontation at all costs. Confrontation would mean detection, and we'll never make it to Sodorf if we get into a confrontation with the Vechengschaft. Any questions?"

The Sodorfians shook their heads. They knew he was right. This was their only chance of survival; they had to go for it.

He smiled lightly. Not too bad for an accountant. Not too bad. He could almost see Uncle Wilhelm smiling in approval.

Sure enough, the next day brought pouring rain. It started out slowly, but by evening, it was coming down so hard you'd think the heavens themselves were cracking open. Lightning flashed everywhere like quick strikes of a snake, and claps of thunder rolled slowly and powerfully like a series of big, gradual explosions. Several trees around the camp were blown to smithereens.

Polunk lay fully awake in his bed. His mind was running wild like a stallion trying to escape a deadly maze.

(are you going to make it through this, or is this the end of the road, ol' buddy?)

(why do the Dachwaldians want you to escape? what's their angle? what's in it for them?)

One new possibility he considered was perhaps the Vechengschaft wanted the Sodorfians in Sodorf to see these bruised and battered Sodorfians in order that they would be stirred to anger and launch an attack. But the more he pondered that possibility, the more impractical it seemed.

(surely the Sodorfians are already well aware of the horrors going on here; awareness can't be the issue)

But the devil's advocate was back with an annoying vengeance: Perhaps it's to demoralize them. If they see the way the Dachwaldians are treating Sodorfians, perhaps the Sodorfians will think they had better come to their senses and surrender or else they'll be next.

Perhaps the Sodorfians had already invaded Dachwald; there was simply no way to know.

Then his mind returned to the stalking exercise he had previously considered but with a slightly different twist.

(perhaps it's all a trick and they are using you for some experiment, like training their men in stalking and ambush tactics and this will be their first hands-on experience)

He could see the practicality of that. Maybe they were going to see if they could cut all of their throats in the middle of the night without being detected—it would make a great training exercise.

(you have to deviate from the route they've given you; you've got to find another route to Sodorf)

This voice came from nowhere. He didn't know why it was casting this vote, but his gut told him to trust it. Trust it like an old friend.

And it was possible too. After all, he was pretty familiar with this part of Dachwald because he had traveled through it many times on business trips

(but even if they are planning on hunting you and your fan club down as part of a training mission, it might still hold true that they have a genuine interest in you not crossing paths with Dachwaldian citizens and Vechengschaft patrols; maybe the path he has laid out for you WILL bypass them)

This confused the matter all the more: It seemed almost guaranteed that Feiklen had some nefarious purpose behind this escap; on the other hand, if he deviated from the directions that Feiklen gave him on the map, he would possibly get lost or run into a Vechengschaft patrol. He knew their odds of surviving a physical confrontation would be nil, given their lack of weapons and lack of know-how in the combat department. They knew as much about fighting as a horse knows about playing the violin. They had been farmers, bookkeepers, artisans—not exactly the kinds of professions where you carried a sword around ready to chop someone's head off, although he had had a few clients that made him wish he did—along with permission to use it as needed.

(maybe the training exercise involves stalking you until you reach the border and then attacking you)

The idea had come from the nether regions of his mind, but it seemed to make sense. It would give them the advantage of being able to practice stalking without being observed, as well as ambushing and killing. Also, if their egos were anywhere near the size he suspected, they would probably get a particularly devilish satisfaction out of slaughtering them all right before they reached the border.

(perhaps if you follow the path Feiklen laid out for you throughout most of the journey, you'll gain his trust and then . . . .)

He was particularly curious about whether or not Feiklen and his goons would allow them to get one day ahead before tracking them. It would be a more realistic exercise that way. After mulling this over for a while, it seemed all the more plausible; furthermore, he could see how such exercises would be beneficial for the Dachwaldians if they invaded Sodorf, which, he had no doubt, was their ultimate aim. If this were true and the Vechengschaft would always be one day behind them, this meant he could follow the course every night up until the last night, and then suddenly break from it on the last night of travel and outrun the Vechengschaft. After all, it would be harder for them to track Polunk and his fellow escapees if they went off course. He figured what the Dachwaldians probably had in mind was to allow them to be one day ahead up until they started getting really close to the border, then, quicken their pace on the second-to-last night, catch up with them on the last night, and have some extra troops posted around the border as a sort of insurance to keep them from escaping.

Enough analysis, he thought. His head was starting to hurt from it.

He got out of bed and went to each of the bunks of those coming with him. He was not surprised to see that none of them were asleep. After all, who could sleep on a night as noisy as this? Who could sleep on the night when one was going to be escaping from a place as hellish as this? It was scary, yet exciting. After gathering all those that were coming, a few more people came forward and said, "We've been thinking about what you were saying, and we've realized that you were right. After all, what do we have to lose by trying to escape from this hellhole?!"

Polunk smiled. "Come on," he said warmly.

They opened the door and stepped outside. The storm was unbelievable. Within seconds they were as wet as if they had fallen into the ocean and been doused by a large wave. The sheer volume of water descending from the heavens and the powerful wind whipping it about like leaves in a tornado nearly made Polunk feel like he was out at sea during a dangerous storm. Normally, the large fence surrounding the extermination camp was lit by a series of ominous-looking torches that sent eerie reflections off into the darkness. Tonight, however, there were no torches lit. None could remain lit on account of the rain. As they surreptitiously walked, hunched over, alongside the prison huts, a terrifying thought snuck up on him like an attack from the rear: What if the actual purpose of this was simply to see how vigilant the guards were?!! Maybe they had never been instructed on his upcoming escape at all, much less been instructed to allow it to happen!

The idea hit him like a ton of bricks.

All this time his worrying had been confined to what the purpose of allowing the escape was; never had it even crossed his mind that perhaps this was all an intricate way for Feiklen to simply test his guards. Maybe there was already, outside the camp, a large group of Feiklen's best soldiers just waiting to slaughter all of them in case they escaped, after which they would then publicly and grotesquely execute all the guards that had negligently allowed it to happen. He nearly soiled himself as these thoughts crept through his head.

How could I not have thought of that?!! he asked himself silently, terrified of the possible consequences of this oversight.

"Is something wrong?" one of the escapees asked him quietly, unnerved by the sudden hesitance being displayed by the man who up until now had been their sole source of inspiration.

"I'm fine," he said to the Sodorfian, and then, under his breath, he said, "Ah, Uchinweld, why in Kasani am I worrying about death while I am in an extermination camp already?!!!"

And he pressed onward.

Feiklen had specifically told him to go to the southern fence. As he went that way, he noticed that while he had seen multiple guards patrolling along the other walls, there didn't appear to be any patrolling the wall they were approaching. This increased his confidence that, in spite of what Feiklen might have in store for him later on, the plan was not to kill them while escaping the camp itself.

Nonetheless, he hoped against all hope that the others didn't notice this anomaly because he certainly didn't want them to know that this was all a big setup. He didn't want to impose any additional worries on them. That could only be harmful. Although they had been doing some looking around, they were mostly just keeping their eyes peeled on him to see what he would do. Like a line of ducks following the lead duck.

Never in all of his life had he seen such torrential rain. And the thunder . . . it was absolutely ear-deafening. It sounded almost like large explosions of pheorite.

BOOM!!! Silence. BOOM!! Silence. And on it went. About every twenty seconds a loud explosion of thunder nearly shook the very ground they walked on. As he walked by the other huts, his heart went out to those that were not even being given a chance to escape. After all, there was a chance, albeit small, that they were indeed going to make it. He made a vow to himself right then and there that if he were successful, he would join the Sodorfian army, come back to fight the Dachwaldians, and liberate this extermination camp and all others like it. Finally, after having reached the last prison cabin by the southern wall of the camp, they paused.

"I'll go forward," Polunk said, "and make a hole with the pheorite. I'll try my absolute best to make the sound of the explosion coincide with a clap of thunder, but in any event, once that explosion goes off, there's no turning back. Run like the devil's on your heels about to light your ass on fire! Anyone who doesn't think they can do this needs to turn back right now, go back to their prison cabin, and leave themselves at the mercy of the guards."

He looked into each and every one of their eyes to try and see what they were thinking. No desire to go back to the prison cabin. Fear, yes, he saw that, but he also saw a steadfast determination to overcome that fear and try to escape.

"Okay, I'm glad you're all with me; here goes nothing." And having said that, he got down on his belly and crawled like a snake to within thirty feet of the wall. The cabin they were hunkered down beside was about a hundred feet from the southern wall. He listened to the claps of thunder and tried to mentally calculate the exact amount of time elapsing between each.

(numbers, finally something you're good at, ol' buddy)

Sometimes about seventeen seconds passed between each clap, other times slightly more than twenty. He decided it would be too risky to try to anticipate the clap of thunder when throwing the pheorite-smeared stone. He was going to have to wait until he heard the thunder before throwing it. The only thing he did not like about this was that by the time he threw the stone and caused the explosion, the noise from the clap of thunder might have ended or at least dissipated enough for the sound of the explosion to be in great contrast to the sound of the thunder.

He readied himself.

BOOMMMMM!!! Hearing the clap of thunder, he immediately stood up and threw the rock with all of his might towards the wall.

BAAANNNGGGG!!! He was amazed at the result. It tore the wall to smithereens. He had been expecting a small hole, at best, through which they would have to squeeze themselves, but the results were much more impressive. The explosion knocked out an entire section of the wall.

(it's scary to think of the disadvantage the Sodorfians are going to have, coming up against a monster like this stuff)

Polunk and the thirty other Sodorfians with him wasted no time. They sprinted through the opening like deer being chased by a jaguar. Although they were not in the best physical shape, due to the deficiencies in their diet over the past several weeks—and, for some of them, over the past several months—the fear of capture and death gave them an energy that no food could provide and which no lack of food could stymie. Polunk could not have been more pleased with how the explosion had turned out. It had occurred about one second after the clap of thunder, and although it was not completely drowned out by the sound thereof, it had nearly perfectly blended in.

Little did he know that while he and the thirty other Sodorfians with him scampered through the opening, Feiklen stood about three hundred feet northeast of the opening with his arms crossed. Kihlgun stood close-by.

"Looks good so far," Feiklen said. "Now, we just have to make sure they don't get out of our sight and that we make sure that all of them except Polunk make it across the border. See to it. I'll take care of things around here."

"Yes, sir," Kihlgun replied. Kihlgun went and summoned about fifty Moscorians to begin stalking the escapees and a group of Vechengschaft soldiers—twenty in all—to begin repairing the hole that had been blown in the camp's fence. They got to work immediately. Having experimented quite heavily with pheorite during their training north of there, under the Moscorians, they knew just about how much damage would be caused by the explosion. They had already prepared about thirty individual pieces of wood—cut to the exact same length, width, and shape as the other pieces of wood that made up the fence—to replace those which had been either destroyed or even significantly damaged. They had overestimated by just a little bit: there were only about twenty-six wooden pieces that were going to need to be replaced. Within about two hours of wet, sweaty work, they succeeded in putting the wooden pieces into their proper places. By the time they were finished, it didn't look as if any damage had ever occurred to the fence. Feiklen came and inspected the work and told them that they had done an excellent job.

Kihlgun and his men put on the camouflage suits they were going to wear while tracking the escapees. Suits which allowed them to completely blend in with their surroundings whether lying down or standing. They consisted of netting covered with lots of grass, leaves, and sticks. Although their weapon of choice for long-range combat was without question the longbow, it would be too cumbersome for this kind of mission. Instead they brought crossbows.

They began pursuing the fleeing escapees. The escapees had a head start, but the Moscorians were in no hurry. After all, they knew the fleeing Sodorfians could only travel at nighttime.

Chapter 3

"Kasani, I'm tired!" said Ichinvohd, one of the escapees. "Do you think we could at least rest for a little bit?" he asked Polunk.

"Sure, let's take a brief rest," he said, "but not too long. We've gotta stay ahead of the guards. They'll be coming after us any minute—that is, if they're not already."

"Okay," Ichinvohd replied, "I think I'll be fine in a few minutes."

"How are the rest of you doing?" Polunk asked his fellow escapees. They all responded that, like Ichinvohd, they needed a few moments of rest and then would be on their way. Polunk was particularly impressed with one of the older men that had come along with them. He looked like he was at least in his sixties. He had been whipped, beaten, branded—compliments of Arbeitplatz—and an S branded onto his neck, but he was holding his own.

"What's your name, sir?" Polunk asked.

"Aisendall," he replied. The man was about six feet tall, thin, and had white hair.

Polunk smiled. "You're an example to us all of courage and fortitude."

"Thank you. I just want to see Sodorf. I no longer feel that I can rightly call this accursed country anything but the armpit of evil spirits. I curse having been born here! I want to go back to the land of the Sodorfians and never again look upon the face of a Dachwaldian!"

"I understand your sentiments, Aisendall."

After a few minutes they once again picked up the pace and continued on their trek towards Sodorf. Polunk paid close attention to the map. So far it seemed like they were following the course that Feiklen had given to them. They plodded onwards, taking only a few short rests here and there. Polunk began to grow a bit worried, as he knew the sun would be rising soon. He knew it would be too risky to camp out in the open during the daytime. They had to find shelter. The problem was that in the southern parts of Dachwald there weren't really any large forests. There were clusters of trees here and there, but nothing like the heavily wooded northern regions. Unless they could get some shelter from the sun they would never be able to get any sleep whatsoever, and if they didn't, it wouldn't take long before they got so tired they couldn't continue. And he didn't want to leave anyone behind. He was already beginning to feel attached to these people. He wanted more than anything to successfully bring them across the border to safety.

(but you've got to keep moving!)

Having traveled through this particular area a few times years ago, he knew there was a clump of trees not too far from here. It wouldn't be too much longer before the sun began to rise. If that happened, they would be in immense danger.

"We must make it another mile tonight!" he said to his fellow escapees urgently. "If we don't, we'll be stuck out here exposed to passing patrols and Dachwaldian civilians who will report us!" This succeeded in putting a burr under their saddle, and they all picked up the pace immediately. Fortunately, just as the sun began its slow, and ironically beautiful, ascent they reached a small clump of trees. It perhaps was not large enough to be properly called a forest, but it provided some cover.

"This is not going to be your most comfortable sleep ever," he said to them. "In fact, it's gonna be hard to sleep at all, but you must try," he exhorted. "If you don't, you will probably fall behind tomorrow, and although it grieves me to say it, if anyone does fall behind tomorrow, or any day for that matter, that person will be left behind."

They nodded.

To try to avoid becoming too itchy from the plants and other foliage on the ground, they cleared away the vegetation in the areas they would sleep so their bodies would have little or no contact with the bothersome plants. Then, they took their shirts off and put them over their faces to try to shield themselves from the sun. They were partially successful. They rotated shifts keeping lookout, each one lasting only about a half hour. This would be enough to keep watch until sunset.

As they hunkered down to get some rest, Kihlgun and his Moscorians were watching from an adjacent hill. They weren't worried about the sun. They were nearly invisible, blending in perfectly with the grassy hill, even without forest cover.

"We have to listen to what they're saying," Kihlgun said. "I'll go first. Keep an eye out. If it looks like I'm about to give away my position, make the sound of a pholung. If I hear that, I'll stop moving until I hear it again, which will mean it is safe."

Holding his crossbow to the side, still covered underneath his grassy netting, he started advancing close to where Polunk and the rest of the Sodorfian escapees were hunkered down.

Polunk happened to be the one currently on watch. He had chosen this because he wanted to show leadership, and he thought this would be a good way to continue instilling confidence and support in the people escaping with him—people that had put quite a bit of trust in him. There was another reason, however. He knew they were most likely being watched at this very moment, and he wanted to personally see if their stalkers were visible.

He scanned the horizon. The sunrise was beautiful, and so was the countryside. The irony did not escape him.

(how is it that a country so sublime, a country with so many beautiful streams, waterfalls, mountains, valleys, animals, forests could contain a people with such cruel hatred?)

It was quite baffling to him. He thought about the Great Famine and the effects that it had had on the country. It certainly had changed things. Although he had often suspected that beneath the ostensible smiles and friendliness he had received from Dachwaldians there was a certain amount of dislike towards him, at least he had never felt in danger around them before the Great Famine. In fact, he was amazed, having read some of Dachwald's history, at just how peaceful the Dachwaldians had become. When he read about the mass murders and the enslavement that had occurred during the Seven Years War he had been horrified. Although he did not always find Dachwaldians to be particularly warm towards Sodorfians, nor towards each other, for that matter, he found the disparity between the Dachwaldians that he knew, worked with, and did business with and the cruel, bloodthirsty monsters described in books on the Seven Years War so great that he was inclined to think that perhaps the history of the war had been exaggerated.

(but you now know it certainly wasn't; if anything the Dachwaldian enormities were surely downplayed!)

He had previously felt perhaps his people, having been the victors, rewrote the history in such a way as to excessively demonize the Dachwaldians and make themselves look completely righteous and unblemished. This was what he thought. However, after the famine he had noticed a change.

Sure, everyone was suffering. But, at first there was almost an improvement in the relations between Sodorfians and Dachwaldians living in Dachwald. Mostly during the period of time where people were hopeful Sodorf was going to help out, be a good neighbor—show the hatchet was buried once and for all. But then came the disastrous diplomatic mission. It had been the talk all over Dachwald. Rumors abounded like mosquitoes during the summertime. Some thought the Dachwaldians had attacked the Sodorfians and thereby turned a would-be ally into a determined enemy, or at the very least one who was determined not to lift a finger. But most Dachwaldians believed the whole thing had been caused by the Sodorfians and the attack that had occurred just south of the border was rigged and planned by them so they could sit back and watch the Dachwaldians starve to death while managing to look justified in their inaction. An even more cynical group thought it was the precursor to Sodorfian invasion—the Sodorfians having slaughtered their own to rally the populace.

As more and more people died of hunger, less people began to look at the Sodorfians favorably. Everywhere—in newspapers, taverns, business meetings—people were beginning to talk about how bad Sodorfians were. How they were to blame for all the suffering. They also criticized the pacifism and lack of initiative of the Dachwaldian government. He was amazed at the timing of the assassination of King Duchenwald and his senators. It occurred at a time when discontent inside Dachwald was becoming so great many believed the country had one foot on revolution and the other on a banana peel. In fact, many of his former business partners had shunned him and said they themselves wanted to overthrow the government. They had enough money to fill a house with, but no food to buy with it. Not much anyway. So they suffered equally, even though they were much richer than many people in Dachwald. And they didn't dare travel to Sodorf to buy food; they knew that would be a death wish surer than starvation could ever aspire to be. Dachwald hadn't had commercial ties with any neighboring countries for centuries, and no one dared travel outside of Dachwald.

