

Rise of Dachwald (volume one of two-part 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.

Stock photo © inakiantonana

(Adjustments to photo made by Scott Kays)

1Rise of Dachwald

Chapter 1

"Would you like to dance?" Pitkins extended his hand to the dazzlingly beautiful young lady. Her name was Donive, and she was of noble birth. Pitkins was seen by many as a problem-causing proletarian sword smith who had developed an odious reputation for violating socioeconomic barriers and customs for reasons the nobility knew all too well and equally despised. Fortunately, Pitkins found himself in an era where Sodorf's nobility believed it fashionable to rule with tolerance. Instead of the noose, his sentence was the glaring scowls and merciless gossip of a sizeable portion of the nobility. If looks could kill, half of their number would be guilty of murder with aggravating circumstances. But their scowls turned aside if Pitkins' gaze fell upon them, for there was something about the man that unnerved them. They had never seen him use the imposing sword that had the mysterious word "CARLOS" engraved upon the hilt, but his eyes substituted for swords when pointed at a man.

The other half of the nobility felt that, noble birth or not, Pitkins' skill in forging, crafting, and restoring swords was of such august quality that his occasional tendency to forget his place had to be overlooked. His migration from the deep forests of Sodorf to the capital years ago had been followed by a steady, seemingly unstoppable rise to prominence. To turn one's back on him completely was to relegate oneself to bearing a sword inferior to those of the ever-increasing nobles who dissembled their disdain sufficiently to acquire his services, a fate nearly worse than death to a nobility whose ever-touted swords had, but with the smallest exceptions, never seen combat. There were those who grumbled his knighting was almost a matter of when rather than if, since only by doing so could his prowess at his craft be explained as a trait befitting his nobility rather than a constant source of embarrassment to the elite. No one, however, had been inducted into the nobility by virtue for centuries.

No one knew his family, his town, or where exactly in Sodorf he came from. "From deep within the forests of our beautiful country" was typically the longest response that could be elicited from him. His command of the Sodorfian language—quite difficult to master, or so the Sodorfians had been told—was impeccable. Beldinvor, professor of linguistics at the City of Sodorf's eponymously named university, had once visited Pitkins at his sword smith shop under the pretense of purchasing a sword and engaged in a rather long conversation with Pitkins on the pros and cons of various swords available in the shop. Beldinvor had reported regretfully to his fellow nobles that not the slightest trace of an accent could be found, not the slightest slip in grammar, not the slightest peculiar usage of vocabulary.

While this, Beldinvor informed his fellow nobles, safely ruled out the possibility of foreign birth, it did pose a problem to Pitkins' claim to having been born in the forest. Sodorfians born deep in the forest usually had a strong accent and variances in their vocabulary. On the other hand, explained Beldinvor, this did often disappear after a year of living in the capital city. By the time Pitkins had caught their attention, he had been there long enough for the ironing out of a forest accent to be feasible. Nonetheless, an almost visible question mark seemed to be suspended above Pitkins' head every time the nobles saw him.

On the one occasion a noble dared ask Pitkins for more information about his past, Pitkins had told him those he had loved had died in the forest and that there was nothing left for him there. Mistaking Pitkins' willingness to answer the question as an invitation to ask another, the noble asked him which part of the forest he had come from. Pitkins' eyes had turned to sharp steel, and he replied simply, "I came to the capital to forget my past." He hadn't shouted. He hadn't sworn. But his gaze had pierced right through the soul of the noble, who then not only promptly excused himself from Pitkins' store but found himself occasionally haunted by the experience thereafter. That had brought an end to direct inquiries, and though they tried, the nobles' most ardent efforts to discover more about Pitkins' past via less direct means had all failed.

Thus was the man who had now broken a new social boundary by asking the daughter of Fritzer, one of the highest-ranking nobles, to dance.

"Sure," Donive said. Coyly, not wanting to appear overly eager.