As soon as General Sivingdon came forward and gave that patriotic speech and laid at the feet of his subjects the head of their ineffectual king, he knew Sodorfians were going to be in grave danger. The farmer was about to welcome the wolf right into the hen house. He had put the S on all of his shirts, hoping that compliance with the new laws would somehow save him.

(that was about as smart as a hen rolling over onto its stomach and hoping the wolf wouldn't bite because it had obediently identified itself as a hen)

Kihlgun continued slithering towards the unsuspecting escapees like a python approaching a family of resting mice. As hard as Polunk was watching, he didn't detect the stealthy slithering of this human python. Finally, his turn was over. He was replaced. He went and collapsed on the ground. Within seconds he was asleep.

This continued for several days. The Moscorians were a little bit frustrated with the situation. At night, when the Sodorfians were talking a little bit amongst themselves as they traveled, the Moscorians couldn't get too close, as it was impossible to get within earshot of their light whispers while they were moving without being seen. And during the day, when they settled down to sleep, the Sodorfians didn't talk at all. The Moscorians noticed one Sodorfian kept watch, while the rest slept, and there were no deviations from this. Night after night. So they didn't really have any way of knowing whether Polunk had told them that the escape had been permitted. Kihlgun was growing suspicious.

Perhaps Polunk told them the escape had been planned. Perhaps it might be safer to just go ahead and take all of them out.

(but that's no good; you NEED them to get across, and you have your orders)

Finally, on the fourth day, he got his chance. It just so happened that by the fourth night the Sodorfians had become a little bit more confident they were really going to make it, so they took the chance of conversing a little before getting some shut-eye. Kihglun slithered towards them, and to his surprise and relief, after listening to numerous conversations over a period of several hours, not only did it appear they were uninformed that the whole escape had been rigged, they seemed unaware they were being followed.

This is good, he thought. Less than a day left.

He stealthily slithered back to his companions, and another Moscorian, Dergonnen, went down to take his place surveilling the escapees. Kihlgun knew that this coming night they would reach the border.

Too bad for Polunk; HE won't be making it.

As heartless as he was, he couldn't help feeling just a tad bit sorry that poor Polunk was going to make it this far just to be slaughtered and that furthermore the last thing he would see would be everyone else making it to safety.

Oh well, he's a Sodorfian. Those that die now will be the lucky ones.

He ordered one of the most swift-footed Moscorians to sprint ahead and alert the Moscorian party located just north of the border that the escaping Sodorfians were about to reach their destination.

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 ignore 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," Kihlgun 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.

Kihlgun turned to the other Moscorians and said, "Go quickly. Explain to all of the southern Vechengschaft patrols that they must immediately go to Arbeitplatz. They know where it's at. Tell them in no uncertain terms that they must do so at full-speed and not ask any questions. Everything appears to be in place. The war is about to truly begin!!"

Tristan was ecstatic when the news reached him that the Sodorfians had successfully escaped across the border, all except for Polunk, and that, as far as the Moscorians could tell, Polunk had never let the Sodorfians know that the escape had been rigged.

"Excellent!" Tristan said, after Feiklen brought him the news; "We must now set the trap. Get everything ready." And that was exactly what Feiklen did. With almost the entire army—both Vechengschaft and Moscorians—working jointly on this single project they were making progress at incredible speed shipping thousands upon thousands of missiles to the northern side of a certain hill.

A hill that stood between Arbeitplatz and anyone traveling from the south.

Chapter 6

"FORWARD!!" the Sodorfian officers kept shouting as their men marched down into the valley. It was a beautiful, sunny day. Their armor and weapons gleamed in the sunlight like thousands of tiny mirrors as the Sodorfians marched down into the valley towards the large hill. They were arranged in crisp, neat rows, organized by the kind of weapon they used. In front were the pikemen. They were usually kept in front for defensive purposes. Behind them, bowmen and crossbowmen. Behind them, spearmen and swordsmen, and behind them, the cavalry. General Fuhdor liked to keep the cavalry in the back so that they would be hidden and could come around and flank the enemy. The majority of the troops had on leg armor, a breast plate, chain mail, and a helmet, and most of the cavalry were even more heavily armored. The majority wore helmets that covered their entire head, including their face, while the majority of the infantry's helmets only covered the top, back, and sides of their head, with a thin piece coming down to protect their nose. The Hugars were the most heavily armored foot soldiers, covered from head to toe with glistening armor, not a square inch of exposed skin to be seen.

Their spirits were high as they plodded onward across the valley and towards the hill.

They were all now exactly in the trough of the valley.

All seemed well—they were great in numbers, great in spirit, and well-equipped with the best armor and weaponry Sodorf could provide. They were all hell-bent on personally killing at least one Dachwaldian, such was their hatred towards them. Then . . . seemingly out of nowhere . . . a few noticed a faint, yet powerful sound up ahead.

SHOOMM!! SHOOMM!! SHOOMM!! SHOOMM, SHOOMM, SHOOMM!!

"What in Uchinweld is that bloody sound?!" roared one of the Sodorfian regulars, his tough-guy voice not completely successful in covering up a tinge of fear. Looking up into the sky, he nearly wet himself. Hundreds upon hundreds of what appeared to be large, flaming arrows were roaring across the sky. Within seconds every soldier was starting to slow his pace and look upwards to see what all the excitement was about. They were as mesmerized as a gang of children watching a well-done fireworks show. Some started to feel afraid, but not overly so.

Not yet.

"KEEP MOVINGGGGG!!" shouted the Sodorfian officers, sensing the decrease in pace.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!!!! Suddenly, explosions could be heard behind them at an ear-deafening volume with a rapidity rivaling an insane woodpecker pecking wildly against a tree with all its might and with a power that rivaled the most legendary of earthquakes. The ground shook beneath them, giving them all the sensation of a well-trained opponent trying to trip and throw them to the ground. Despite stern warnings from their officers to keep moving the hell forward, nearly everyone, including many of the officers themselves, couldn't help but turn around and look at the devastation behind them. They saw an uninterrupted wall of fire over a hundred feet tall and at least several miles long. It roared and blazed, and the heat coming off it made them feel like they had stepped into a bath too hot for comfort.

"IT'S A TRAAAPPPPP!!" a soldier shouted out in terror.

"KEEP MOVING FORWARD, OR I'LL RUN YOU THROUGH!!" shouted an officer in a vain attempt to keep up morale and maintain discipline.

They were also beginning to feel fear.

"LET'S TAKE THE HILL BEFORE THEY LEARN HOW TO AIM!!" one of the officers yelled.

General Fuhdor himself was beginning to grow quite worried. He was at the head of the most heavily armored cavalry unit, which was located towards the back of the troops. He could feel the heat from the wall of fire as if he was standing right next to it, even though the flames were actually hundreds of yards behind him. Thinking it best to lead from the front, and perhaps the only way to even have a chance of restoring order, he shouted to his fellow knights, "CHAAARGE!!"

Not wanting to let their general down, and encouraged by his show of bravery, his cavalry unit charged with him towards the front of the troops. The troops, having been trained to accommodate this, immediately created empty columns through which the cavalry galloped forward at full speed. Then, suddenly, they all heard the dreaded sound again.

SHOOMM!! SHOOMM!! SHOOMM!! SHOOMM, SHOOMM, SHOOMM!! This time, the sound was no mystery, however. They knew what it was. The only question was where the celebration fireworks would land this time. Seconds later they saw more flaming missiles traveling through the air with unbelievable speed. Several Sodorfians soiled themselves on the spot—it looked as if this time the missiles weren't going to miss.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!!!! This time the missiles landed about a quarter of a mile in front of them. Before their very eyes they saw a wall of fire spring from the ground like a living, breathing organism and travel horizontally, both east and west, at the speed of an arrow shot from a longbow. Nearly all of them stopped dead in their tracks. The horrible truth quickly sank into the minds of even the most optimistic Sodorfians: the volleys of missiles had not missed by accident—had not missed at all. The Dachwaldians were entrapping them.

At that time none other than General Fuhdor secretly enrolled himself into the club of those soiling themselves. He cursed himself for being so rash and not sending a reconnoitering party ahead. Hoping against hope he could somehow avoid the consequences of this horrid lack of foresight, he shouted, "RETREAT EAST OR WEST—WHICHEVER IS CLOSEST!!!"

He didn't have to repeat himself. The command was as necessary as instructing a fat kid to stuff himself with a cake sitting unguarded right in front of him. Although neither he nor his army had ever trained for such a scenario, everyone was already retreating wildly like antelope trying to evade a huge predator. They began stampeding either east or west, depending on which direction would get them away from the walls of fire quickest, and within seconds, chaos broke out. Men were being trampled and crushed to death underneath the boots of their panic-stricken comrades, and just when the officers were starting to regain some semblance of order, the dreaded sound came again.

SHOOMM!! SHOOMM!! SHOOMM!! SHOOMM, SHOOMM, SHOOMM!! Although few of them actually stopped running, most knew where these missiles were headed . . . and they weren't mistaken. Within seconds the wooden missiles smashed right into the compact masses of fleeing soldiers like the business end of a hammer striking a pile of beetles. The impact alone of the missiles smashed many people instantly, and as the missiles exploded, hundreds of people anywhere near the vicinity of the blast were immediately ripped to shreds, in spite of their armor. Those that were not faced an even more terrifying fate: fire.

The naphtha with which the wooden missiles had been filled was spread far and wide by the explosions, just as it had been with the two walls of fire north and south of them. The fire immediately began roasting thousands upon thousands of Sodorfians. They screamed out in agony, but there was no hope. The heat from the fire grew so hot that many looked in horror as the very armor covering their bodies began to melt. Of course, by the time that had happened most were soon unable to see anything else, as their eyes were boiled in their sockets by the flames.

General Fuhdor's heart broke at the sight of this destruction. "IT'S ALL MY FAULT!!" he shouted out angrily, furious with himself for his stupidity and rashness. Seconds later, he saw coming towards him a huge flaming missile. Far from being terrified, he was relieved that he would not have to live much longer with his horrible shame and guilt. He only hoped his judgment in the next life would not be too harsh, given his lack of intentionality in causing this fiasco to befall his men. Seconds later the wooden missile landed only feet from him, and the explosion quickly sent him into the next life.

Chapter 7

Tristan felt anxious as he watched the nearly eighty-thousand-man army approach his own. He was greatly outnumbered, and he knew this battle would decide whether Dachwald would rise again or whether its growing flame would be extinguished before it could become a bonfire. Man-to-man his army, although it would likely inflict heavy casualties on the Sodorfians, would ultimately be defeated in open combat. After all, save his Moscorians, none of his troops had any actual combat experience. They didn't know what it was like to receive a wound in battle and have to keep fighting. They didn't know what it was like to cut a man's head clean off and be drenched in blood and not pause to stare because that one second of staring would be enough time for an enemy from behind to cut them down to size, figuratively and literally.

It was for this reason, Tristan believed, that no matter how much training an army had done, no matter how good its equipment was, no matter how well conditioned it was, an army that hadn't seen actual combat could never be fully counted on. This was why, as he watched the large mass of Sodorfians move closer and closer, he grew more and more nervous. He was risking a lot simply by having come to observe the battle. With the exception of General Sivingdon, he hadn't been seen by anyone other than the Moscorians for centuries. Nonetheless, his dislike of being seen in public was far outweighed by his desire to ensure that this battle was a success. Although he did not introduce himself to the Dachwaldians, the deference that was shown to him by the most high-ranking Moscorian officers quickly let the Vechengschaft know that they were to follow suit. Furthermore, one of the chief things that the Moscorians had instilled in the Vechengschaft during their months of harsh, rigorous training was that they were on a need-to-know basis when it came to "Vechengschaft" higher-ups. Hence, they did not dare ask any questions about the mysterious, white-haired man that received such deference from their superiors. Tristan stayed at the top of the hill, ready to watch the whole battle unfold through a large telescope. He gave Feiklen the order to fire, and then Feiklen passed the command on to the soldiers on the hill.

Tristan watched with glee as the Sodorfians descended right into the middle of the valley. "You naïve fools!!" he exclaimed under his breath. His heart could not have been happier when he watched the huge walls of fire rise up from the ground. Through his telescope he could even see the look of dismay on General Fuhdor's face. Once it was plain that the entire Sodorfian army had been nearly annihilated, he quickly shouted to Feiklen, "STOP FIRING! STOP FIRING!" Feiklen passed on the command, which was quickly obeyed. Curious as to what Tristan was planning, he asked, "Why stop firing—we're so close to annihilating them?!"

"Exactly," Tristan replied; "Perfect chance for our soldiers to get some real killing experience without risking defeat!"

Feiklen smiled; he now knew exactly what Tristan was thinking. "Tell me your orders," Feiklen said.

"Have the men split up into two units: have one attack from the west, and one from the east. I see some Sodorfians who have escaped the flames and are running like mad to go around those two walls of fire and hightail it back to Sodorf!"

"Yes, master," Feiklen responded.

Feiklen's order was met with glee. The troops immediately broke up into two groups and began sprinting around the ends of the northern wall of fire so they could go inside and finish off everyone trying to escape. Some of the Sodorfians were completely uninjured. The fear they felt—not to mention the disappointment— upon seeing the thousands of fresh troops rushing towards them after having so narrowly escaped the carnage behind them was unimaginable.

Some broke down and began to sob like babies.

Some, however, embraced death, and decided to go down fighting—the Vechengschaft happy to accommodate them.

As the surviving Sodorfians rushed towards the oncoming Vechengschaft they were gravely disappointed once again—this time because they quickly found out that the Vechengschaft was still not going to play fair. As soon as the Sodorfians—at least those that still had enough spirit left to fight—came within thirty feet of the oncoming Dachwaldians, the Dachwaldians began sending spike-covered balls flying towards the Sodorfians.

WHACK! WHACK! The spike-covered balls slammed into the Sodorfians. Those hit in the head were either killed instantly or knocked unconscious. At this point even the bravest Sodorfians realized resistance was futile, so they began to flee with whatever energy they had left, which wasn't much, but their adrenaline was making the most of it. The Vechengschaft succeeded in hitting many of the fleeing Sodorfians in the back or even in the head.

"AFTER THEM!!" one of the Vechengschaft officers shouted. The chase was on. It really wasn't a fair chase, however, because the Vechengschaft was closing in from both sides. Seeing that close-quarter combat was now inevitable, their officers permitted them to use their swords. Within about twenty minutes, the few remaining Sodorfians were cut to pieces—in many cases, literally. After they had done that they went around to check all of the fallen Sodorfians. Anytime they were not completely sure a Sodorfian was dead, they decapitated him. They weren't taking chances. Those that were alive and conscious and begging for mercy had their throats cut.

The battle was over: all 79,500 Sodorfians lay slaughtered in a field of carnage so horrific words could not do it justice. The Vechengschaft suffered ten casualties.

The war is all but won!!, Tristan thought, nearly shaking with joy and excitement, a feeling of surreality gripping him.

He knew that about fifteen miles south of their position were approximately six thousand Sodorfian soldiers, but he was now confident it wouldn't be overly difficulty to slaughter them to a man. He outnumbered them nearly seven to one, and he was now convinced his troops were immensely superior to their opponents. He was not yet ready to reveal himself to the Vechengschaft, but he decided that it was now time for the Moscorians to reveal themselves. He knew full well that by this point the Vechengschaft would more or less worship them. He summoned Feiklen and General Sivingdon and explained all of this to them.

General Sivingdon summoned all of the Moscorians to the top of the hill and then ordered all of the Vechengschaft beneath them to listen. Addressing the large audience, he began, "Comrades, congratulations on VICTORY!!!"

"YEAHHH!!!" the soldiers shouted in triumph.

"This was a well-planned, well-executed slaughter of our most perfidious foe! Today, you have earned my trust fully and completely. I have something to tell you right now that only months ago I would not have been able to do. Why? Because I knew you weren't ready to know. I knew you weren't yet ready to BELIEVE. But now I know you are. Brave soldiers, the men beside me that you have come to admire over the last several months are not really part of a special Vechengschaft unit that I trained. They are my superiors. They are none other than . . . THE MOSCORIANS!!!"

The soldiers' enthusiasm reached a frenzy. They shouted, "We should have known!! Such godlike fighting abilities could exist amongst no other!! No one can stop us now!!"

General Sivingdon waited a few minutes for the clapping and hollering to quiet down.

"It is proper that you rejoice at this wonderful revelation! And you are right: NO ONE CAN STOP US NOW!! Together we shall take Sodorf and attain the greatness we once knew—the greatness the gods demand that we have!! It is the gods' desire that we shall rule THE WORLD!!" General Sivingdon announced triumphantly.

"WHO CAN STOP US?" General Sivingdon asked.

"No one!"

"WHO CAN STOP US?!"

"NO ONE!!"

"I can't hear you!! WHO . . . CAN . . . STOP . . . USSSSSS?!!!!"

"NOOOO OOOOONE!!!!!"

The majority of Sodorf's army had been slaughtered. Dachwald was stronger than it had been for centuries. Only four thousand green, unsuspecting Sodorfian regulars and two thousand Hugars stood between forty thousand militant, fanatical, bloodthirsty, well-trained, well-armed Dachwaldians and the Sodorfian border. Sodorf was about to enter her darkest days.

Chapter 8

Boommm . . . .

Boommm . . . .

"Captain Ochsendorg, do you hear that sound?" asked Colonel Osinduhr.

"Yes, I do, in fact! It sounds like some kind of artillery, which isn't good because General Fuhdor didn't have artillery with him."

"Exactly," Colonel Osinduhr replied, frowning. Exactly what I suspected. I tried to convince that hothead not to just go barreling northward thinking he was invincible, but did he listen to me, a mere colonel? No!!! Now what has that reckless fool gotten himself into? And what do I do? I am supposed to stay here and watch the rear flank? It sounds like he has walked into a perfect ambush. There's no telling what weapons of mayhem and destruction those savage Dachwaldians have come up with now!

These and similar thoughts went racing through Osinduhr's head. He knew pushing northward without first sending a reconnoitering party ahead was foolhardy, but no one was able to resist General Fuhdor's fiery speech, after which not even he dared to continue questioning the wisdom of the general's plan. Furthermore, he suspected General Fuhdor had not really left him and his troops behind so that they could watch his rear flank—he suspected that was simply Fuhdor's way of saying, "Go to hell!" He knew that in the event General Fuhdor was successful in the battle, he would certainly come back and rub it in. He would "jokingly" say, "Oh, Colonel Osinduhr, thank you so much for watching my rear flank as we cut to pieces those who were exterminating our countrymen; you have done excellent work!" And then, all of the other Sodorfians would think he was a coward.

(but I'm not a coward; I'm just smart!!)

They would talk behind his back, and they would state that he was afraid to go forward with the other troops. This was what he had to look forward to if General Fuhdor and his men succeeded.

He did not have much information about the Vechengschaft's current size, but he suspected that it had been greatly increased. He didn't want to guess at specific numbers, but given that when they had waltzed into Dachwald they had not seen a single fighting-age male, he felt it pretty safe to assume that the Dachwaldians had maybe amassed an army of fifty thousand fighting men. Maybe more. There was no way to be completely sure. Right now, he knew that what he was supposed to do was just stand fast with his men until he received orders to do otherwise.

(but what if General Fuhdor and his men DON'T come back? what THEN?)

This he did not know the answer to.

"Colonel Osinduhr?" Captain Ochsendorg said, looking at the colonel somewhat concernedly. The colonel had been in deep thought for several minutes and lost track of time.

"I'm thinking, Captain. I don't know what this situation calls for."

"What exactly do you mean? Our orders were to hold fast and wait for General Fuhdor to return—isn't that what the situation calls for: following orders?!"

"What I'm concerned about is the possibility that he might not return. You heard all those explosions—they certainly weren't made by General Fuhdor's men. The very fact that such large explosions are being heard shows that this was a trap. After all, unless the Dachwaldians expected us to be coming this exact way, how in Kasani could they ever have had the time to position so many trebuchets and mangonels into firing range? You can tell by the number of the explosions that they must have hundreds, if not thousands, of trebuchets and mangonels lobbing rocks or some other object covered with an explosive substance, perhaps even pheorite! I don't know how, but, somehow, they most certainly knew that we were coming! There's just no getting around that!"

Ochsendorg fell silent. Everything Colonel Osinduhr was saying made perfect sense. How could so many mangonels and trebuchets have been ready to attack General Fuhdor unless they had been long expected to arrive there?

"The problem is," Colonel Osinduhr continued, "if I were to go join the battle now, I would probably do precious little good. If I execute a tactical retreat, I'm disobeying orders. If I stay here, I'm a sitting duck. And if General Fuhdor's forces are completely defeated, or even slaughtered to a man, then the Dachwaldians are going to soon be coming our way. And if we have to face a force so strong that it has wiped out General Fuhdor, who had far more soldiers than we have, what chance would we stand against them?!!"

"Of course," Ochsendorg said, "don't you think that if General Fuhdor was getting defeated that badly he would have the sense to call a retreat? And if he does retreat, we will very soon know it because we'll see thousands of our own soldiers running full-speed in this direction!"

This actually made some sense to Colonel Osinduhr—after all, he couldn't conceive of an ambush so effective that not one person out of 79,500 could escape it.

"All right," he replied; "we'll wait to see if anyone retreats south."

They stood and waited.

About fifteen minutes later, they no longer heard the faint sound of explosions. Just silence. The kind of silence a mouse must experience right before it sticks its curious little nose just a little too close the cheese and . . . .

Colonel Osinduhr wasn't quite sure how to interpret this. Perhaps General Fuhdor had prevailed after all and was now liberating the alleged extermination camp. Growing increasingly pessimistic about the whole situation, he suddenly said, "Captain Ochsendorg, pick ten of your best scouts and have them go forward on horseback as quickly as they can so they can see what exactly is going on up ahead."

"Yes, Colonel," he quickly replied, and he went off.

The ten scouts galloped north, and within minutes they disappeared over some small hills.

About forty minutes later, Osinduhr saw four of the scouts appear at the top of a hill off in the distance, galloping south towards him like bats out of a cave!

"RETREAT!! RETREAT!!" they shouted incessantly as they charged towards Colonel Osinduhr and his six thousand men.

Mere seconds later, Osinduhr saw an enormous army start to creep over a hill just slightly north of the four scouts. A few seconds after this he saw the scouts fall under a hail of arrows.

"HEAD SOUTH NOWWWWW!!!!!!" Colonel Osinduhr shouted at his men. The buglers immediately began trumpeting his orders, and within seconds everyone was charging south like stampeding buffalo. The Hugars had horses, whereas the Sodorfian regulars were on foot, so it didn't take too long before the Hugars were getting far, far ahead of them. It pained Osinduhr to see that the Sodorfian regulars were not going to stand a chance at outrunning the advancing mass of Dachwaldian savages, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it. He had inherited this mess from General Fuhdor. From a logistical point of view, it only made sense that the Hugars should have the fastest means of escape: they were the more valuable soldiers, and it was more important that they live to fight another day than the Sodorfian regulars.

Then, suddenly, Osinduhr saw something that just about made his heart stop beating. Directly south of him, he saw dust in the air. It was obviously being kicked up by horses. Seconds later, he began to see what looked like a long, black line.

Terror seized him.

Although the enemy was too far away to be seen very clearly, he knew for sure that he was going to be drastically outnumbered. He pulled out a telescope and scanned the horizon slowly and methodically, trying to keep his cool. What he saw chilled the very blood in his veins. There was a wide semicircle of troops coming towards him from the south, and they all looked like Vechengschaft troops. Turning around, he saw that the same thing was happening from the north.

Although terrified, he couldn't help but wonder just how the Vechengschaft had managed to pull this off. He figured that General Fuhdor had probably taken a severe beating, but . . . .

(the battle couldn't have ended THAT quickly! he couldn't have lost EVERY soldier!!)

(then why are there no retreating Sodorfians from the north to be seen? huh? huh? I can't HEAR you!)

Although he was completely mystified as to how the Vechengschaft had managed to defeat General Fuhdor's troops so quickly, he knew that he had to focus on how to get out of this mess quickly, or he and every last one of his men were going to be slaughtered.

What do I do?! he asked himself.

As he continued to scan the horizon, he realized that he was far too encircled to simply try to make a run for it. I'll make them pay dearly for this victory!! he told himself.

"STOP THE RETREAT!!" he yelled loudly. The buglers immediately trumpeted his command.

"FORM A SQUARE!!" he shouted.

Expecting to have already lost all control of these six thousand men, he was very happily surprised to see them stop in their tracks and begin merging together to form a square. This was a defensive strategy they had practiced many times, although he had hoped that they would never have to actually use it.

"PIKEMEN IN FROOOOONT!!!" he barked out. The bugler translated this order into the correct musical notes as well.

What his men correctly understood by "pikemen in front" was that the pikemen were to be positioned in all of the outermost ranks of the square. The Hugars quickly galloped back on their horses to form the square. They had to dismount because it would be difficult to use a pike defensively on a horse. They had a way of dealing with the excess horses, and this was also something they had trained for numerous times.

They first brought all of the horses inside the center of the square. All of the soldiers that were not going to use pikes would get on top of a horse and try to hold the reins of the other horses to keep them calm. The plan was to keep a perfect square while slowly and methodically heading south. This would have the advantage of enabling them to at least have a chance of getting to Sodorf, while simultaneously they could do their best to defend themselves and make the Vechengschaft pay dearly for every offensive maneuver.

Within about five minutes, the Sodorfians had formed a nearly perfect square. It bristled with pikes like a thorn bush in a harsh desert, all of which were about twenty-two feet long. Osinduhr took his place in one of the outermost ranks on the southern side of the square. The square moved south very slowly to maintain formation. From what Osinduhr could see, all or nearly all of the approaching Dachwaldians were mounted on horses.

They were not too far away.

"HALT!! ASSUME DEFENSIVE POSTURES!!" Osinduhr shouted at the top of his lungs, and the buglers quickly echoed his command. The Sodorfians knew what to do: The first several ranks would put the base of their pikes on the ground roughly at a fifty-degree angle and then put the instep of their foot against it to keep it secure. The ranks behind these pikemen would hold their pikes horizontally so as to give a double blow to any horses that ventured too close. The Dachwaldians were quickly advancing on all sides.

"HOLD FAST!!" Osinduhr yelled, encouraging his men. He expected the impact to be within seconds, and he was looking forward to impaling thousands of these Dachwaldian scum.

Then, suddenly, the Dachwaldian horsemen slowed their horses.

"Curses!!" shouted Osinduhr; "They've lost their nerve!"

So he thought.

He could tell by looking at them that they appeared to be holding a mace or some similar short-range weapon. Suddenly, something very strange happened. The Dachwaldians appeared to be flipping some kind of lever on the handles of their maces, and to his bewilderment, he saw the spiked mace balls descend from the tops of the maces that only seconds before they had appeared to be so securely fastened to. The Dachwaldians then pulled their maces behind them and brought them forward hard.

SHOOMM!! SHOOMM!! WHACKK!! Although the Dachwaldians were at least fifty feet away, the balls from their maces went crashing into the unprepared Sodorfians. Many of the balls found their mark against a Sodorfian's head and sent his brains flying onto the soldiers around him. Some fell low and hit the Sodorfians so hard in the chest that they went flying backwards, knocking over several of their fellow soldiers. Others got hit in the hand, and the impact of the razor-sharp spikes against their hand immediately pulverized almost all of the bones and tore flesh.

"UCHINWELDD!!" they shouted out in pain.

This was the first volley.

Before Osinduhr and the others even had a chance to try to understand just what this weapon was, the Vechengschaft and Moscorians sent another volley of steel from their fishing maces flying right into the tightly packed Sodorfian ranks. They really could not have been in a worse formation for being attacked by this lethal weapon.

BAMM!! BAMM!! Thousands of spike-covered balls went flying into the Sodorfian ranks with merciless rapidity. In less than a minute, the square had already been thinned by at least three full ranks, and panic was quickly setting in.

BAMM!! BAMM!! What in Uchinweld is this devilish device?!! Osinduhr asked himself angrily.

It was his last thought.

Seconds later, a spike-covered ball found its mark right on the side of his chin, and the impact broke his neck and killed him instantly.

Now in an absolute panic, and with nowhere to run except towards the enemy, the Sodorfians began charging wildly in all four directions. Expecting that this would eventually happen, the Dachwaldians began executing a drill they had practiced thousands of times. They began to fall back quickly, yet in an organized fashion. As the outermost ranks withdrew, the ranks behind them stayed put and began pummeling the advancing Sodorfians with merciless power and accuracy. Then, those soldiers withdrew, while those behind them stayed put and struck. Thus, the Sodorfians were advancing against a receding wall that was always outside their reach and yet constantly able to deliver lethal blows to them.

Chaos reached its zenith. The Sodorfians ran about madly like beheaded chickens trying to find their way back to the barn. Although at first there had been nowhere to run but towards the Dachwaldians, as their "square" (now in almost complete disarray) got wider and wider, and as the pounding they were taking got worse and worse, they now had the option of retreating back towards the center of what had been the square. The problem with this, however, was that now the Sodorfians were going in opposite directions, and, in their panic, they were crashing into and trampling one other. As piles of stampeding, panic-stricken Sodorfians began to form, the Dachwaldian longbowmen opened fire.

WHOOSH, WHOOSHH, WHOOSHH, WHOOSHH, WHOOSHH!! The sound of arrows flying through the air sounded like angry hornets buzzing around an intruder's ears. Those on top of the quickly forming piles of panic-stricken Sodorfians were soon turned into bloody pincushions as the Dachwaldians, who greatly outnumbered the Sodorfians, sent a shower of arrows into them. Those underneath the piles were protected from the arrows, but their fate was worse. With the people on top of the pile now stone dead, they were trapped and quickly suffocating. At this point, the Sodorfian horses took off and started stampeding in every direction. The Dachwaldians simply moved to the side and allowed the horses to pass through their ranks. They knew that the horses had never been in Dachwald before, and thus did not have a good chance of finding their way back to Sodorf. Besides, there were already some Dachwaldians along the border that would capture as many of the horses as they could. They knew some might make it to Sodorf, but they would deal with that problem later.

As the longbow arrows continued to pour into the now nearly defenseless Sodorfians, the Dachwaldians continued to pummel them with their fishing maces as well. A few of the toughest Hugars managed to break through and engage the enemy, but since they were so greatly outnumbered, they were quickly slain. After about thirty minutes of intense fighting, once again, another large group of Sodorfians had been slaughtered to a man, with the Dachwaldians suffering almost no casualties. In all, about forty Vechengschaft were killed. They quickly started undoing the large piles of Sodorfians and putting any survivors, which were very few, to the sword.

Tristan was absolutely enthralled with the way things were going thus far. Yes, he had been confident, but his soldiers' success with the fishing mace exceeded his wildest dreams. Summoning Feiklen, General Sivingdon, and a few of the other high-ranking Moscorians, Tristan said, "Our victory over Sodorf is almost complete. My pholungs have informed me that there are only ten thousand Sodorfian regulars standing between us and the City of Sodorf!"

"Let's attack now and kill everything that moves!" General Sivingdon exclaimed bloodthirstily.

Chuckling cheerfully, Tristan replied, "I like your spirit, Sivingdon; you have the heart of a true Dachwaldian, and I'll never forget that. However, there is one other obstacle besides the mass of Sodorfian regulars."

"What?!" they all asked with great curiosity.

Smiling slyly, Tristan said, "The Sodorfians have been busy little bees indeed. They have set up an alert system which, I must admit, is quite clever. They have stationed towers containing large bells throughout the northern regions of Sodorf, and Sodorfian regulars stand watch day and night there on the lookout for an attack from the 'savages' from the north! Deviating quite markedly from their typical stupidity, they have actually done a good job with this network of lookout towers. They have distanced them just far enough apart that whenever one of them rings the large bell, at least one other tower will hear the sound, and as soon as that tower hears the sound, it is that soldier's responsibility to immediately ring his bell. If all the Sodorfians move quickly, it is possible for the all of the northern regions to be alerted to danger within less than a half hour!"

As Tristan finished these last words, it was plain by the expressions on Sivingdon's and the Moscorians' faces that they were quite impressed with this elaborate network. Sensing their tension, Tristan got an evil grin on his face.

"You know, should the locations of these towers be secret, it would be impossible for our army to travel even one mile into Sodorf without the whole country soon knowing about it. We would lose that which has enabled us to win such easy victories thus far: surprise and ambush."

Sivingdon and the Moscorians thought they knew where Tristan was going with this, but they felt anxious nonetheless, since it was they who would have to carry out the invasion.

"HOWEVER . . . .," said Tristan, his voice raised in triumph, and then he reached inside one of his sleeves and withdrew a long, white scroll. The evil grin still plastered on his face, he unrolled it slowly, savoring every moment as he prepared to reveal his secret.

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 one 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 to 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.

"But after the loss of my family, that was when I realized that no matter how low the odds of success or how great the odds of failure and painful death, I was going to make a wholehearted effort to get back at that monster. The reason I stopped by was to free you from this prison and take you back to Donive. After that, I'll be on my own. If you want my advice, take Donive and run south, east, or west—anywhere but north. The Vechengschaft and the Moscorians, as we speak, are about to cut right through the last remaining Sodorfian soldiers between the border and the City of Sodorf. Soon, the City of Sodorf will be the last 'safe' place in Sodorf, and even that will be under siege, probably unable to withstand the military might of Dachwald for more than a few weeks. Just tell me where you would like me to take you, and I'll do it. Then, I'm on my own. I'm not sure how I will go about opposing Tristan, but I'll try."

"I know Tristan has great ability with magic, but how strong is his military? You talk about him crushing his way through thousands of Sodorfian soldiers . . . what gives him his advantage? The Sodorfians always seemed weak to me . . . but how can the difference be that great?"

"The Sodorfians are not the most militant people, and the Dachwaldians seem to have a martial spirit not overly hard to kindle. But that's not the only advantage they have. Several centuries after the defeat of Dachwald, some of the brightest Moscorian engineers came up with a lethal weapon. The Moscorians have practiced with it for centuries and have completely mastered it. It is called a fishing mace. It is like a regular ball and chain mace except the ball is attached to a fifty-foot chain tightly wound up inside the handle, where the end of the chain attaches to a compressed spring that can stretch up to twenty feet. The Moscorian engineers spent decades perfecting the design. They found the right balance of spring length and chain length to enable the wielder of the weapon to send a steel, spike-covered ball flying across a long distance into the enemy. As the enemy gets closer, the fishing mace can be flicked back and forth faster. From close range it can be flicked back and forth once per second. The Vechengschaft is becoming more and more adept at wielding this instrument of death, and it was for that reason that the Dachwaldians suffered almost no casualties in their last two battles."

Pitkins tried to visualize the weapon.

"I would like to see this weapon in action. Every weapon, no matter how powerful, no matter how deadly, can be countered. I would have to see it in action to truly have an understanding of how it works."

They talked some more, and the pholung went into great detail concerning the cunning ambush Tristan had laid and eliminated about eighty percent of the Sodorfian army in a single battle.

"Pholung, I can't stay angry with you. You're repentant, and you're risking your life just by talking to me. Will Tristan spare civilians?"

"Ha!" the pholung exclaimed. "You don't know Tristan at all. Tristan will focus on military targets first, but, unless someone stops him, Donive and everyone else in Sodorf will be doomed. Tristan plans to wipe out the Sodorfian race. For a short time, he will keep those healthy and strong enough to assist his troops with digging for pheorite and making weapons of war, but even these Sodorfians would not last more than a month or two. Not even the prettiest Sodorfian women will stand a chance. Tristan has strict rules forbidding Dachwaldians from having relations with Sodorfian women—to him this would be tantamount to bestiality."

Pitkins could think of no reason for Tristan to send the bird as a spy; after all, what danger was he, alone in the dark, in a deep pit that he could never climb out of? He trusted the bird. Maybe he shouldn't. But he did. As he listened to the pholung go into more and more detail concerning the atrocities Tristan had already committed, not only in this war, but in previous wars, and the fact that those paled in comparison to those that were coming, Pitkins grew more and more angry. In his mind he had a vision. He saw Donive, and she was helpless.

Three Dachwaldian soldiers were holding her down. No matter how hard she struggled, it was simply no use. "What should we cut off of this pretty Sodorfian animal first?" one of the men asked.

"Let's start with her pretty hair, and then we'll go to her feet!" one of the ghastly Dachwaldians answered.

Pitkins' blood had now reached boiling point. "NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!" he suddenly screamed with an intensity that he had never felt in his entire life. A volcano of emotions finally erupted. The darkness, isolation, separation from Donive, the horrible fate which awaited her. They were too much. He let them all out in a terrifying shout that nearly rattled the walls.