Taking her right hand with his left and putting his right hand on her waist, he stepped forward, and she stepped back, and then he pulled her left hand forward, stepped to the side, and thrust her body forward with a motion she completed with a series of dizzying spins. The area was teeming with people. Everyone was jovial and making quite merry. The song continued onward, its melody a harmonious and wonderful amalgamation of piped and stringed instruments, supplemented by a large bass instrument that provided the beat to which everyone danced. Above them, tall trees loomed confidently hundreds of feet up in the air, their large, massive branches stretching out and intertwining with each other like the massive tentacles of oversized octopi. Leaves floated lazily throughout the air, parting company with the towering trees to which they were just getting acquainted. Round and round Donive and Pitkins went, spinning happily, not unlike the leaves that decorated the otherwise clear blue sky. Some of the more experienced dancers showed off, picking their partner up in the air and spinning her about.

"You're Pitkins," Donive informed him, having to almost shout to be heard over the loud music.

"You're Donive," he said grinning.

"For two people who've never met, it would seem we know each other quite well," she said, smiling mischievously.

"The most beautiful woman in the City of Sodorf can't remain completely anonymous," he said, revealing a playful smile of his own.

"Nor can a mysterious sword smith from the countryside who puts to shame the finest craftsmen in all of Sodorf." She smiled shyly. Their dancing bodies ceased moving as the music came to a close.

"It's time I had me some of that fine ale of which the rest of you are drinking so freely," announced one of the musicians, named Bilgenbor, a man so fat he had to struggle momentarily while he freed his oversized body from the chair that had been suffering his weight for the last hour. The other musicians expressed agreement and immediately set about doing the same.

"I enjoyed the dance," she said.

"Me too."

"Well . . . I should probably be going."

She started to leave.

"Wait!" he exclaimed, grabbing her gently by the shoulder. "When will I see you again?"

The beauty in her gaze seized his heart like the powerful swirling winds of a tornado plucking a large, proud tree right out of the ground and tossing it to and fro as it pleased. Strawberry blonde hair. Baby blue eyes. A face as calm and clear as spring water poured into a crystal glass. Her hair parted down the middle and separated into numerous braids whose delicate twists and turns Pitkins felt could hypnotize him for hours on end. Her blue eyes sparkled in the bright afternoon sunlight like a pair of precious gems. She looked lengthily at him as well and with no less admiration. He was a strong, handsome man. Over six feet tall. Not enormous, but very muscular, and she noticed this quite easily in spite of his loose-fitting shirt. Wavy dark brown hair. She imagined herself running her fingers through it. Soft, deep, brown eyes. She felt herself being drawn into them like a swimmer in the surf being tugged forward by a gentle yet powerful wave.

"Soon," she said, ending the long, wordless conversation that had just transpired. It felt like a lifetime had passed.

Again, she started to leave.

He shouted, "How will I find you?"

"Do you know where the tree is that looks like a scarecrow . . . the tree that's well over five hundred feet tall?"

"Of course, I do."

"That's on the outermost edge of my father's property. Follow the path north that goes by it. It will take you to my father's house. Come next week; we're going to have a celebration for my younger brother's birthday. I look forward to seeing you then."

And away she went, images from their dance and their wordless conversations drifting happily through her mind like scenes from a play she wanted to store carefully for later viewing.

"What did Pitkins want?" It was her father, Fritzer. He didn't sound overly pleased. The daydream was over now. It had been interrupted by someone she knew all too well would see to it that an end was put to this fantasy before it had a chance to turn into anything more.

"To dance, Father. Just to dance."

"Donive, he's a talented sword smith, but he's nothing but a sword smith; you could do much better than him. Why don't you pay more attention to guys like Batsin or Gunder? Now, those guys are going somewhere in life, unlike that déclassé. Batsin is going to be a lawyer; Gunder is—"

"I don't care!" It came out a little stronger than she intended. She normally didn't raise her voice with her father. But she felt defensive. Like she was fighting to keep something from being seized from her. Something he had no right to take. And she wasn't finished.

"The swords crafted by that déclassé adorn the wide girths of nearly half our nobility—all of whom would probably love to see him dead, but the only thing stronger than their hatred of him is their ambition and envy, which together compel them to have the finest of everything, even if that means dealing with the very person who shatters their vain notions of noble superiority."

"Donive!" Fritzer said, gasping. He had long suspected she felt this way, but to hear her say so poignantly what he himself dared only occasionally admit to himself took his breath away.

She continued. "Father, there's more to life than that—I mean money, status, wealth . . . they're not everything. There's also—"

"What? Also what?!"

"Love . . . true love. And, besides, there's nothing wrong with just getting to know him. Those guys you mentioned—Batsin, Gunder, and all guys like them for that matter—simply don't interest me.

(nor will they ever)

They're too concerned with superficial things."

(like all the men you try to arrange me with)

"Are swords not superficial things?!"

"Yes, but I feel there is much more to Pitkins than that—much more."

"My dear Donive. Your soul is so pure; if only the world were not such a complicated place, your innocent attraction to Pitkins would be of no harm."

His patronizing tone aggravated her. But she could tell the situation was quickly unfolding in a way very contrary to how she wanted it. She had to act fast.

"Father, would it be okay if Pitkins came over next week for Binstel's birthday?"

"Is one of the nobles expecting him to deliver a newly crafted sword?"

"Very funny."

"Oh, I don't know if that would be such a good i—"

"But, Father, I already told him he could come, and Gindelsons never break their word!"

If this didn't work, nothing would. It was her best source of leverage against him. His Achilles' heel. But risky too, because a Gindelson lady would never invite a man anywhere without her father's express permission. Her blue eyes smiled mischievously and playfully as she looked pleadingly at her father, waiting to see what effect her intentional introduction of Gindelson honor into the equation would have on her obstinate father, not sure if it would outweigh her own violation of Gindelson etiquette.

"You did what?!"

"What's the harm?"

"He's of a lower class; he—"

He spit the word class out as though he were expelling some toxic substance from his mouth. At this point, her mother, Patsrona, cut in: "My dear husband, our daughter has a point—she did give her word, and Gindelsons never break their word, even when it is given to someone of a lower class, and even if it is given inappropriately," her eyes turning to daggers, pointed at Donive, appearing to say, We'll talk more later!

"Well, I suppose I'm left with no choice then," Fritzer sighed. Save that of perhaps arranging an unfortunate accident in his sword smith shop, he thought to himself half-seriously and found the idea rather appealing. "But hear this: I am not happy with this arrangement, and I command you to start mingling with those of higher pedigree. I will not allow Gindelson blood to be tainted by the blood of a lower class."

"Oh, Father, I'm so happy! You won't regret this."

"You had better hope I don't, because if I do, you will," he said sternly.

Chapter 2

Everyone was happy to be at Binstel's birthday celebration, although not on account of Binstel. Binstel himself was the epitome of a spoiled child. He was turning six, but you would have to multiply that number many times to even approximate the number of large gifts already laid out for this sixty pounds of pure aristocratic brat. He was known to shriek like a banshee if the stack of gifts did not reach the ceiling by lunchtime. He had nearly died at birth from complications. The physicians had compassionately, but frankly, advised Fritzer to expect the worst. When Binstel miraculously survived, Fritzer and Patsrona had been so overjoyed at his survival that they had always been overly easy on him and had a very difficult time giving him discipline when discipline was what the situation called for. Although he occasionally backed his parents so far into a corner that they gave him the hiding he deserved, this little prince was far too often the victor in any battle of wills between him and his parents. Temper tantrums were his strategy—his young, high-pitched scream, his weapon.