"Pholung, I give you my word that if you help me escape and take me back to Sogolia, I will raise an army the likes of which Tristan has never seen! You are not talking to some Sodorfian bumpkin. In my old country, Sogolia, I was known as Sir Pitkins III, a descendant from a long line of legendary generals. I was a general in the Sogolian army, in charge of Sogolia's most elite soldiers—the Nikorians—and I know war. I have seen fields drenched in blood and covered with corpses, and in every battle that I have fought, the majority of the blood came from the enemy! About nine years ago, a Sogolian merchant furious because I had refused to allow his son into the Nikorians in exchange for bribe money framed me for treason, forging letters which discussed murdering the king, and put my seal on them, which he had stolen. The penalty for treason was usually death, but the king knew that to put to death a general of my reputation would risk civil war. He decided on a somewhat lesser punishment: exile. Sworin, a lifelong friend, and also a general in the Sogolian army, knew beyond any doubt I was innocent. He was the one person whom I told where I was headed when I left Sogolia, planning never to look back on that accursed place. One of my childhood tutors was Sodorfian. She started speaking to me in Sodorfian when I was an infant and continued doing so. From the age of five, she began formal lessons and continued teaching me her language until I attained native fluency, so when I was exiled, Sodorf was where I decided to go. Only one year after I left, Sworin came to me in Sodorf.

Arnog, the coward who framed me, had been caught red-handed trying the same scheme against another rival. In that case, the rival was a wealthy merchant, and Arnog—also a rich merchant—wanted to get rid of his competitor, and so he figured that framing him for treason with a forged letter bearing the victim's stolen seal would be the best way. Unfortunately for him, his would-be victim, named Rehder, happened to be married to a Metinvur. My people and the Metinvurs have a long history of warfare, but it is not illegal for a Sogolian to marry a Metinvur, although it is a bit controversial. Anyway, as you probably know, Metinvurs are second to none when it comes to espionage. Rehder's wife had her Metinvurian brother find out where Arnog kept the stolen seal, which he accomplished in less than a week by bribing a dissatisfied housemaid to allow him to come in and snoop around one day while Arnog was at a local brothel, and then he mailed an anonymous letter to the royal prosecutor informing him that Arnog was behind the frame-up and informing him precisely where the stolen seal was kept. The prosecutor had Arnog's house searched, and that was when both Rehder's and my stolen seals were discovered. In fact, several other powerful people's stolen seals were found there, some of whom had been previously exiled or executed as a result of Arnog's schemes and others that were probably going to suffer the same fate sooner or later. Arnog was summarily hanged.

"This brought a call for the reopening of my case, the result being I was acquitted in absentia. There was an investigation to find out where I had gone to so I could receive the crown's most sincere apologies and be reinstated as general of the Nikorians. Sworin, true to his promise to me, kept silent as to my whereabouts, feigning ignorance. However, he left Sogolia, disguised as a wandering merchant, and tracked me down in Sodorf. He showed me the judicial order declaring me innocent and the king's written order reinstating me as general of the Nikorians whenever—if ever—I returned to Sogolia. I wasn't interested. I had had enough of Sogolia's politics.

"I wasn't looking for love when I met Donive. But the first time I saw her from a distance, I felt something powerful for her. After our first dance, I was hopelessly in love. When we were married, I was so happy to have her by my side nothing else mattered. It had been years since my first wife had died. She was the first and, until Donive, the only love of my life. She died at the hands of an assassin sent by the Metinvurs, who, as you may know, live north of Sogolia and west of Dachwald. The Metinvurs are formidable warriors, but their specialty long ago became assassinations and espionage because they were rarely our equal in open combat. My family members had a price on their head—as did I. I had been successful in so many battles against the Metinvurs there were naturally many Metinvurian assassins looking for me. I had survived several assassination attempts at their hands, so they decided to kill my wife instead. That was another reason I had no interest in returning back to Sogolia. Living in Sodorf gave me hope that if I fell in love with someone again her life would not be cut short by an assassin's blade. But it seems my destiny is warfare.

"I know Tristan has an army that seems unconquerable to the Sodorfians, but over a thousand years ago, the Dachwaldians ruled over Sogolia for a brief time. The Sogolians have always been a noble, stouthearted people, and we were not willing to accept such servitude. After a long, brutal struggle, the Sogolians managed to force the Dachwaldians out of Sogolia, pushing them northwards back into Metinvur, which the Dachwaldians had conquered before they conquered us, and about a hundred years after that the Metinvurs managed to push the Dachwaldians back into Dachwald. A large mountain range separates Metinvur from Dachwald, and once the Metinvurs pushed the Dachwaldians across it and back into Dachwald, the Dachwaldians were never successful at recrossing. This was good in that it kept my people at a comfortable distance from Dachwald . . . but the Metinvurs are just as vicious and warlike as the Dachwaldians, so my people were forced to engage in frequent wars against them. Nonetheless, Dachwaldian cruelty was remembered, and it was frequently taught in history classes in Sogolia. To the day I left Sogolia—and I doubt much has changed—the Sogolians remembered the Dachwaldians as our former oppressors, our archenemy. It was just a couple centuries after the Metinvurs pushed them back into Dachwald that Sodorf and Dachwald fought the Seven Years War.

"I became even more convinced that I never wanted to return when I married Donive, but now I see that my destiny is to fight. Even if this is for the last time. Pholung, I give you my word. If you help me escape, I will try to save Sodorf from destruction and help you destroy Tristan."

"I'm moved by your desire to stand up against this evil, and I'm happy you're willing to forgive me for the evil that I have done against you. I would like to think that I, like you, have been given by destiny some role to play in this cataclysmic struggle. Of course, I'll help you. However, I do have just one condition . . . ."

"Speak," said Pitkins.

"I am a pholung, but my name is not Pholung!! My name is Istus!"

Pitkins couldn't stop the smile that spread over his face. "Alright, Istus, get me the Uchinweld out of this pit!" he said laughing.

Pitkins heard only the slightest disruption of the air as Istus glided down into the pit.

"You can get on my back, or I can carry you. Given the sharpness of my claws, I'd recommend my back!" Istus said. "But, first, I have something for you."

Pitkins felt something large and heavy being handed to him. It was pitch black, but he could recognize the shape and weight of that sword anywhere.

"CARLOS!" he exclaimed.

"My first act of rebellion wasn't helping you. The night I carried you in here I found your sword when I was cleaning out the room you had stayed in, and it piqued my curiosity unbearably. I hid it deep in the forest, inside a small hollow area atop one of the tallest trees. I occasionally asked the other pholungs if they had ever heard of such a name—without telling them the reason for my question—and they hadn't. Something told me not to give it to Tristan."

"This sword has been passed down for over a hundred generations. According to my father, the legend is that a people far to the west of our country once sought shelter in our country due to a combination of famine and enemy invasion of their homeland. The Sogolians helped them, and their king gave the Nikorian general this sword as a token of appreciation. According to the legend, it has ever since been the honor of the Nikorian general to bear this sword. I tried to give it to Sworin when I was exiled, but he refused. We nearly went to blows. I told him tradition demanded it be with the new general of the Nikorians. Sworin told me I was the true general of the Nikorians, that an unjustly imposed exile could not strip away my right and my duty to bear the sword. Furthermore, he told me he knew one day I would come back. I thought he was a fool.

"I threw it on the ground in front of him and walked away. My first night after leaving Sogolia, I discovered the sword with my belongings. It had a note attached to it: 'It's yours. You'll be back one day.' To return to Sogolia would have put me under a death sentence and could have resulted in civil war, due to the Nikorians being on my side still, so I couldn't go back to return him the sword. And I couldn't abandon the sword.

"I tried again to give it to him when Sworin visited me to tell me my name had been cleared and that I was welcome to not only come back but to be reinstated as the general of the Nikorians, but he refused to take it. He told me again, 'I know you'll be back one day.'"

Pitkins paused.

"Sounds like he was right," said Istus. "And it's a good thing I didn't bring that sword to Tristan. Tristan is a master historian and knows thousands of legends to the last detail. I had never heard of this Sogolian legend, but I don't doubt for a moment Tristan would have, and he would have known immediately you're not really a Sodorfian."

"Luck appears to be on our side, Istus. Let's get moving before it does."

Pitkins got on top of Istus's back and held on tightly to his feathers. Istus was enormous. As he flew Pitkins out of the pit, Pitkins felt a surge of euphoria unlike any he had ever experienced in his entire life. He had only been a prisoner once before this. It was after a battle the Sogolians had lost, but he was only imprisoned for a mere two weeks before being rescued by the Nikorians. As bad as he thought that had been, it was nothing compared to the mental anguish and suffering he had endured in this dark hellhole for many months. Never had he even thought possible such anguish.

Before Istus even began to fly out of the hole, Pitkins suddenly asked, "Istus, I need you to tell me something, but I want you to know your answer won't affect my promise to help you destroy Tristan. Do you know for sure if Donive is still alive, and does she still think I am alive? Does she still love me?"

"Yes, yes, and yes. She's nearly the only person who believes you didn't abandon her on purpose. I've heard her at night talking in her sleep, saying, 'No, the dream, the dream. He's going to come back. He's going to save you.'"

Pitkins felt a chill going down his spine as her heard these words. He remembered the dream she had told him about the day he proposed to her inside the hollowed-out bowels of the monstrous tree on her father's property.

"I'm amazed at her love for you. Not even Fritzer still believes in you: he thinks you're either dead or simply abandoned Donive. He's never told Donive this directly, because he knows it would break her already shattered heart into even more pieces, but she's no fool—she knows he's lost hope. Even before I made the decision to betray Tristan, I found her unconditional belief in you inspiring. Sometimes Tristan was so intimidating that I didn't even feel safe with my own wife. I thought everyone was a spy and would turn me in if I told them what I really felt about that monster. Until now I never had the guts, and yet my dear wife and children were cruelly taken from me all the same. I realize now that the pholungs' fear and mutual distrust of each other are the main reasons Tristan can rule over us. If even one forty determined pholungs joined together, we could kill that snake. Tristan's powerful but not invincible."

Pitkins felt another wave of euphoria spread over him upon hearing Donive was not only alive but still believed in him. This added to the pressure he was already feeling. Determination and fear of failure were colliding inside of him like thousand-pound boulders smashing into one another at the bottom of a cliff. He knew success would depend upon channeling this energy into action.

"If I'm to truly have a chance of defeating the the Moscorians, I'm gonna have to see the tactics and weaponry I'll face in battle. It'll be a sad sight, but my only chance for figuring out a way to counter their strategies and weaponry. The Metinvurs one time caught my soldiers off guard. Three years had passed without any armed conflict. Our king naively believed the Metinvurs wanted peace. What they were doing was improving their weaponry and tactics. When they attacked, we were nearly defenseless. We lost several bloody battles. But our army figured out a way to beat them, and in the end we were a better army because of it."

"Well, in that case, you're in luck," Istus responded. "There'll be a battle anytime now. I was hoping to take you straight to Sogolia though for several reasons, the chief of which being if Tristan happens to notice us flying around, our odds of defeating him will plummet. He'll know he has at least one traitorous pholung, and he'll probably know you represent a grave threat to him, one that must be attended before all others. He'll immediately proceed to have all other pholungs track our every movement. If he does, he'll quickly find out not only where you are from, but also that he has a huge threat to deal with from the west. If he finds out about this, he'll move quicker than ever to crush the City of Sodorf, even if his army suffers heavy losses in the process. Right now, he's fighting methodically, isolating groups of Sodorfians one at a time and then ambushing them, wiping them out without hardly suffering a casualty.

"If he knows he's going to be dealing with a threat from the west, he'll do whatever it takes to crush the City of Sodorf in days and thus avoid a two-front war. I'll take you to see the battle, but we'll only be able to do limited flying. We'll have to spend most of the time well hidden high up in the largest tree we can find. Luckily, it's nighttime right now. This is good, since you would be blinded right now if your eyes were immediately exposed to light; your eyes need to readjust gradually. Also, we'll be able to fly to the location of the battle with a greater chance of not being detected. However, if you feel you need to see the new Dachwaldian weaponry in action to be able to figure out a way to train your army to combat it, then I think it's worth the risk."

"I do."

"Alright. Here we go."

Istus began flying slowly through the dark tunnel. It was so dark a human could not see anything inside of it, but Istus was able to see well enough to avoid slamming into the wall. Pitkins felt the pleasant breeze of the wind against his face as they glided through the long tunnel that led to the opening on the side of the cliff wall. Several minutes later they saw starlight. Pitkins' heart soared as he was finally freed of the horrible darkness in which he had so long been imprisoned. Never before had the stars seemed so beautiful, the night sky so wondrous, the trees below so majestic, the mountains so awe-inspiring.

(be glad you kept yourself physically in shape; you'll need more strength for this than anything you've ever done in your whole life . . . anything at all)

Chapter 10

Feiklen was with the group of Moscorians taking the western path to circle around Seihdun. He and 250 other Moscorians were in their heaviest camouflage and were wearing virtually no armor so there would be nothing to slow them down or compromise their stealth. A surge of euphoria swept over him. This attack would cripple Sodorf's chances of ever defending herself again. He had not traveled more than a hundred yards before he spotted the first tower. He had to stop for a moment and appreciate the complexity of it.

(this isn't gonna be quite as easy as you thought)

The tower had about four platforms on which Sodorfian troops were keeping watch. He pulled out a telescope for an even closer look. Looking through the powerful glass, he realized, to his horror, that there was no single person whose quick assassination would render the other Sodorfians unable to ring the large bell in a timely fashion. From what he could see, the rope attached to the bell descended inside the guard tower itself, which meant that at anytime, if even one Sodorfian was alive inside the guard tower, he would be able to ring the bell. Which of course, while not spelling doom to the attack itself, would certainly spell doom for any chance of achieving the element of surprise.

And Tristan had asked for surprise.

He had no shortage in the Creativity Department when it came to dealing death. He could do so as quickly and precisely as an experienced casino card dealer distributing a deck of cards. Maybe faster. But no matter how many different attacks he thought of, they all involved letting the players get a peek at the cards. And there could be no peeking. Not on this mission.

Tristan's not going to like this. Not one bit.

But, as he thought it over more and more, he realized that, while Tristan would be angry if he did not proceed quickly with the plan, he would be far angrier if he went ahead and launched the attack knowing that disaster would be the probable result.

This is the fault of those damn pholungs!! Tristan's pride and joy. They forgot to mention that these lookout towers are nearly impossible to ambush! So much for Tristan's eyes in the sky!

Then, suddenly, an idea hit him. He liked it. He was pleased to meet its acquaintance. Even with it already laid out in his mind, he knew, however, that he needed to bring his Moscorians back into Dachwald where they could discuss his plan with Tristan first. Then, another thought hit him, and this one he didn't like. It was terrifying.

Kihlgun!! What if he decides to attack anyway, thinking that it would be better to attack than to risk being outdone by me or being reprimanded by Tristan for being overly cautious?! Or what if Kihlgun comes across a weakly protected guard tower and has no reason not to proceed with the plan?!

Now nearly in a panic, he took the lead, and began moving back into Dachwald as quickly as he could without completely compromising his stealth and silence.

As soon as he arrived back across the border, he immediately summoned Tristan.

"Tristan! It is very urgent you recall Kihlgun immediately, or disaster may be the result!"

Tristan, looking very displeased, knew that when Feiklen said something like this, it was best to just trust him.

Tristan immediately sent one of the swiftest Moscorians to recall Kihlgun. The runner was met by Kihlgun already coming back into Dachwald, and Kihlgun was saying frantically, "Please tell me Feiklen has also recalled his men! Please!!"

The Moscorian messenger quickly nodded affirmatively, and they all went back into Dachwald.

Feiklen felt that a thousand-pound weight had been taken off his chest when he saw Kihlgun.

"What's going on?!" Tristan thundered at Kihlgun and Feiklen.

Feiklen spoke first, "Master, these towers are very well-fortified and well-manned. Taking them out of commission quickly and silently, if not impossible, is going to be exceedingly more difficult than we first thought!"

Quickly concurring, Kihlgun added, "He's right, master."

"Koksun is going to be eating pholung soup for months to come!" shouted Tristan angrily. "They didn't report anything about these towers that would make them so difficult to attack silently! Explain the problem!"

"Master," Feiklen began, "there is not just a ladder going up to the top of the tower. Looking through my telescope, I could see that there were several well-fortified levels to these lookout towers—at least the one I observed—and there are numerous Sodorfians posted on each level. Even worse, the rope attached to the bell descends inside the tower, and so, unless somehow all Sodorfian lookouts could be killed at once—a near impossibility—then at least one of them will still be able to ring the bell, which is all it will take for us to lose the element of surprise. However, master, if I may, I have a plan which I think might eliminate our problem."

"Speak," Tristan said calmly.

"While I was working at Arbeitplatz, one of the prisoners happened to be a Sodorfian with the foolishness to travel from Sodorf into Dachwald not very long ago. As soon as I found this out, I naturally put him under torture to make him tell me everything he knew about Sodorf's defenses. Although he was very resilient and didn't want to give in at first, he eventually told me that what was definitely the weakest point in Sodorf's warning system was the fact that there had been several false alarms with the intricate system of bells and lookout towers throughout the country. He reported that in the last month alone there had been seven false alarms. Apparently, some Sodorfians were so frightened of an attack that they rang the bell every time they heard a twig crack. Despite threats of severe punishment made by the generals, these false alarms couldn't be quelled. Finally, to prevent the alarms from being rendered totally useless, they came up with an idea.

"Sodorfian protocol for sounding a warning is three rings of the bell. If a Sodorfian realizes he has made a false alarm, he is to then proceed to ring it seven times thereafter. The logic behind this is that, since most people who make a false alarm quickly realize their mistake, this way they can quickly communicate the mistake to the neighboring towers. Therefore, if one hears three rings of the bell, or even less, and then nothing but silence, everyone can assume it wasn't a false alarm. The prisoner reported to me that the Sodorfian military commanders liked the results of this experiment because it got the people of Sodorf—both military and non-military—to not panic every time they heard the warning bells go off.

"However, this doesn't mean all we have to do is storm the guard towers and then ring the bells seven times afterwards. The prisoner mentioned there was rarely an instance where two false alarms were set off in the same day, and that there had never been more than two false alarms in a single day. What this means is we have a little bit of slack with regards to this accursed warning system, but we are definitely going to have to take a special approach to attacking these towers, or we are going to set off more than two 'false' alarms and everyone will know something very fishy is going on."

"Why didn't you tell me about this before?!"

"It seemed like useless information at the time because I didn't realize the towers would be so well protected. I thought one arrow at each tower would do the trick, and no bells would be rung at all!"

"What's your plan?"