It was a radiant day. Birds sang joyously, perhaps expressing appreciation for the magnificence they were privileged to survey soaring high above the tallest trees. Large pigs were roasting over the numerous bonfires in front of the Gindelsons' home. On the table outside the Gindelsons' mansion were steaming ham, steak, honey, fish, shrimp, crab legs, potatoes, squash, pumpkin pie, chicken, roasted lamb, mussels, and loaves of choice bread, and for drink there were various kinds of juices and, perhaps most importantly, ale—lots of ale. Fifteen barrels, each measuring six feet in height and seven feet in diameter were sitting upright within larger barrels filled with ice, looking like overly ripe fruit that needed to be picked immediately.

"I propose a toast," said Fritzer, "to my beloved son, Binstel, a fine young lad who is a blessing to Patsrona and me. We don't know what we would ever do without him."

(and sometimes we don't know what to do WITH him)

He noticed Pitkins was there, standing amongst the crowd of over two hundred people listening to him praise his spoiled son with an amazing conglomeration of lies and half-truths. He frowned. He had been hoping against hope something would arise that would prevent Pitkins from coming. Maybe an accident in the sword smith shop—Sorry, Donive, I would've loved to come, but I accidentally cut my leg off with my own sword. Aren't you impressed?

The thought at least brought a genuine grin to his face, saving him the trouble of having to fake one. "And now, let us eat!" he exclaimed, a nice hostly grin on his face.

"Me first!" shouted Binstel, dashing straight towards the choicest pieces of meat and filling his plate as high as possible with food. Most of which he wouldn't even eat.

Donive was talking with Batsin. However, she was doing a lot more listening—or rather pretending to listen—than talking; it was basically a one-way conversation.

"I will soon be attending law school," he said smugly. "I have very high marks; I shouldn't have any trouble getting into one of the best law schools in Sodorf. Of course, I'll demand more than mere acceptance, mind you. They're going to have to give me a full scholarship. On top of that, I want my classes scheduled specially so they don't interfere with my violin lessons. I'm excellent at playing the violin. I'll probably be a fine violinist as well as a fine lawyer. Law firms will be begging me to work for them. Of course, I won't accept ju—"

"Sorry to interrupt," Donive said;

(sorry I didn't do so sooner)

"this is all really very interesting. But Pitkins is here, and I haven't yet had a chance to greet him. I mustn't be rude."

"Pitkins? Who the dev . . . you don't mean Pitkins, the blacksmith?! Here?!"

He spit the word blacksmith out as though it were either the name of a notorious criminal or a dreaded disease.

"The sword smith. And, yes I do. So what?"

She spit the word what out so forcefully, his treatment of blacksmith seemed quite reverential by comparison.

"It's an honorable craft in my opinion. Your father would seem to agree. I heard he spent the equivalent of your entire tuition on the last sword Pitkins made for him, but, then again, I shouldn't gossip. Now if you'll excuse me," she said, her eyes turning sharp like daggers, letting him know the conversation was over and not even a lawyer-in-the-making such as himself would have a chance of convincing her court to grant a stay of execution.

Her heart leaped as she approached Pitkins, but she did her best to ensure it did not appear so. Almost without realizing it, she made a few strokes through her hair, correcting imaginary knots and tangles that most assuredly did not exist. Three hours of the most meticulous grooming that morning with the help of four servants had seen to that.

"You look even prettier than the last time I saw you," he told her, grinning.

"Thank you," she replied. "I'm glad you've made it alright."

"I did, indeed. And I'm glad for that because I haven't seen a feast such as this in many years."

"It is nice. The chefs spent hours preparing it. I helped every chance I had while my father and mother weren't watching. I happen to love cooking; I think it's a fascinating art. But I have much to learn."

"What's their objection?"

"They believe that a 'woman of my breeding' shouldn't work at all. Instead I should learn to dance, to flirt, and to marry. That way I will attract the richest, highest-ranking noble suitor possible. Then, I get to have children!" she said, and blushed as she failed to restrain an unbecoming giggle that escaped from her mouth.

Pitkins laughed warmly. "You do make it sound appealing." Donive felt her blush disappear and laughed with him.

Donive continued, "I do want to have children, but with a man I love, not with a man that meets my father's checklist for keeping the family amongst the upper echelons of the nobility."

She paused, and then continued, "I want to be inspired before I marry. And I want to inspire that person."

Again, she paused, almost unaware of how much she was opening up with Pitkins. "I want to travel. I want to learn new languages. I want to learn new cultures. I want to master the culinary arts. I want to have a voice in the direction of this country. I want to be challenged. I want to . . . live life. What my father can't seem to understand is there's more to life than just wealth, parties, dances, and leisure. If that inspired me, I would be a married woman already.

"Of course, that's all he's known his entire life, and that's what he wants for me. He thinks anything that gets my hands dirty is somehow 'unbecoming of a lady of my class.' Sometimes, I wish I weren't even born into a noble family. All the pampering and lavishness are sometimes just plain dull!"

She paused for a moment.

"Oh, I'm being ridiculous. It's quite unbecoming for me to complain so much when there are so many who would die to have everything I have. I really should be much more grateful!"

"You're not being ridiculous. Life has no meaning without challenges . . . without passion. You have a passion, and your father won't let you pursue it. Crafting swords is my passion and for the longest time . . . was my only passion."

Their eyes locked. Another wordless conversation. His deep brown eyes pulled her in just as strongly as before. Her urge to run her fingers through his hair was even stronger now than the last time. Pitkins somehow fought the urge to just scoop her right up into his arms.

Donive looked away, blushing. "Would you like something to eat?" she asked, smiling.

Batsin eyed Pitkins and Donive. What does a woman like Donive see in a man with dirt under his fingernails? As this query entered his head, Fritzer wondered the same thing with no less frustration at his inability to answer the question. Gunder, on the other hand, was too busy boring a young woman to death, discussing his plans for a grand political future and the glory that would be associated therewith, to even notice the controversial sword smith who dared join the ranks of these aristocratic bigwigs. Those who did looked at him contemptuously. Fritzer suddenly approached Donive with apparently urgent business, dragging her away from Pitkins under a rapidly mumbled pretext—without introducing himself—and after exchanging a few words with her, he seated her next to Batsin.

Unbeknownst to the (mostly) jolly celebrants, at the time these social complexities nearly unique to humans were transpiring, out of the tall, wheat-covered fields surrounding the festivities a serpent silently emerged. Its color, a dark greenish-brown. Its skin, covered with large black diamonds symmetrically arranged across all fifty feet of its body. The bear it had eaten three weeks ago had long since been digested, leaving its innards empty and demanding replenishment. It had been following the scent of a deer when the smell of cooked meat permeated its nostrils and made fresh deer seem like stale leftovers.

Suddenly, the cheerful sounds of ale glasses clinging, toasts being offered, and jokes being told were interrupted by the shrill cry of a balding noble.

"SNAAAAKE!!!!!" he shouted suddenly, spotting the fearsome creature slithering stealthily across the lawn, its large, forked tongue flicking in and out of its mouth like a piece of spaghetti just too good to swallow. Realizing it had lost the element of surprise, it began slithering full speed, contorting and pushing its muscular body in a way that compensated all too well for its lack of appendages. Striking through the air like a bolt of lightning, it bit a noble helping himself to some honey, biting him through the torso, its hypodermic needles of death piercing all the way through his body, picking him up in the air with an ease which made him look more like a rag doll than the two-hundred-plus-pound man he was, and then flinging him head over heels into the air like an awkwardly shaped rock shot out of a catapult. He landed right in the middle of a stack of Binstel's presents.

"NOT MY PREEEESENTS!" shouted Binstel. The snake glared at him with haunting eyes, and Binstel turned around and fled for dear life. A few of the nobles, to their credit, unsheathed their swords and turned to face the snake. The anacobra reared back and sent geysers of poison flying from its fangs like lava erupting from a volcano. The poison showered them, sending them off screaming, trying frantically to get the poison out of their eyes. The snake lashed out again, like a bolt of lightning hurled by an angry god. It killed two nobles with one bite—a two-for-one special—and then flung them high up into the air. They landed on top of the Gindelsons' huge mansion with a loud THUD!