"We figure out how long it would take for a group of Moscorians to reach the southernmost towers, divide up into small groups, each one going to a different tower, then synchronize all of our attacks so that all lookout towers are attacked simultaneously. That way there would be only one 'false' alarm at the most. The most skillful Moscorians should attack the towers closest to Seihdun because they're going to have to travel the farthest without being detected."

"I like the plan—I certainly do NOT like the fact that you didn't tell me about this contingency when we first made our plans. Now we've lost nearly an hour of time!"

"As I said, I thought the information to be completely irrelevant, master, at the time. After all, I thought we could take out each lookout tower so fast that the lookouts would be gurgling blood and breathing their last before they could even think about reaching for the rope to ring the bell!"

Tristan knew he was right. And he also didn't want to waste any more time. He told Feiklen to quickly inform all of the Moscorians about the plan, personally divide them into small groups, and put someone in charge of each. Tristan ordered the synchronized attack to begin in exactly twelve hours. Each of the Moscorian group leaders had with them a very small hourglass that they could fit into one of their pockets. They would have to make sure to check it regularly to make sure they flipped it over at the exact moment it ran out of sand and to also count the number of times they did so.

The Moscorians quickly set out on their mission again. There were five groups of fifty Moscorians going in each direction, as there were exactly five lookout towers along each route that they would need to take out.

Exactly eleven-and-a-half hours later Feiklen and his Moscorians arrived at the tower just south of Seihdun. Feiklen looked down at his hourglass. Halfway empty.

Thirty minutes to go.

He would have liked to have used some pheorite to attack the tower, but he knew if anyone heard a loud explosion there was no way the Sodorfians would be easily convinced that it had been a "false" alarm, not even if they heard the seven rings immediately after. That was why, before they had set off on their mission once again, he had decided to have each group use naphtha. It was perfect for attacking this kind of defensive structure. Each group would, with their longbows, begin peppering the lookout towers with flaming naphtha-covered arrows. As soon as the tower began filling up with smoke and flames, everyone in there would immediately begin pouring out of the tower, like bees out of a hive—possibly without even bothering to ring the bell at all. It would depend on their level of discipline.

One of the dangers with this approach was that if the tower was burned to a crisp, how would they ring the bell seven times to indicate a "false" alarm? Feiklen had come up with a solution for this scenario, which, of course, would only be an issue if the bell was rung at all. Each group had one person with him who carried a long rope with a large stone attached to the end of it. This could be used to bang the bell, perched on top of the tower, even if the tower was completely going up in flames.

Ten minutes left.

Feiklen used his hands to give an indication to his Moscorians of how much time they had remaining.

Five minutes left.

Feiklen's heart beat faster and faster. It was like a wild stallion just recently freed from a barn wherein a cruel farmer had kept it for months and months, not allowing it any exercise. No freedom to run. Now it was running, galloping, jumping. Combat. It was what made him feel alive. The eight centuries in between this moment and the Seven Years War had been at least as dreadful for him as being cooped up in a barn was for a wild stallion. He looked forward to the bloodshed he hoped to unleash with the restlessness of a child waiting to open his birthday presents.

One minute left.

The stallion was now running more wildly than ever, but still had complete control of itself. It had to be. It was running on dangerous ground. It had to keep its footing.

Thirty seconds.

He indicated this to his Moscorians.

Five seconds.

He raised his hand, all five fingers outstretched, and began slowly lowering them as each second passed by, all the while keeping a close watch on the hourglass.

Two seconds.

He dropped his hand, placed an arrow in his longbow, lit it, and then he and all fifty Moscorians with him sent flaming, naphtha-covered arrows roaring into the unsuspecting lookout tower like raining fire. This scene was played out nearly identically in exactly ten locations surrounding Seihdun.

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

The arrows went flying into the tower in front of Feiklen.

"FIRE!!" the Sodorfians immediately shouted. "And the bell?!" one of them shouted, seeing his comrades flee. "Be a hero if you want to!" one of them shouted back; "I don't want to get burned alive!"

As they went pouring out of the lookout towers like ants exiting a burning anthill, they were immediately peppered with longbow arrows. Peppered so quickly that a huge pile of bodies quickly began forming in front of the tower. The Sodorfians being blocked from leaving by this bloody pile became very desperate. They were screaming and shouting in anger and fear, trying desperately to push their fallen comrades' bodies out of the way so that they could get to safety. A few managed to do so, but as soon as they did, their heads and chests were covered with arrows, and they quickly became part of the pile. The big bloody pile. Those still inside the tower had no hope. Already engulfed in flames, they simply screamed out in agony. A smile spread across Feiklen's face. He liked these sounds. He hoped to hear many more soon.

Similar scenes were played out at the other nine towers south of Seihdun. So full of smoke and raging flames, none of the Sodorfians thought it expedient to worry about ringing the bell when they were seconds from being burned alive. Although at some locations more managed to actually exit the tower, none made it very far, as they all fell under a heavy hail of longbow arrows. All the towers south of Seihdun had been taken out, which meant that any warning bells that went off north of Seihdun would only be able to alert those in Seihdun. The southern link in the chain of towers had been taken out, and there would be no way for a warning to be brought southward except by a person on foot or on horse, and neither Tristan nor Feiklen planned on allowing a man to be left standing to accomplish either.

Ecstatic with his success, and now nearly certain that Sodorf's fate as a whole had just been sealed, Feiklen sent his swiftest runner back to alert the Moscorians north of them that their target had been taken out. Within about twelve hours, Tristan had been informed that both the eastern and western routes had been cleared.

The trap was being set around Seihdun.

Feiklen was delighted—nearly intoxicated with joy at just how well everything was going so far. The route now cleared, ten thousand Vechengschaft troops began traveling along the eastern route and ten thousand on the western route to circle southward around the Sodorfians at Seihdun, where they would meet up with the five hundred Moscorians already waiting there.

After about twelve hours of marching they were in position. The other twenty thousand Vechengschaft had begun marching about ten hours ago. Their destination was directly north of Seihdun, and they had now arrived.

The Dachwaldians were under no illusions with regards to the reality that the warning bells north of Seihdun were going to go off as soon as the attack was sprung. It would have been perfectly feasible to take out the northern towers as well, but Tristan was in the mood to show off a little. The trap was set, and the bells could only alert the doomed. In fact, the ringing of the bells from the northern towers was going to be the signal to the troops south of Seihdun to attack. Thus, the Sodorfians' once effective warning system was now going to be used as a tool to coordinate the pounding of the nails into their coffin.

Feiklen waited eagerly for the sound of bells ringing.

This is going to be it, the nail in Sodorf's coffin!

He thought back nostalgically to the many battles he had been in against Sodorf centuries ago, many of them successful, how marvelous it would feel to bloody his sword against the flesh of Sodorfians once again. He gulped in excited, nervous anticipation.

After this, the City of Sodorf will be surrounded, outnumbered, outclassed, without reinforcements! We can take our time, smash and burn the city and all of its inhabitants and then continue mining for pheorite—after that we can take on another country! No one will be able to stop us! No one will—

DONG, DONG, DONG!! Feiklen could hear the Sodorfian warning bells going off in the north. It was early dawn, the sun just beginning to rise.

"CHAAARRRGE!!!!" he shouted at his men, and the order was quickly passed throughout the ranks. His group of 10,250 men, positioned southwest of Seihdun, and Kihlgun's group of 10,250 men, positioned southeast of Seihdun, began to quickly descend upon Seihdun like lions on a downed gazelle.

Chapter 11

DONG, DONG, DONG!!! As Pitkins and Istus flew high over northern Sodorf, Pitkins suddenly heard the ominous tolling of a bell echoing throughout the land.

"Is that what I think it is?" Pitkins asked.

"Absolutely. It's a warning system that the Sodorfians set up. Lest you think Tristan's forces have lost the element of surprise, you can rest assured he's found some way to position his forces so that all the warning in the world will no longer do the Sodorfians any good. He always finds a way."

Knowing that he had to speed up so that he could get Pitkins close enough to the action to be able to see what he himself would later be up against, Istus began flapping his wings harder and faster than ever, propelling him and Pitkins through the air at a very high velocity. Pitkins struggled to hang on. Within about ten minutes, Istus had managed to find a tree nearly five hundred feet tall, and he perched on it with Pitkins so that they could watch the battle unobserved.

"GET IN DEFENSIVE FORMATION!!!" shouted Captain Auschor, nearly jumping out of his skin as soon as he heard the ominous tolling of the warning bell.

"Where do you think the attack is coming from, Captain?" asked Lieutenant Usendurg.

"There's no telling for sure . . . from the north I would expect, however. But, not a single scout has come and reported any enemy activity close to the border, much less within Sodorf. However, I'm very concerned about General Fuhdor still not having returned. You'd think that he'd have at least sent a messenger to us by now to let us know the status of things in Dachwald! I have a gnawing feeling that things went horribly wrong for him. It was obvious to everyone he was just itching for a battle, and I heard from many fellow officers that he was being rash and impulsive with his decision-making. Since we don't yet know exactly what we're up against, I want everyone to form a defensive square. Order your men! Now!"

"Yes, Captain!" Lieutenant Usendurg replied, and he immediately began forming his men into a square in the large field just outside of Seihdun. There had been nowhere near enough room in Seihdun for all ten thousand Sodorfian regulars, and, wanting to be able to supervise all of his troops, Captain Auschor had decided months ago to have all of his men camp in a field located less than a mile east of Seihdun.

Suddenly, running south, an expression of fear on his face so terrifying it alone nearly drained the morale right out of his fellow soldiers' bodies, a messenger came running south screaming, "THE DACHWALDIANS ARE COMING!! THE DACHWALDIANS ARE COMINGGG!!"

And coming they most certainly were. General Sivingdon rode at the front of a large group of cavalry, and they were quickly closing the distance between them and the fleeing Sodorfians. All of his cavalry were equipped with fishing maces, and they were ready to use them. General Sivingdon drew first blood. A young Sodorfian regular, about thirty feet away, seemed like a good target to begin with. He flipped the switch on his fishing mace to allow some slack to be released, and then he brought his arm back behind him and then brought it forward violently.

SWOOOSHH . . . SMACKKK!! The steel ball went crashing into the back of the terrified Sodorfian's head, sending bits of skull and brains flying everywhere, killing him nearly instantly. Having allowed their general the honor of drawing first blood, the other Vechengschaft cavalry now opened up with a murderous vengeance, their zeal eclipsing that of a group of starving wolves attacking a herd of antelope.

BAMM!! SMACKKK!! CRASH!! Many of the Sodorfians had been asleep when the Dachwaldians arrived, so they had not even had the chance to properly armor themselves. The Dachwaldians began thrashing the Sodorfians mercilessly and indiscriminately with their razor-sharp, spike-covered steel balls of death. Those that were running away presented particularly easy targets, as any hit that connected with the back of their head or spine either killed them instantly or caused them to fall down, whereafter they were brutally and mercilessly crushed by the hooves of the Vechengschaft's horses.

The Sodorfians coming up against this ruthless assault were being absolutely massacred. The Dachwaldians were cutting through their ranks like a hot knife through butter. Very few of the Sodorfians were able to withstand even one hit from the fishing mace, due to its crushing power. The few that did without exception suffered numerous broken and crushed bones, only to receive a second, fatal strike seconds later.

"FALL BACK!! FALL BAACKKK!!" the officers shouted. It was like telling a drunkard to drink—the troops were already fleeing for their lives. Captain Auschor was furious, but also terrified, and his realization of just how badly his troops were being crushed caused his terror to slightly eclipse his anger, which was also great. He was angry because he realized that it was going to be next to impossible to form a solid defensive square with his men panicking so wildly and uncontrollably. He shouted at the top of his voice for his men to move into formation. A large number of his men tried to do so, but they quickly realized that if they held their position they were going to be trampled by their own men. Left with little choice, they turned to flee southward to avoid being crushed by their fellow soldiers. However, as bad as the situation seemed to Captain Auschor, and especially to the fleeing, panicking men, they didn't realize the situation was far worse than they thought.

Coming up from the south, with a growl so low, so ominous, so terrifying that it sounded like it was being emitted from a group of large angry bears warning a predator away from a fresh kill, the Moscorians, in their most terrifying regalia and armor came swarming forward across the field like unfed wolves charging a pack of herbivorous, tasty animals. Their armor was pitch black, every square inch of it, except for the portion of the helmet that covered their face. This portion was a bright silver, and the carving on it was hideous and terrifying—it was the face of Veihgung, the god of war.

"RRRRRRRRRRHHHHHGGG!!!!" they growled savagely. Upon seeing these terrifying beasts—the Sodorfians weren't completely sure they were even human—a good number of Sodorfians soiled themselves on the spot, and some even fainted from fright. One poor Sodorfian dropped dead from sheer terror, not knowing in that split second how kind fate had been to him. Although Tristan had wanted the Moscorians to learn how to use the fishing mace because he knew that it would give them a tremendous advantage in battle, he still knew that the weapon sacred to the Moscorians was the long sword, and so he had made a compromise with them that they could use their long swords in this battle, as long as they were winning. While the Sodorfians were still a good distance away, the Moscorians first decided to start whittling away at their opponents with their longbows.

WHOOSHH!! WHOOSHH!! WHOOSHH, WHOOSHH, WHOOSHH, WHOOSHH, WHOOSHH!! The arrows came flying into the panic-stricken masses of Sodorfians like angry bees out of a hive that has just been disturbed by a honey-seeking bear. Strong enough to pierce thick armor, the effects of these longbow arrows were so devastating against the Sodorfians' unprotected flesh that many claimed three or more lives before finally burying themselves in the ground. After peppering the Sodorfians to their hearts' content with arrows, they resumed closing the distance. As they did this, the Vechengschaft behind them continued sending volley after volley of thousands of longbow arrows into the Sodorfians. When the Moscorians got to within sixty feet of the Sodorfians, who at this point didn't have anywhere to run—they were surrounded on all sides—they unleashed hell on the Sodorfians with their fishing maces.

WHACKK!! CRACKK!! SMASHH!! The assault was relentless and merciless, and even the bravest Sodorfians were quickly demoralized. Feiklen was having more fun than he had had in centuries. Perhaps ever.

Sensing that the Sodorfians probably did not have a whole lot of fight left in them, he barked the command, "READY YOUR SWOOOOORDSS!!!!" at the top of his lungs. A smile crept onto each Moscorian's face behind his sinister helmet. They put their fishing maces into a tight sheath on their backs.

Brief silence.

SWWWIISH. The sound of nearly five hundred long swords being removed from their sheaths simultaneously was eerie indeed.

"CHAAAARRRRGE! TAKE NO PRISONERS!!" Feiklen shouted. Now at a frenzy of violence and murderous desire that rarely, if ever, occurs amongst the human species, the Moscorians charged forward, long swords in hand. Although the death and destruction they had caused with their fishing maces and longbows had been fun, they were not going to be satisfied until they spilled blood with their sacred long swords—it had been centuries since they had wet them in combat. They were like hungry sharks attacking a group of injured seals. Captain Auschor, trying to inspire his men, unsheathed his sword and charged the oncoming Moscorians. Feiklen smiled behind his demonic-looking helmet. He approached Captain Auschor without fear and without any intention of giving quarter. Auschor tried hard not to look at Feiklen's helmet—it sapped the strength right out of him—but at the same time it was terribly difficult not to look at it. It had strange, evil-looking shapes, and the helmet, right in the position where the wearer's mouth was, was stretched back in a horrible scream of anger and aggression, with large, fang-like teeth descending therefrom. Forgetting every sword lesson he had ever received in his life, Auschor swung wildly at Feiklen in an overhead chop. Feiklen easily dodged the blow by moving to the side, and as he did so he brought his sword hard into Auschor's stomach, immediately disemboweling him and causing blood to shoot everywhere. Stepping through with his left foot, Feiklen then spun around and with one clean slice cut Auschor's head right off of his shoulders.

Seeing their captain defeated so quickly and effortlessly terrified the Sodorfians. Feiklen charged alone into a large mass of them. Though vastly outnumbered, he wasn't even the slightest bit concerned about his safety. With his six-foot-long, razor-sharp sword with which he had practiced and fought for centuries and which he could wield as easily as if it were a stick, he began slicing through one Sodorfian after another. The combination of force and sharpness behind each blow allowed no second chances for anyone unfortunate enough to be in his sword's path, not even those wearing moderately thick armor. It was more like he was cutting down small shrubs than fighting soldiers. The Dachwaldians on the northern side of the slaughter continued to pummel the Sodorfians with their fishing maces.

Kihlgun was having a particularly good time. But not with a long sword. With his battle hammer. Those Moscorians standing close to him quickly created distance between themselves and Kihlgun, not wanting their long-awaited moment of homicidal frenzy to be destroyed by Kihlgun's hammer accidentally crushing every rib in their body if it were to accidentally strike one of them when he brought it backwards. As for bones he hit on purpose, he didn't just break them.

No, he turned them into dust.

With single blows he sent men flying four, five, sometimes eight feet up into the air. Those hit horizontally went flying backwards into their fellow soldiers as if shot out of a catapault, some being impaled by their comrades' swords in the process and many times knocking dozens of them over. Those unlucky enough to fall down while still alive were not spared either. Kihlgun took a particularly devilish delight in delivering his most powerful blows to non-vital parts of the body. Amongst these, his most favorite was the knee. Many a Sodorfian who fell to the ground, either because he was knocked down by a fellow soldier or from sheer terror, tried in vain to squirm away while Kihlgun delivered a crushing blow to his knee, turning the bones into a fine powder. The thickest armor crumpled underneath the ghastly power of the hammer head making its acquaintance as if it were made of papier-mâché and merely painted to look like real armor. The screams of these poor souls could make a wolf feel pity—but not Kihlgun. It only increased his enjoyment, his resolve to cause more damage and mayhem. He giggled crazily, nearly quivering with joy.

Many Sodorfians were confused as to whose side he was on as they noticed Dachwaldians keeping their distance from him as if he were as much their foe as the Sodorfians'. This caused some of them to gawk when survival would have been better achieved by running like a surefooted deer who has just caught sight of a hunter but knows better than to stop and marvel at the man's bow. In addition to their confusion caused by the scattering of Dachwaldians away from him, a few were fatally mesmerized at the way he effortlessly wielded the grotesquely large battle hammer around his body, often with just one hand at a time, and they found themselves wondering if they could even lift such a beastly weapon, let alone use it.