Although Fritzer was scared to death, he looked around for Donive, instead of fleeing.

(oh, great Saixen, please don't let that beast get her!)

He saw her next to Batsin. They were both struggling to free themselves from the remains of the wooden table, looking like a couple of mice being approached by an all too curious cat. Batsin struggled so panically that in his wild attempts to extricate himself from the table he twice knocked Donive over.

"HELP DONIVE!" shouted Fritzer at the top of his lungs, making eye contact for a brief second with Batsin. Batsin finally freed himself from the wooden table, which by this point was shattered from the impacts of the people and debris being thrown on top of it by the serpent.

The snake was coming closer. It looked at Donive. Hissssssssss! Its long, triangular face was a ghastly collection of brutish spots, bumps, and scales, its diamond-shaped eyes appearing to be none other than joint passageways into the depths of hell.

"Help me, Batsin; please HELP me get OUT!!!" she cried.

"Ugghhh!" he moaned, turned tail, and fled for his life, pretending not to hear, leaving Donive to fend for herself.

The serpent approached steadily. Its eyes gleamed red. Not feeling threatened by any of the screaming, terrified nobles quickly fleeing the scene, it took its time, its contorting body offering a display of geometric arrangements hypnotizing to anyone brave enough to watch. Just you and me, princess, its eyes seemed to say. The cooked delicacies it had been enchanted by moments ago now seemed dull compared to this treat.

Her heart began beating like a drum struck repeatedly with a hundred-pound mallet. It would doubtlessly explode any second. The serpent's long, forked tongue flicked in and out of its large mouth, making a sucking sound.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. She knew her heart would rebel any moment now against the unjust pressure it was being asked to withstand and explode right in her chest. The snake began coiling its long body into striking position, with a precision that made it look like a neatly coiled hose, staring at her all the while with its red, hypnotizing eyes, their passageways into hell moving ever closer. Fritzer, still watching this horrible scene unfold, wet himself, began to cry, and then shrieked in terror. But he dared not approach the serpent. His sword remained firmly sheathed.

(my girl's done for)

THWAAACKKKK!! Pitkins' blade slashed into the serpent's coiled body, cutting through the coils with the ease of a knife through butter left sitting out too long on a warm summer day. It let out a loud hiss of fury and pain. It prepared to deliver the fatal bite to Donive anyway, in spite of the more pressing business at hand. Pitkins sheathed his sword, grabbed the remaining portion of the serpent, and jerked it backwards violently. The anacobra's jaws closed together mere inches from Donive's face, its two hundred mile-per-hour strike missing its intended landing spot. A few drops of venom landed on her dress, burning through some of the material. She fainted, heart still thumping uncontrollably.

It hissed again, furious with this interruption. It bent its body into a U, facing Pitkins directly as he held its severed end, its face mere inches from Pitkins. It smiled at him, a wicked smile, its long pair of fangs glistening with venom and the blood of its previous victims. You want my attention; I'll give it to you undivided! it seemed to say.

Pitkins looked into the snake's chilling eyes no longer than a half a second before realizing to do so would mean certain death. In less than a second, he let go of the snake, unsheathed his sword, and in the same motion swung his sword hard . . . far harder than he had ever swung a sword in his life, and sliced sideways through both of the snake's fangs. As he did this he used his momentum to roll forward into a somersault, rolling across the lawn like a tumbleweed driven by an angry wind. Venom gushed out of the severed fangs and spilled onto the lawn. A foul odor arose. The grass sizzled and began to burn. The serpent let out a hiss so horrible it stopped one noble's heart in mid-beat.

Pitkins didn't miss the opportunity afforded by the serpent's distraction. He sheathed his sword, somersaulted over to the serpent's severed end, and dragged it towards the largest of all of the fires where the pigs were roasting. He flung it in headfirst, and, as it began to squirm out of the flames, he threw a pot full of oil on it.