One Sodorfian, named Itger, got so caught up in watching the dazzling demonstration that his brain must have failed to realize Kihlgun was seeking volunteers, but not necessarily by choice. As Kihlgun's hammer rose impossibly high into the sky, his mad eyes burning holes into the soul of Itger the entire time yet somehow hypnotizing him as much as frightening him, Itger never appeared to budge an inch. As Kihlgun's hammer crashed down on top of his head it did so with so much force that, had Itger been made of steel, he would have found himself a second later buried up to his chin in the ground like a nail that has just been snugly hammered into a piece of wood. Alas, due to the more fleshly composition of the target of the battle hammer, albeit with some steel armor thereon, the hammer head exploded Itger's head like a watermelon dropped off a thousand-foot cliff. Blood went spraying ten feet on all sides and nearly blinded Kihlgun himself for a moment, not that any of the petrified people who had just witnessed this awesome act considered even for a moment taking advantage of the opportunity to attack Kihlgun.

Instead, they decided they had seen enough of the show and didn't want to be the next volunteers. They ran madly in all directions, trampling many of their fellow soldiers underfoot. Kihlgun's battle hammer had met little of anything that might be properly called resistance as it crashed into Itger's skull and continued without interruption all the way to the ground, flattening him out on the bottom portion of his hammer like a pancake on a skillet, and when Kihlgun lifted it back up into the air to bring it crashing against a huddle of scampering Sodorfians Kihlgun would not have found it the least bit unwholesome to use what remained of Itger's body as a cudgel to batter the hapless group, but fate was kind to Itger, and his body flew off the hammer, landed onto the ground, and thus was saved this final indignity.

Perhaps the huddle of Sodorfians would have preferred it not be so as Kihlgun's hammer head—not softened by the padding of Itger's body—mercilessly crashed into them breaking bones, crushing organs, and knocking dozens over at a time. Kihlgun set to bashing the bones of the still living with all the self-righteous enthusiasm of a man ridding his house of a particularly severe insect infestation. Those who were still so foolish as to stop and take in the sight of this abominable creature at work—rather than running swiftly and not looking back—were struck by the fact that he seemed both completely overtaken by the worst case of the giggles they had ever seen yet simultaneously moved around in such swift, mercilessly powerful movements that his body appeared as sober as a runner on race day. It was almost as if his giggling really wasn't giggling at all but rather some bizarre vocal cord defect that caused his mere breathing in and out to mistakenly sound like the silly laugh of an eight-year-old who has just watched his victim sit in a pile of nasty gum.

Rutkins, one of the Sodorfians making this fatal error, remembered that the only time in his life he had giggled as hard as he was witnessing this monster do, was the time in second grade that his archrival, Flyker, had slipped face-first into a pile of fresh dog poop at the very moment he had been getting ready to depants Rutkins right in front of Agatha, a girl he'd had a crush on the size of a small building. He'd married Agatha fifteen years later, and he had often wondered whether that would have been so had that no-good bully Flyker managed to leave him in his undies in front of the girl he was hoping to impress. Because of Flyker's misstep, Rutkins had laughed so loud and so hard that he was doubled over on the ground, writhing about, twitching uncontrollably, tears pouring from his eyes like water from an overflowing stream, howls coming from his mouth like an insane wolf.

Fortunately, Agatha had seen exactly what Flyker was getting ready to do at the moment "do" became doo-doo, and she had only laughed a hair lighter than Rutkins and had herself doubled over with laughter. Flyker took a hiatus from bullying and was reputed not to have resumed it until he moved to a school far enough away that the Great Doggy Incident was not hanging over his shoulders like a bucket of water ready to be dumped on top of him in front of everyone if he even dared try to make someone else the butt of a joke.

Anyway, Rutkins remembered that for at least three minutes he had been so incapacitated with laughter that he would probably not have been able to move if a viper had slithered right up next to him and licked his nose with its long forked tongue. He never quite knew how he found the strength not to leave a gallon of urine inside his pants, but he figured it was probably the realization that doing so would have changed the most fortuitous moment of his entire life into one so embarrassing he would have to change his name, change schools, and perhaps leave the country.

So, as Rutkins recalled his paralyzed, albeit ecstatic state of cataplexy during those three minutes of seizure-like laughter, he incredulously watched the apotheosis of contradictions as this nearly seven-foot tall, muscle-bound monster with large blue eyes—that seemed to Rutkins nearly the size of saucers—giggle like a schoolboy while simultaneously swinging around a tree-sized hammer as if it were his garden hoe and sending well-trained, well-armored men flying into the air with blood exploding from their crushed bodies.

Kihlgun spotted the Sodorfian staring at him with the stupefied look of a child seeing an elephant for the first time. This induced an unprecedented pause in Kihlgun's bloodbath, as he stopped for several seconds to look at the Sodorfian. Kihlgun's eyes seemed, to Rutkins at least, to momentarily go from the size of saucers to the size of normal eyes—at least to the size of eyes normal for a man nearly seven feet tall. It was almost as if Kihlgun were shamed by Rutkins' glance. It was not that Rutkins was totally without fear. His heart was racing like a horse fleeing a burning barn whose gate has finally been opened. But Kihlgun observed, accurately, that that was not the primary expression. Instead, he realized he was being looked at as though he were some kind of zoo animal by a visitor who is not sure whether he is more disgusted than he is awestruck. This thought brought great fury to his mind, and Rutkins' careful analysis was cut short when Kihlgun struck him sideways, gripping his hammer tightly with both hands in contrast to his normal one-handed grip, striking him harder than anyone or anything he had hit in his entire life.

Rutkins' body exploded so fully and so grotesquely that even those closest to the savage scene were not sure of the exact point of impact. A cloud of blood and bones filled the air, and what was left of Rutkins' body went flying thirty feet backwards and crashed into a soldier on a horse, knocking him off with so much force he broke his neck in the process.

Kihlgun then resumed his ghastly giggle and went charging into the fleeing Sodorfians, knocking them to and fro with all the glee of a wild animal ending a week of unwanted fasting by charging into the fortuitous arrival of a large herd of succulent animals.

Tristan had observed the entire slaughter from atop a large tree. He was ecstatic at the success of his soldiers.

(now the City of Sodorf, with a measly ten thousand outnumbered, outclassed soldiers is the only thing left to be dealt with)

And this was true. From a strictly tactical point of view, the best thing to do would be to immediately send all forty thousand Vechengschaft and the Moscorians, surround the City of Sodorf, cut it off from reinforcements and supplies, and wipe it off the face of the earth. But there was more to this than tactics. More to this than just victory. This was personal. Very personal. The Moscorians needed to first be allowed to indulge themselves. After all, they had waited a coon's age to redeem the humiliating defeat that they had suffered at the hands of the Knights of Sodorf at Dachwaldendomel. They had to be rewarded.

"Master," Feiklen said, "the Moscorians have fought well for you. We desire revenge; let us have Seihdun."

"You have indeed fought hard," Tristan responded. "I will indulge you. You may have the rest of the day to do as you please with Seihdun . . . but, after that, you must immediately send your forces south in large flanking movements to quickly surround the City of Sodorf. Your soldiers have earned this revenge, but don't let them forget that this is only a brief period of indulgence. Afterwards, they must regain discipline and prepare to take the City of Sodorf. Is that understood?"

"Yes, master."

"Then . . . Seihdun awaits you," Tristan said, a smile curling across his lips.

Feiklen immediately went and told his bloodthirsty Moscorians the good news. They were ecstatic. Knowing that the Vechengschaft was quickly becoming more and more like them, they had to be very careful not to let any of the Vechengschaft know exactly what they were up to. Lest they become quite jealous.

Chapter 12

Pitkins was absolutely dumbfounded as he sat atop of one of the many tall trees surrounding the battlefield. He had expected the Dachwaldians to at least suffer several thousand casualties, if not more, in spite of their great numerical superiority. It was simply unheard of for ten thousand men to be taken out without them first shedding quite a bit of their opponents' blood. But he had never seen anything like the fishing mace before. He was awestruck by the sheer range of its lethality.

(an army well-trained with this weapon would be virtually undefeatable)

He sensed Istus growing anxious towards the end of the battle, so he whispered to him that he had seen what he had needed to see, and Istus then flew away. Although he didn't tell Pitkins immediately, Istus had seen Tristan flying on top of another pholung, which then perched high in one of the trees to watch his army slaughter the Sodorfians. Istus was nervous throughout the whole battle that Tristan would notice him and Pitkins high in the tree and then order other pholungs to come and surround them, or perhaps order archers to unleash a volley of arrows onto them.

They were wasting no time now. His wings beating the air as fast as they possibly could, Istus raced towards Sogolia carrying what he knew for sure was Sodorf's only hope. The sun shone brightly. It would take them several days of hard flying to reach Sogolia, but that was fine with Pitkins. Pitkins needed the little time he had to try and frantically think of some way to counter this horrible, yet ingenious weapon that the Dachwaldians wielded.

Could we perhaps block the blows from this frightful weapon with tightly packed shields? he asked himself, thinking of his Nikorians. At first this seemed somewhat plausible. He pictured his Nikorians marching in a tightly packed square formation towards the fishing-mace-wielding Dachwaldians. He reckoned that if his Nikorians were carrying shields whose length was equal to or greater than the height of their own bodies, this would quite possibly protect them from frontal assaults, but there was still the issue of overhead attacks. Although he had not observed such attacks in the battle he just witnessed, he also kept in mind that there really had not been any need for them. After all, the Dachwaldians had not gone up against anyone well protected by tall shields. Judging by the intelligence he had observed in their strategies thus far, it was only logical that if the Dachwaldians came up against an army that had six-foot shields tightly packed next to each other that they would then begin to swing their fishing maces in an overhead arc, causing the steel ball to simply go over the Nikorians' shields and smash right into their helmets. The Nikorians could always counter this, however, by having every row except the front row hold their shields firmly above their heads. The problem with this, however, was that to hold that kind of formation the mass of men would have to march very, very slowly, or otherwise they would lose their formation.

(and chaos might break out)

Also, the spikes on the steel balls might hook the shieds and pull them away, exposing the soldiers to the next volley. Furthermore, such a turtle-like defensive posture could only be maintained for relatively brief periods. Also, its only purpose was defensive. No army could attack while completely encased in shields. The Nikorian army, if it was going to liberate the Sodorfians and fight to prevent them from being annihilated, had to be offensive, not defensive. If the Nikorians fought defensively, the Vechengschaft and Moscorians could deploy just enough men to keep the Nikorians at a distance, all the while smashing the City of Sodorf and putting all of her inhabitants to the sword.

(including Donive)

If the Dachwaldians succeeded in destroying the City of Sodorf, Donive would almost certainly be killed, along with her entire family; all the Sodorfian nobles and the rest of the population would be put to death; and all of Sodorf's military would be gone. The country would be decimated. No, the Nikorians were going to have to be aggressive. Very aggressive.

Over the next several days, Istus and Pitkins remained nearly completely silent. This wasn't due to boredom. Pitkins' mind was racing at a thousand miles an hour. Trying to think of the solution to this menacing new weapon.

He felt an anxiety unlike any he had ever before felt in his life. Even when he had lost his wife and children to Metinvurian assassins he had not experienced such distress. At least in that case, as horrible and painful as it had been, it had happened suddenly, and by the time he found out about it, it was all said and done with. There was absolutely nothing he could do to save them. Revenge he could—and did—take, but it could not bring his family back. This time, however, he had the chance to prevent a similar tragedy from happening. While in many ways the presence of hope made this better than the situation with his slain wife and children, hope put all the more stress on him. Not a second of the day went by as he and Istus flew west-southwest towards Sogolia at full speed that he didn't think about the fishing mace and how to counter it. Even while he slept, he dreamed about it. By the second-to-last day of their journey, he was beginning to nearly panic.

(you HAVE to think of a counter!!)

That night, he lay on his back, thinking. Unhappy thoughts.

Perhaps there is nothing I can do. Tristan and his engineers sat around in the shadows for centuries devising the most ingenious weapons possible so that they could easily conquer Sodorf—what makes me think I can invent a counter to such a weapon in a matter of days?

He fell into despair. And due to his exhaustion, he also fell into a deep sleep. But although he was sleeping, his mind was still completely preoccupied with the issue of the fishing mace. Fishing maces were everywhere. Smashing his bones. Bashing his brains in. His army, his brave, elite Nikorians were being cut to ribbons by the merciless fishing mace. They tried desperately to charge the Dachwaldians and get within striking range so that they could employ their expertise with the halberd, sword, and other weapons . . . but the Dachwaldians just kept falling back. Always keeping the Nikorians within striking range. Always pounding them. Always hitting them. Always killing them. They tried to ignore the merciless blows, but no one could sustain more than two.

Suddenly, he saw Donive. He was lying in bed with her.

"It's in you. It's in you," she said. "You can figure out how to stop it. You can. Dig deeper. Dig much deeper."

His dream became darker. Much darker. Donive turned to her side. Something must have grabbed her attention. Through the window came five Moscorians. Five armor-clad, helmeted Moscorians.

"Ahh!" she screamed, standing up, wrapping the blanket around her to protect her modesty. "Pitkins, do something quick. Do SOMETHING QUIIICK!!"

"By Kasani, I will!" he said and moved forward . . . but he didn't move forward. He only thought he had. He was stuck. He wasn't going anywhere. No, sir. He was immobile. He was covered with steel chains.

"Ohh, Pitkins!!" she screamed, looking at him accusatively. Looking at Pitkins, the Big Failure who was going to let her down once again. Then . . . suddenly, it hit him. Hit him hard. Hit him like a brick falling off a thousand-foot-tall castle and landing right on top of his head. He had dug, by Kasani, he had dug deeper, and he had found treasure, he had found how he was going to kill those Dachwaldian, war-mongering bastards who had already taken so much from him. The knowledge, this new, breathing entity, was POWERFUL; he felt like he could climb a tree in seconds, take on a bear with his bare hands . . . he could, he could . . . break chains.

A smile crept across his face. And a smile crept across Donive's face also. She knew he had done a good job. She had said dig, and by Kasani, that was what he had done. Flexing his right bicep and bringing his right arm down hard he snapped the chain holding it, and then another one, and then another one, as if they had all just been a bunch of spider webs all along . . . mental spider webs preventing him from digging deeper. But he had dug; he had the answer. He picked up a chair, ripped off one of the chair legs, and hurled it at one of the iron-clad monsters invading his room . . . Donive's room . . . their room with such force that it smashed right through the monster's chest and went flying through the wall and out into Kasani knows where. He then lunged towards another ironclad monster. The monster slashed at him with his sword. He caught the blade in the air with his bare hands and bent it, bent it into a knot, and then he picked up the Moscorian with his left hand and hit him in the stomach so hard with his right hand that his hand went right into his stomach. He pulled the monster's intestines out and then threw him out the window. Donive was smiling, Donive knew everything was alright, Donive knew that Pitkins was going to protect her, and Pitkins knew that . . . he was awake.

He was breathing hard, the dream still flashing through his mind with all the clarity of a play one has just seen minutes earlier. Donive had made him wake up. Donive didn't want him to forget the treasure. The treasure

(that I dug DEEP for)

And he wouldn't. He had seen a vision just before awaking, and it was still in his mind. He now knew how he was going to counter the fishing mace. And with that assurance, he went back to sleep. Deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter 13

"Why have we heard no news?!" Fritzer thundered. He and all of the nobles were in the temple, and the mood was dark. About a week ago they had received the message from General Fuhdor stating that he was going into Dachwald to begin offensive action against the Dachwaldians. Although at first they had been optimistic, given the large size of his army and the rigorous training his soldiers had undergone over the last six months, they were now growing worried. They had expected to get daily reports on the situation, but there had been nothing but silence. All the nobles could do was guess. Most saw no reason to interpret the lack of communication in anything but the most pessimistic manner. It seemed like General Fuhdor would certainly send them messages if he could, so the lack thereof could only be interpreted as meaning he was unable to. And if he was unable to, that likely meant that he and his army were in serious trouble. On the other hand, however, some nobles thought that perhaps General Fuhdor had had astounding success and that was actually the problem: having grown so full of confidence and pride, he had decided he did not even need to keep the nobles informed. Perhaps he was too busy chasing down the last of the Vechengschaft rascals and didn't want to lose any of his momentum. That was how the optimists thought. There was no way to know for sure . . . that is, until the meeting was suddenly interrupted by a loud shout.

"RIDER APPROACHING! RIDER APPROACHING!" the nobles heard someone shouting outside the temple.

Fritzer dashed outside. Heading towards the temple, galloping at a frantic pace, and wearing a look of fear and utter terror on his face stronger than any Fritzer had ever seen in his life, with the sole exception perhaps of the Sodorfian who survived the Dachwaldian ambush near the border, was a Sodorfian scout.

"THE DACHWALDIANS ARE COMING!! THE DACHWALDIANS ARE COMING!! CLOSE THE CITY GATES NOWWWW!!!!"

Fritzer's heart skipped a beat, and then nearly stopped beating entirely. A bolt of pain flew through his chest like a knife thrust. DONIVE!! WHERE IS SHE?! he asked himself. Then, to his terror, he realized that while Patsrona had come into the city that day to shop, Donive had stayed home. "NOOOOO!!!!" he shouted in horror; "I MUST GO GET DONIVE AND BRING HER TO SAFETY!"

"Fritzer, you must get a hold of yourself!!" Bundor said sharply; "Others may also have loved ones outside the protection of the city walls! You're in charge right now; you must think of the city as a whole, not just of your daughter!!"

Fritzer knew he was right. Fighting desperately against all of his paternal instincts, he forced himself to try to forget about Donive for a brief moment so that he could make the safety of the city as a whole his first priority.

"SOUND THE WARNING BELL!!" he ordered.

"Yes, sir," Bundor replied, and went running back inside the temple to do just that. Wanting to see for himself what they were going to be up against, Fritzer scampered up one of the ladders to the top of one of the towers. What he saw chilled his blood. All around them he saw thousands upon thousands of warriors in black armor.

"CLOSE THE MAIN GATE! PREPARE THE ARCHERS! PREPARE THE TREBUCHETS!!" Fritzer shouted out at the Sodorfian regulars.

It was a gorgeous day; the sun was shining brightly. Standing atop a nearby hill, Tristan thought to himself, This is my finest hour! If I live to see this city crushed and its inhabitants put to the sword, I can die a happy man.

Then, his happy thoughts were suddenly interrupted.

"FIRE!!" it sounded like he heard someone inside the city say. The City of Sodorf was located in the center of a large valley surrounded by large hills on all sides. His soldiers had been setting up positions around the city at what he had thought was a safe range, as far as Sodorfian trebuchets and mangonels were concerned.