WHOOOSH!! Flames engulfed the serpent, and the roaring inferno almost turned Pitkins into a human candle. It hissed as fire enveloped its entire body.

There was still nearly complete pandemonium, but a few had turned to watch this nobody battle the terrifying creature with atypical martial prowess.

"STAND BAAAACK!" shouted Pitkins with authority. Everyone obeyed like soldiers being ordered by a general. The serpent continued writhing, like an angry shark pulled from the depths of its aquatic hunting ground onto the deck of a ship where smiling shark hunters admired their catch. But its writhing was slowing. Several minutes later, the beast lay still. The horrible smell of charred snake flesh saturating the erstwhile fresh, fragrant air.

An uneasy silence descended upon the survivors, perhaps unsure the danger was over.

"Pitkins . . . a hero indeed," Fritzer said, in a whisper barely audible.

"Pitkins . . . a hero indeed," he repeated. This time more loudly.

"PITKINS, A HERO INDEED!!" he began shouting.

First one . . . then two . . . then the whole crowd began to chant like members of a choir dutifully following their conductor.

Donive regained consciousness and looked up at Pitkins, her heart fluttering.

Pitkins helped her up.

Suddenly, Fritzer jumped up on top of a section of the table that had not been broken and said:

"Today, I have witnessed the bravest, noblest act that I have ever seen. Never have I witnessed such martial talent, such disregard for one's own safety, such noble valor. The fact it was done by a man with no noble blood makes it all the more inspiring. The peace and prosperity we have enjoyed in Sodorf for many centuries was not always so. It was achieved only by an epic struggle against forces so evil few, if any of us, could ever imagine it. Most of us here are the descendants of those who, many centuries ago, performed heroic deeds in that struggle—the Knights of Sodorf. We all acquired our nobility by being borne from the right womb. Not a man here can claim to be a noble by virtue of his own deeds. History teaches us it can be dangerous for such a situation to go on for too long—without nobility being earned by blood, sweat, and courage. I don't know what future dangers may one day come, but I do know this: If, and when, such dangers ever do again confront our beloved country, like waves smashing against the sides of a ship, let it not be said that heroes such as Pitkins were treated as lower class. Let it not be said that heroes such as Pitkins were given second-class seating at banquets. Let it not be said that heroes such as Pitkins were not . . . ."

He paused.

Everyone looked at him.

"Knighted!!"

A few nobles gasped. By law, there were only a dozen nobles in Sodorf with the right to knight someone not born into the nobility. Fritzer was not only one of these twelve but one of the most respected. Such a knighting had to be done in the presence of all nobles, and a single noble could block the knighting by standing and voicing his opposition. Most of the nobles were still too deeply in shock to even contemplate opposing anything. Of those that were not, many groaned inwardly that the inevitable had finally come, as they knew it would, and a few were secretly happy to see Pitkins earn his place amongst them. Others fumed inside, nearly rising to voice their opposition but fearing they would look like fools, given they had dared not unsheathe their swords. Bichtens, the most resentful of all, almost stood to voice his opposition but thought better of it when he realized the dinner plate-sized stain in his crotch area could become a legend on par with Pitkins' slaying of the serpent.

"Pitkins, come forward!"

Cautiously, Pitkins walked towards him.

"Kneel."

Pitkins kneeled.

"Bring my family's ceremonial sword, the sword the first Sir Gindelson used in battle!"

An astounded servant hurriedly retrieved the requested heirloom. Taking the sword, Fritzer resumed: "Hundreds of years ago, Sir Heinsel of Gindelson used this very sword to defeat some of the most evil, barbaric, ruthless enemies of Sodorf, the Moscorians of Dachwald. It is now my personal honor to dub thee, formerly Pitkins, as Sir Pitkins, the Serpent Slayer." He touched Pitkins' shoulders ceremoniously with the sword.