WHOOSHH, WHOOSHH, WHOOSHH!! To his horror, suddenly he saw hundreds of flaming stones being hurled at his men. He was shocked to see that the Sodorfians were firing so quickly. He figured it would be a while before they managed to load and properly position any trebuchets or mangonels. Little did he know that Fritzer had insisted on hundreds of trebuchets and mangonels being ready at all times, positioned strategically around the city, with plenty of ammunition next to each one. At first Tristan was confident his soldiers were at a safe distance from the city, but he was unaware that while completely stagnant in all other areas of military technology, the Sodorfians had succeeded in increasing the range of their mangonels and trebuchets.

Greatly.

BOOM!! BOOM!! BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!! Flaming stones went flying into his troops, smashing many into pieces and setting many others on fire.

"FALL BACK, YOU IDIOTS, OR I'LL KILL YOU MYSELF!!" Tristan screamed furiously at his army, with the righteous anger of a parent shouting at a foolish child walking across a busy street. This unexpected burst of firepower from the city had caught the Dachwaldians off guard. It had killed about two thousand Vechengschaft soldiers.

You'll pay for that! Tristan thought to himself as he looked down at the city with hatred and fury in his eyes. We'll just have to see if you like my flaming missiles as much as General Fuhdor did!!

Summoning Feiklen and General Sivingdon to him, he immediately began reprimanding them, even though he was to blame just as much as they were.

"We cannot allow such carelessness!! The war is not over yet, and even if it were, there are still other wars to be fought!! How are we going to fight them if we allow ourselves to get outsmarted by the likes of Sodorfians?!" he yelled angrily.

Before they could even answer, he said, "I want everyone to fall back at least several hundred yards, and then I want deep shafts dug into the ground immediately, just like the ones by Arbeitplatz. Trebuchets and mangonels are not going to enable us to take this city. These bloody Sodorfians have better range with their trebuchets than we do with ours! However, they certainly have no idea of the power we can harness and the mayhem we can wreak with our new missiles!" he said, smiling wildly.

"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.

"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.

"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 Metinvurs 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 nerve 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.

Their distance was now a mere thousand yards.

Then five hundred.

One hundred.

Thirty.

"TIME TO SEND THESE VILLAINS TO THEIR GRAVES!!" Feiklen called out, leading the square-like mass of enraged Dachwaldian warriors towards the Sogolians. Feiklen pulled out his fishing mace, as did all the other Dachwaldians, and he let loose some slack from it; about two feet of chain came out. Pitkins' eagle eyes saw that they were about to come face-to-face with the weapon that over the recent weeks had turned armies of well-trained men into mush.

"DEFENSE FORMATION!!" Pitkins shouted out.

To Feiklen's amazement, suddenly he saw a huge wall of protective steel emerge. Seemingly out of nowhere, right in front of the advancing Sogolians there appeared a series of interlocking steel cables, resembling a carefully woven steel spider web. Not knowing exactly how the fishing mace would fare against this contraption, yet not wanting to show any signs of weakness in front of the men he was leading, Feiklen lashed out, sending the steel ball flying right towards the Sogolians. The ball became stuck in one of the steel squares.

"UCHINWELDD!!!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. Many other Moscorians and Vechengschaft were experiencing the same problem. As they lashed out with their fishing maces, they either bounced off or became ensnared in the steel net. The steel balls that bounced off of the steel net went flying wildly back towards them, many of them crashing back into the Dachwaldians themselves. Some were killed instantly, while many others were knocked off their horses or knocked unconscious. More and more chains became stuck in the steel net, and the chains became tangled around each other. Feiklen pulled back hard on his weapon, trying desperately to free it. Suddenly, he heard a shout emitted from within the Sogolian ranks. It was Pitkins. "BAAAACK!!"

The Sogolians, in complete unison, took three large steps backwards and pulled hard on their steel nets simultaneously.

Many of the Dachwaldians, still holding onto their maces, trying to free them from the steel net, were pulled forward by this sudden jerk, and went flying forward. Feiklen was one of them. Hundreds of the Vechengschaft and Moscorian cavalry in the first several rows lost their balance and went tumbling off of their horses. This caused a domino-like effect. Other Dachwaldian horsemen lost their balance and went flying into the ever-growing pile of horses and bodies. Within moments, there was chaos in the Dachwaldian ranks.

As the front of the Sogolian U formation stayed still, the two ends of the U began wrapping around the confused Dachwaldians. Since the Sogolian soldiers at the ends of the U were on horseback they quickly managed to move forward and surround the confused, panicking Dachwaldians. Simultaneously, Sogolians suddenly seemed to spring from the ground.

The erstwhile hidden Sogolians began wheeling numerous huge objects towards the surrounded Dachwaldians. The contraptions were odd-looking. They contained a huge box on the front of which thousands of arrows were placed into arrow slots. Attached to the bottom of each arrow slot was a six-inch steel rod. As the large box full of arrows was tilted backwards, the thousands of individual arrows fell back against the thousands of individual steel rods. At the back of the contraption was a cube-like block of steel to which all of the individual rods were ultimately attached. To the back of this cube-like piece of steel was attached a strong, flexible material made from leather and other materials. It took six men turning a large crank to pull back on the spring mechanism to which the cube-like piece of steel was attached. Once it had been pulled back as far as it could go, one man could pull back on a lever which would release the spring mechanism, and with thousands of pounds of pressure suddenly released, the steel rods would go flying forward, sending thousands of arrows into the air at a deadly velocity.

There were twenty of these weapons being wheeled into position at that moment. The surrounded Dachwaldians, due to their confusion and the Sogolians surrounding them, couldn't see these weapons coming their way, but Tristan, high up on the hill, certainly could.

"Great Veihgung!" he whispered in terror, as he looked through his long telescope.

"FIIIIIIRE!!" came the order from Sworin.

SHOOM, SHOOM, SHOOM, SHOOM, SHOOM, SHOOM, SHOOM!!! Scores of thousands of arrows were simultaneously fired through the air by the Sogolians. The sheer awesomeness of it impressed Tristan so much that for a few moments he seemed oblivious to the fact this weapon was aimed at his soldiers.

"Kasani," he whispered as if in a trance.

"AGHH!! AHHHHHHH!!" thousands of Dachwaldians shouted out in pain. About thirty thousand arrows flew in an arc over the Sogolians and into the surrounded, clump of terrified, bewildered Dachwaldians.

"ATTACK!!" shouted Pitkins. His soldiers collapsed the steel net and began marching forward. With a righteous vengeance, the Sogolians began hacking through the Dachwaldians.

The Moscorians lashed out with a vengeance.

SLASHH!! SCHINNGG!! Bloody sword fighting ensued.

Amidst the chaos, Pitkins found himself facing Feiklen. Pitkins had never met Feiklen, nor Feiklen met Pitkins, but they both could sense, judging by the ornate nature of one another's armor, they were facing the leader of their enemy. Feiklen pulled out his long sword and quickly attempted an overhead chop against Pitkins' skull. Pitkins stepped to the side, slashed Feiklen's stomach with his sword, and then stomped on the side of his knee. The slash did not do much damage, due to Feiklen's heavy armor, but the kick to his knee did.

"AGHH!!" Feiklen shouted out in pain and anger. Jumping back to his feet, he made a forward lunge at Pitkins. Pitkins turned his sword towards the ground and deflected Feiklen's sword, and then came around with his left elbow, which was covered with heavy armor, and brought it hard against the demonic face of Feiklen's helmet.

BAMM!! The impact stunned Feiklen momentarily. Seconds later, Feiklen grabbed Pitkins and tripped his left leg, knocking him off balance. Feiklen pushed forward hard and brought Pitkins down onto his back. Feiklen raised his sword high over his head and brought it down hard towards Pitkins in a stabbing motion. Pitkins rolled to the side, and Feiklen's sword was buried to the hilt in the ground. Pitkins felt this to be the moment to test Feiklen's knowledge of unarmed combat.

He quickly grabbed the back of Feiklen's right heel with his left hand and then brought his left leg behind Feiklen's right leg and set the instep of his foot against the left side of Feiklen's hip. Then, grabbing Feiklen's sword belt and using his left foot as a fulcrum, he raised his own hips high up in the air and turned towards Feiklen's leg. Then, he twisted back the other way, simultaneously putting his right leg against Feiklen's left ankle. This entangling movement knocked Feiklen off balance, and he hit the ground face first. Not wanting to waste any time, he climbed on top of Feiklen's back while facing Feiklen's feet, and grabbed Feiklen's right foot. He wrapped his right forearm underneath Feiklen's calf and then, to strengthen the hold, put his right hand on his own left forearm and his left hand on top of Feiklen's shin. He then put his right leg in between Feiklen's legs, while keeping his left leg to Feiklen's side, and then sat back on Feiklen's tailbone and pulled up on his hip with all his might. Pitkins heard a loud SNAP!!

"AGHHHH!!!" Feiklen screamed in pain.

Towering over his now defeated foe, Pitkins said, "Turn over! Turn over, and face me like a man!"

Slowly, knowing that it was going to be his last movement on this forsaken earth, he turned over.

"This is for all the innocent men, women, and children you slaughtered!" Pitkins said.

Feiklen couldn't believe his misfortune. He had been bested in combat. Plain and simple.

(how did he learn to fight like that?! how did—)

Pitkins brought his sword down hard into the small space between Feiklen's helmet and his breastplate armor. A geyser of blood erupted. Feiklen breathed his last.

The fighting continued, and the Dachwaldians numbers became fewer and fewer.

"PITKINS?!!" Tristan shouted in disbelief at what he was seeing through his telescope; "b-b-but that's IMPOSSIBLE!!" he shouted. There's no way he could have escaped from the pit . . . unless, of course . . . THE PHOLUNGS!!! As these thoughts rushed through his head, he grew more furious than he had ever been in his entire life. Several veins nearly burst in his neck, and his face grew redder than an apple. I WILL FIND OUT WHICH ONE IT WAS AND GIVE IT THE SLOWEST, MOST PAINFUL, CRUELEST DEATH EVER GIVEN!!

However, at the moment, he knew he was quickly going to become a casualty if he did not hightail it out of there fast. He pulled out a long whistle and blew on it. It was the whistle he used to summon his pholungs. To his amazement, moments later, one of his pholungs came for him. It was Istus.

"Yes, master," Istus said quite humbly.

"GET ME THE KASANI OUT OF HERE, NOW!!" Tristan shouted angrily. "Yes, master," Istus humbly responded, and let Tristan get on his back.

Kihlgun, who had been one of the Moscorians defending the hill against the advancing Sodorfians, was outraged when he saw this.

"MASTER, WHERE ARE YOU GOING?! WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?!"

Tristan looked at him coldly. "You were given the chance to rule over the Sodorfians. You have proven yourselves unworthy."

With a look of disgust, he commanded Istus to begin flying away.

"These worthless Moscorians and Vechengschaft are about to meet their end," Tristan said to Istus, "but I will certainly not share their fate."

For the first time in his life daring to speak disrespectfully to his master, Kihlgun shouted out in a loud, furious voice, "YOU COWARDLY BASTARD!!!" as Tristan went flying off to safety. Kihlgun attempted to bash Tristan's bones into powder, and while the mere gust of the missed stroke did send Tristan's hair flying wildly out of place, the swift wings of Istus lifted him to safety before Tristan received what would have surely been a death blow to even a wizard of his high standing.

The Sodorfians, fighting with a ferocity with which Kihlgun never imagined possible, were already starting to thin down the number of Dachwaldians defending the hill. They were down to about a hundred Moscorians and a thousand Vechengschaft. Now, approaching him from the west were about thirty thousand Sogolians.

"We're done for!" Kihlgun shouted out angrily, "but we shall never surrender!!" He rushed the Sodorfians, who were gaining more and more progress on their ascent up the hill. They had almost overtaken it.

When Fritzer finally reached the top of the hill, he saw the large army below.

"Sogolians?!" he asked out loud in astonishment, recognizing their banners. "What in Kasani are they doing here?!" he shouted. But as he looked more closely, he could see that all around them were thousands of Dachwaldian corpses. Pulling out his telescope and looking through it, he could not believe what he saw.

"PITKINSSSS?!!!" he shouted out in ecstatic disbelief.

Although he never thought that the Sogolians would have had any reason to attack them anyway, he was unsure what their intentions were. When he saw Pitkins, smattered with blood and mud at the front of the Sogolian army, he knew they were there to help.

"PITKINS HAS RETURNED!! WE HAVE REINFORCEMENTS!!" he shouted to his men in triumph.

The word spread quickly, and the Sodorfians began fighting with a vengeance. Even in the heat of battle, the images of Pitkins slaying the serpent—whether they had seen it in person or heard about it—were suddenly fresh in their minds, and they were ecstatic to have him on their side once again. Kihlgun, absolutely furious by this sudden change in fortune, charged the Sodorfians with his battle hammer.

He came towards Fritzer. As Kihlgun raised the battle hammer high over his head and prepared to dash Fritzer's horse's brains out, Fritzer dug his boots hard into his horse's sides. His horse sprang forward quickly, but at the last moment Fritzer realized he was not going to be able to strike Kihlgun with his sword before the grotesque battle hammer raised high in the air came crashing down upon his head and turned his skull into talcum powder.

He pulled his horse hard to the right, narrowly missing the merciless downward stroke of what seemed to be a small tree armed with a hammer head on top. The gust from the stroke nearly knocked Fritzer and his horse over, and the shock wave from the impact onto the ground finished the job. Fritzer and his horse went falling to the ground hard.

Kihlgun giggled excitedly like a drugged man who has heard the funniest joke of his life. He looked at Fritzer with eyes that each seemed as large as the hammer head itself and prepared to deliver a downward chop to Fritzer's horse, which was directly on top of him, pinning him to the ground.

A split second before the fate of both Fritzer and his hapless horse would have been irreversible, Fritzer saw something come poking through Kihlgun's stomach, quickly retract, and then disappear. Kihlgun often shunned armor for even open combat, thinking it a sign of softness, but he had particularly not seen any use for it on this day, which was—to his gravest disappointment—supposed to be a day of long-range missile attacks.

"UGHHH?!" he shouted in horror.

He turned around to see Sworin, but for the first time in Kihlgun's life he could see, by the eyes alone, that he was facing an opponent who would have to be beaten by superior mechanics alone, not by intimidation. For the first time in his memory, he felt a faint pinch of fear from deep inside of him, like the bite of a small, yet foul-tempered, piranha inside his bowels. His subconscious briefly but quickly reminded him of the warnings he had received from the Moscorians about the mechanical weaknesses of the battle hammer. Doing his best to shun these unhelpful thoughts aside, he raised the hammer over his head, his lips curling back in a snarl seen typically only amongst the canine species, and brought it down towards Sworin's head. Sworin calmly—at least, it looked calm; Sworin's heart was actually about one beat per minute away from exploding in his chest—moved to the side.

The gust of wind from the stroke did push Sworin aside slightly, and the impact of the hammer into the ground nearly knocked him over. Somehow, he himself later wondered how he had done it, he forced his body to go through the mechanical motions of what was actually a relatively simple evasion and counterstrike. He moved to the side and with every ounce of fear in his body turned into kinetic energy brought his sword against Kihlgun's neck.

Sworin had seen men's heads fall from strokes with half the force of that stroke, which had nearly thrown Sworin's back out of alignment while delivering it, but to his dismay this stroke only succeeded in cutting deeply into Kihlgun's neck, where the sword now seemed stuck against Kihlgun's spine.

Kihlgun looked at him with rage. He grabbed the sword with one hand, and for a moment Sworin expected him to bend it into a knot before grabbing him with one hand over his head and crushing it. To his surprised glee, however, Kihlgun was soon struck by a second sword.

This was wielded by Fritzer. It was the same Sodorfian sword that an ancestor had used many centuries ago at the battle of Dachwaldendomel. His name was Sir Heinsel of Gindelson, and it was the same sword Fritzer had used to knight Pitkins. Fritzer's stroke finished what Sworin's had started, and Kihlgun's head—enraged expression still intact—fell harmlessly to the ground.

The Dachwaldians fought to the last, refusing to give up. General Sivingdon was one of the last to fall, his life ended by Sworin after several minutes of intense sword fighting, which, while a showcase of technical swordsmanship, lacked the adrenaline inspired by the beast that had nearly destroyed Sworin with the unnerving glare of his eyes alone.

As Pitkins reached the top of the hill, all of the Dachwaldians lying about dead or seriously wounded, he and Fritzer embraced.

"Never have I been so happy to see a stranger!!" he said warmly to Pitkins. "You have a lot of explaining to do, young man," he said jokingly, "but judging by what I have learned about your character thus far, I'm sure no one could have ever had a better reason for disappearing than you. Please tell me what happened!"

Pitkins explained.

Fritzer paused uncomfortably.

"Donive . . . PLEASE tell me she's okay!" Pitkins' usually firm voice broke just a little as he asked this question.

A tear sliding down his cheek, Fritzer said, "Pitkins, I fear she's dead. When the Dachwaldians came, they came so suddenly and with so little warning there was no time for anyone outside the city to be rescued. We had to immediately lock the gates and not let anyone in or out. It was horrible, but otherwise we couldn't have kept the Dachwaldians from storming the city."

As he finished he broke into tears. He was ashamed to cry publicly, but the glorious feeling of having conquered the Dachwaldians was vanishing like sunshine invaded by dark, stormy clouds, and the only thing he could think about was the probable loss of his only daughter. Wiping the tears away and doing his best to compose himself, he said, "If even my wife and son were spared, I will certainly have been more fortunate than most Sodorfians here."

As he said this, he looked in the direction of the City of Sodorf. The flames were beginning to die down now, but the destruction of the once beautiful city was nearly absolute.

"Come," he said to all those around him; "We must tend to the wounded." He headed towards the smoldering city.

As with Fritzer, the glorious feeling had disappeared amongst the other Sodorfians as well. They were now also thinking about saving the survivors of the city from the flames and rubble and wondering how many of their loved ones, if any, were still amongst the living.

The Sogolians also did their best to put out the flames and look for survivors. The heartbreaking moments were far more numerous than the happy ones. For every survivor they found, they found at least a dozen mangled or badly burned corpses. Fritzer was greatly relieved to find that Patsrona and Binstel were still alive, but it made him feel guilty he had put his family in the safest part of the city, while the poorer people had very little shelter. Nonetheless, he passionately embraced Patsrona and his son, shedding tears and expressing his happiness at their survival.

Chapter 16

"That's right!!" Tristan repeated to Istus. "I will not share the fate of those miserable failures. No one knows where my hideout is, and even if they did, an army couldn't take it!!" he exclaimed triumphantly.

"Yes, master," Istus responded meekly.

They were silent for the rest of the journey, but as Istus began nearing Tristan's hideout on the side of the cliff wall, suddenly Tristan said, "You know, Istus, some of the pholungs—at least one, anyways—has betrayed me. What do you know about that?"

"Nothing, master."

"Well, perhaps you can explain how, even though you were the only one who knew where Pitkins was, he somehow managed to escape! I know it was you, Istus, and believe me, you are going to be severely punished! Everything was working out perfectly. I was following the prophecy: I had imprisoned the lower-class Sodorfian that had been knighted due to an act of bravery; everything was going the way it was supposed to be going . . . but YOU RUINED EVERYTHING BY FREEING PITKINS!!" Tristan shouted at the top of his lungs.

"You know, for a grandmaster of Glisphin, you certainly can be obtuse," Istus said.

Shocked silence.

"WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME, YOU ARROGANT BEAST?!!!" Tristan roared. Never had a pholung dared speak to him with such arrogance.

"Pitkins is not even a Sodorfian! He's a SOGOLIAN! You just assumed he was a Sodorfian because he lived in Sodorf!!"

"YOU ARROGANT ANIMAL!!" shouted Tristan; "GATHERING INFORMATION WAS YOUR JOB! YOU SHOULD HAVE KNOWN THAT HE WAS NOT A SODORFIAN! HOW DARE YOU—"

"You're right, Tristan," Istus said with a coolness that heightened Tristan's fury even more; "Gathering information was my job, and that was a large oversight on my part. But let's just say that never have I been so happy to have made such an error," Istus replied with a calm tone that mystified Tristan.

"What do you mean you're happy about it? You stupid animal—you-you helped me poison the southern Dachwaldian farms, thereby enabling me to kindle a rage which allowed me to raise an army that nearly annihilated the Sodorfians, and after all your involvement in Sodorf's destruction you are now GLAD that you have caused my failure?!! The Sodorfians will roast you alive if they discover your involvement, notwithstanding your friendship with Pitkins!" Tristan shouted angrily.

"You're right," Istus replied; "I did many acts of evil because I was afraid of you. However, the day you killed my family, I simply stopped caring whether I lived or died; hence, I stopped being afraid of you, and I decided I was going to do whatever it took to end your career of deceit, genocide, and warmongering!!"

Istus suddenly tilted his body hard to the left, causing Tristan to slide right off of his back. Then, quickly, before Tristan could fall further, Istus grabbed his hands with his talons.

"You said to take you home," Istus stated matter-of-factly; "Welcome home!!!" Istus began flying faster and faster towards Tristan's hideout. Tristan was stunned. For a few moments he was completely paralyzed by his pure shock at what was happening—an ANIMAL was daring to defy HIM!!

Istus launched Tristan like an unwanted sack of potatoes into his cave at about forty miles an hour. Tristan went flying into his large bookcase, sending books jumping into the air, huge clouds of dust rising from the pages of the many books that had not been opened for centuries before this irreverent intrusion. But Istus was no dummy. Tristan wasn't finished yet.

"CAW, CAW, CAW, CAW," Istus called out.

First one, then two, then dozens, then dozens of pholungs slowly came flying into view. The sky began to turn darkish gray. Ominous clouds appeared. Within a minute, rain was pouring as if buckets of water were being emptied from above. And then, came the lightning. Large bolts of lightning flying out of the sky like randomly fired missiles. Within minutes at least a dozen pholungs had been zapped in the air like bugs in a frying pan. The stench of their burning flesh soiled the air.

"WE CAN'T STAY OUT HERE!!" Istus yelled. "WE MUST GO INSIDE HIS CAVE!!"

Infuriated, not disheartened, at the loss of their fellow pholungs, they all rushed towards the cave. Tristan was there, chanting with his hands outstretched towards the sky.

Tristan nearly soiled himself when he saw the dozens of pholungs, angrier than a cornered female bear, charging straight towards him. "Kasani!!" he cried in terror. He immediately reached for the book that opened up the secret passageway, pulled on it, and dove into the secret passageway just as the pholungs came rushing into his cave.

"UCHINWELD!!" shouted Istus, realizing that they would never be able to fit through the passageway Tristan's thin body had just crawled through. "WE CANNOT LET HIM ESCAPE!!" he shouted.

He knew that there were only a few escape routes through which Tristan could go. There were two at the very base of the canyon, one on top, and then the one through which Pitkins had been taken to the pit.

"We're going to need more help!" he said to the other pholungs.

Istus called the pholungs out of the cave, and they flew at least a mile away. Keeping their eyes on the cave, watching for any sign of movement, Istus told them, "I know someone who can take care of Tristan once and for all. I need for a dozen of you to stay here and keep watch. The rest of you, COME WITH ME!!" Istus and around two dozen other pholungs flew off at full speed towards the City of Sodorf.

Chapter 17

Some of the Sodorfians and Sogolians panicked as they saw the large, unsightly birds racing straight towards them. A few of them raised their bows to fire.

"DON'T SHOOT!!" Pitkins said harshly; "They're our allies!"

The Sodorfians looked at Pitkins strangely.

Istus landed and, to the astonishment of the onlookers, began speaking to Pitkins and explained what had happened.

"I'd love to pay Tristan a visit. He and I have unfinished business," Pitkins said calmly. Pointing over to a large pile of wooden boxes of pheorite, Pitkins said, "Tristan forgot something when he left. I believe in returning items guests leave behind. How much weight can you and your fellow pholungs carry?"

Istus approached one of the boxes, wrapped his talons around it, and then, flapping his wings, lifted it up into the air.

"It won't exactly be a comfortable flight, but we can carry it."

"Do you think you and your pholungs can carry that plus a man?" Pitkins asked.

"Well," Istus said, a confident look on his face, "Hop on and let's see!"

Seeing Istus could, Pitkins told Sworin and as many Nikorians as possible to get on the back of a pholung. Within minutes, around two dozen pholungs were racing towards Tristan's cave, holding a box of pheorite with their talons and carrying a Nikorian on their backs.

After four hours, they arrived. The dozen pholungs that had been keeping watch were relieved to see them. "Has he left the cave?!" shouted Istus, as he approached with Pitkins on his back. "No, we haven't seen any sign of movement thus far," the pholung replied. "He's probably deciding what items to take with him before he hightails it out of here."

"Good," Istus answered.

The pholungs took turns going inside the main entrance to Tristan's lair and filling it with pheorite. When Koksun had the nerve to hiss at Istus, he threw the cat over the side of the cliff. After about fifteen minutes, the room was full of pheorite.

"Next, we need to fill his escape passages," Istus said.

When all the escape hatches had been filled with pheorite, Istus said, "And now the naphtha."

"I was afraid you'd never ask," Pitkins said.

Pitkins poured a bucket of naphtha on the boxes of pheorite inside the main room of Tristan's lair, while the other pholungs flew towards the escape passages and permitted the Nikorians on top of them to pour naphtha inside.

"Well, there's no time to waste," Istus said.

Pitkins pulled out his longbow, fit an arrow into it, and lit it.

He released the flaming arrow. Knowing what would soon follow, all of the pholungs immediately began flying as fast as they could away from the area. Unable to resist, Pitkins looked over his shoulder.

BOOMMMM!!!!!

A large burst of air from the explosion propelled the pholungs and their riders forward, but the pholungs managed to avoid losing control, and the Nikorians held on. Looking down, Pitkins saw trees falling from the shock waves. Flames shot out of the cliff. Rocks and debris flew everywhere. Suddenly, the whole cliff began to give way.

The whole cliff rumbled slowly, and then an avalanche of rocks came rushing downwards. Smoke filled the entire valley.

Chapter 18

Once most of the wreckage had been searched throughout the city, search teams began combing the surrounding areas to find survivors. What they found sickened them. Thousands of their fellow countrymen lay disemboweled, decapitated, or otherwise slaughtered throughout the countryside. The Dachwaldians had given no quarter.

Fearing the outbreak of disease, the Sogolians and Sodorfians had to act quickly to put the bodies into mass graves and burn them. In many cases unidentified bodies had to be burned. This made it particularly difficult for those whose loved ones were missing. They had to assume that their lost loved ones were dead. That there was no hope of ever finding them.

This weighed heavily on Pitkins' heart. He had indeed wanted to help save the Sodorfians from annihilation, but he had also hoped to save Donive in the process. Now that he had failed to save her, there was really no point in him staying around Sodorf. His loyalty lay with the Sogolians now. This was not his country.

Yes, the time has come for me to return to Sogolia. That's where my duties lie.

(wait a little more time)

He decided to go on a horseback ride by himself to think the situation over one last time before deciding. He got on his horse and headed off. As he rode, it dawned on him he was going down the same path he had traveled the first time he went to Donive's house. The day he had been transformed in the eyes of Donive's father from a country bumpkin to a knight in shining armor worthy of his only daughter.

Ironic that the last leisurely ride I take through this country happens to be on a road with such memories that, while pleasant, bitterly remind me of what I've lost.

As he continued riding down the path, he was horrified by the destruction. What had once been a beautiful forest filled with towering trees was now mostly a field of stumps. The Dachwaldians had cut down a large portion of the forest to acquire wood to make their missiles.

He was growing tired, so he brought his horse to a halt, got off, and sat.

He was by a tree. One of the very few trees that had somehow survived the Dachwaldian's ax. The tall, rather ugly tree that looked like a scarecrow.

(the landmark Donive gave you to help you find her father's house the first day you went there to visit . . . the place where you proposed)

Well, in a day full of ironies, you're in good company.

He got off his horse and sat down. He leaned against the tree and closed his eyes. The memories of his short time with Donive

(short, yes, but worth a lifetime all the same)

flashed through his mind. The dance, the battle against the snake, the would-be assassin . . . .

(the dream; oh, yes, the dream; the dream where you actually SAVED Donive; the dream where you WEREN'T too LATE; the dream where you dug deep and found the answer)

But the answer was a fake. An imitation. A cheap parlor trick. It hadn't been enough to save Donive, and that was all that mattered. That was the true test. And it failed. Failed miserably. The iron-clad monsters had not been defeated by him. He had stayed helplessly and pathetically against the wall; the chains had not been spider webs; all along, they had been real chains, and they had kept him, Mr. Sir Pitkins III himself, chained against the wall helplessly while the iron-clad monsters ravaged precious Donive, while she screamed and begged for him to help, and he had done nothing; he had only thought he had; no, she was being violated, right in front of his very eyes; she was being raped by these iron-clad monsters and . . . . He heard something. Not in his dream. Not being emitted by iron-clad monsters and a wailing Donive. In real life. Right now. It had been a soft rustling sound. Maybe a squirrel, maybe a rabbit . . . .

(maybe . . . a Dachwaldian?)

Yes. Maybe a Dachwaldian. Maybe one that squirmed away from the battle. Maybe one that was hiding here because he had seen him coming and was just waiting for him to leave so that he could sneak back to Dachwald where he could escape punishment, escape righteous vengeance for what he had done. He unsheathed his sword with all the calm with which a surgeon removes his scalpel. Whatever was in that tree was going to bear the collective responsibility for what all the Dachwaldians had done and get punished accordingly.

Moving very slowly and stealthily, he inched his way around the tree. Then, suddenly, he reached inside it—sure enough he felt flesh—and yanked the Dachwaldian out of the tree, with his sword raised above his head ready to deliver righteous vengeance for all the wrongs and evils they had all committed, and he was so furious that his vision was blurry!

"Ahh!!" he heard the Dachwaldian scream . . . but it was not a very manly scream. It was a girlish, feminine scream. He knew that scream. He had heard it in his dreams. It was familiar . . . .

(but whose?)

Suddenly, looking down, kneeling before him in utter terror, eyes closed tight and a grimace on her face, was the most beautiful, sweet, precious thing in the whole wide world—"DONIVEEEE!!!!" he screamed with a passion and intensity he had never before even come close to feeling in all of his life.

"Just make it quick!" she pleaded; "don't torture me and drag it out like you did with the others!" she begged, whimpering, shaking.

"Donive," he said softly, in a voice softer than rose petals, softer than he had ever used in his entire life, "it's me—Pitkins." And as he said this, he ever so tenderly touched her jaw with his left hand and softly turned her head towards him.

"PITKINS!!!" she screamed with a joy so intense Pitkins nearly fell backwards. She jumped into his arms and began kissing him furiously. After about five minutes, she suddenly slapped him, although playfully, and shouted at him with a mischievous smile, "And just where have you BEEN FOR THE LAST SIX MONTHS?!!!"

"It's a long story," he said, "but I'll tell you the whole thing!"

"BELIEVE ME—YOU WILL!!" she said, her fiery, albeit playful, eyes looking at him intensely.

Then, her eyes softened and moistened. "I should have believed in you. My dream was right after all. You rescued me."

For a moment, he couldn't believe he had forgotten, as the tidal wave of memories began rushing towards him. He remembered being inside the tree and feeling his spine tingle at her vivid depiction of a dream where evil people had come and slain her countrymen . . . and that he had rescued her.

Pitkins smiled, took her into his arms, and then told her the whole story. After he had finished, she told her story.

She had been walking towards the city to see her father, when suddenly she heard people screaming. She turned around and saw several people being butchered by soldiers wearing black armor. She quickly looked for a place to hide, and the large tree that looked like a scarecrow was close-by, and, remembering her childhood dream, she jumped inside it and hid in the shadows. Fortunately, she had been picking berries that day and had already accumulated a sizable portion in her basket by the time the slaughter started, and she had brought a large jar of water with her to quench her thirst while picking berries in the hot afternoon sun, and so she had remained there for weeks, terrified, living off of the berries and the large jar of water. The Dachwaldians had been chopping trees down all around her, and she shuddered as she heard their rough, guttural voices. Knowing a little Dachwaldian, she could hear them say that they were not going to cut down that tree because they thought it looked interesting. It looked like a scarecrow. She heard them go on to say that it would be a heinous crime to cut down a tree that had such a unique shape. Such trees were sacred.

"My dream came true," she said looking at Pitkins intensely, tears in her eyes. "You saved me."

And they kissed again.

Although Pitkins and Donive were in a state of romantic bliss, they knew there was a large amount of work to be done in rebuilding Sodorf. Furthermore, Pitkins now knew that it would be completely out of the question for him to leave Sodorf. He wasn't going to leave Donive. She meant more to him than anything in the world. Knowing what he did about war and politics, he knew the huge drain of manpower in Dachwald was going to make things very difficult for the Dachwaldians and that if the Sodorfians did not help stabilize Dachwald, they would simply find themselves facing Dachwald in another war eventually.

"The Dachwaldians have to know the truth," he told Donive.

"What truth are you talking about? They're a horrible people! They waged war on us without any provocation and tortured and slaughtered many of our people!"

"Donive, I don't blame you for thinking that, but you don't know what really happened." And having said that, he sat down with her in the forest and told her what Istus had told him.

"We must go and speak to my father; he must know about this!"

Pitkins and Donive got on their horses and headed to the City of Sodorf. They found Fritzer working hard at rebuilding one of the many ruined structures in the city. The nobles no longer felt manual labor was beneath them. They had their sleeves rolled up and were toiling away under the hot sun. As soon as Fritzer saw Donive, he rushed towards her, took her into his arms, and hugged her tightly, tears of joy streaming down his face. She was then led to her mother and brother, both of whom were ecstatic when they saw her.

Pitkins then sat down with Fritzer and explained to him everything that had happened leading up to the war: Tristan, the Moscorians, the poisoned crops, the ambush, the murder of the king and senators. Everything.

"Well," Fritzer began, "it sounds like the situation has nearly been solved, but what about Tristan?!"

As soon as he said that monster's name, Pitkins heard the beating of wings. Looking up into the sky, he saw none other than Istus coming towards him with what appeared to be a few dozen pholungs.

Chapter 19

Pitkins knew that to ensure peace the Dachwaldians also needed to know the truth. To show their goodwill, the Sodorfians brought hundreds of thousands of bushels of wheat into Dachwald. Despite the fact that the Dachwaldians thought they were still at war with the Sodorfians, there was nothing they could really do to stop the Sodorfians from entering their country. After all, their entire army was obliterated. Over the weeks and months that followed, dialogue began to open up, like stubborn flowers finally blossoming and giving in to the warmth of spring, and Pitkins and the Sodorfians told the Dachwaldians the truth about what had really happened. The kindness that the Sodorfians showed the Dachwaldians in helping them repair their damaged fields and in providing them with food in the meantime eventually led the Dachwaldians to believe the Sodorfians. Skeptics remained, but as the days turned into months, and the months into years, the Dachwaldians came to realize that the Sodorfians had never wanted to do them any harm.

Fearing that without an army they would be vulnerable to attack from the Metinvurs, the newly formed Dachwaldian government begged the Sogolians and Sodorfians to bring troops into their country to help protect them until they could raise a defensive army of their own again. The Sodorfian army had inadequate troops to oblige them, but the Sogolians sent troops.

During the reconstruction of Sodorf and Dachwald, people began to reflect upon deeds of heroism. Aisendall brought to light the extraordinary story of Polunk. Aisendall and the other escapees realized just how much they owed their lives to Pitkins when it was later discovered that the Moscorians had killed everyone in Arbeitplatz before moving south to attack Sodorf. Aisendall and the escapees visited the camp, and the memories of their stay there brought a chill to their spine. They remembered Polunk's words as though they had heard them yesterday urging them to take a chance. They had done so and owed their lives to him.

Upon insistence by Aisendall and the other escapees, a large monument was built in Polunk's honor upon which these words were written:

He that lost his life resisting tyranny

by his inspiration saved the lives of many.

One day Sworin, who had returned to Sogolia shortly after the Battle for Sodorf, as the victory over the Dachwaldians had been called, came to the City of Sodorf to check on the progress of things and to see Pitkins. Before Sworin headed back to Sogolia, he came to say goodbye to Pitkins.

"Take it," Pitkins said, handing "Carlos" to Sworin.

Sworin looked at the sword, then at Pitkins, and smiled. "This time I know you really are home. I humbly accept this sword and the responsibility that goes with it." They shook hands firmly, and then Sworin left.

Fritzer and the surviving nobles begged Pitkins to become general of the Sodorfian army. Pitkins declined. He had spilled enough blood for one lifetime. He had fallen in love with Donive and with Sodorf. It was his home now. And he was with the woman he loved. Now, more than ever, he wanted peace.

The End of The War With Dachwald

If you liked this book, please consider writing a review.

The series The Republic of Selegania continues where this story left off. Start reading The Almost Champion to learn more about the outcome of Tristan!

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