"Rise, Sir Pitkins."

Everyone cheered passionately for their new hero.

Donive walked towards Pitkins and then leapt into his arms. They locked in a tight embrace, like two lovers reunited after years apart. Everyone cheered wildly.

"Thank you!" she said, a tear sliding down her cheek.

"I couldn't let that snake eat you. We're just getting to know each other!" he replied, smiling.

Donive nodded serenely, her eyes moist, but filled with a passion he hadn't seen since . . . since a long time. Her eyes captivated him with a power, it seemed, greater than that even of the serpent's. To his surprise, he felt a momentary sense of weakness. Then, in front of Fritzer, the nobility, and everyone else, he kissed her.
Chapter 3

Tristan checked the formula again. He didn't see where he could have gone wrong: two rabbit heads; a pint of lion's blood; two mountain lion claws; eight leaves from the Calina plant, which grew at the bottom of the deepest lakes; and two Sepher berries from the mountainside, all stirred for three days in five gallons of water at a temperature just below boiling. A few drops of this, if lit on fire, should make him invisible for a few hours, but it wasn't working.

"What in TARNATION am I doing wrong?!!" he thundered. He had been practicing Glisphin for about a thousand years. As he prepared to reread page 3,645 of the 17,015-page book titled Glishpin: Theory and Applications, he heard wings flapping. It was a bird, and he could tell by the sound of the wings beating the air that it was a konulan and was about two miles away still but approaching quickly.

He carefully reread the ancient formula: "kiksin fakra ipz tung hala"—then, he realized his mistake; he had forgotten that on the third day, the bubbling brew's temperature must not be allowed to decrease slowly and steadily, but rather must be decreased suddenly and drastically by pouring fifteen pounds of ice into the mixture.

"Ah ha," he said to himself, pleased. "And now, I have to start over from the damn beginning!"

The konulan arrived.

"I bring you news, master," it said. It lowered its head towards the ground. There were books all around the room, which was located in a cave carved out of the side of a tall cliff so far above ground the massive trees below looked like shrub bushes. Most of the books were thick. They had titles such as Glisphin: Poisons, Glisphin: Mind Reading, Glisphin: Counters to Feiglushen. There were numerous glass vessels of differing sizes filled with powders and labeled to denote how much time it took for the sand to go through the aperture from one compartment to the next. There were also some adjustable glass vessels on which a lever could be pushed to adjust the size of the aperture through which the powder fell—to make it take longer or shorter—and corresponding numerical units to let the user know how long it would take for the vessel to run out of sand. Koksun, a long, thin black cat lurked about, its yellow eyes gleaming at the konulan bird that had entered the evil abode. There were swords and daggers along the wall, as well as many metallic, mechanical devices, most of which an intruder would have found hopelessly perplexing but whose use Tristan knew to the last detail.

"What news have you brought me?" asked Tristan. Tristan was a tall, slightly old-looking man. He stood over six feet tall. He had a pair of pince-nez perched on top of his long, crooked nose. His hair was long, silver, and curly towards the ends. He was slightly hunched, more the result of too many late nights spent poring over the hundreds of books in his lair than the unseemly number of years he had spent amongst the living.

"It has happened, sire," the konulan bird said in a scratchy, high-pitched voice; "the prophecy is beginning to unfold."

"Of what prophecy do you speak?" asked Tristan. The magic formula he had been working on ceased to matter.

"Sire, I refer to the prophecy. It's all beginning to unfold."

"Kasani!" shouted Tristan, his face going pale. "Kasani, Kasani, Kasani!" he shouted over and over, nearly tripping over Koksun, who had come closer, curious about the visitor . . . thinking it looked tasty.

"Thank you very much, my precious eyes in the sky," he said attempting to compose himself; "you have done your job well; to show my gratitude I will not feed you to my cat; now fly away, and speak to no one about this or you will be Koksun's next meal after I skin you and slowly cook you to a crisp!"

The konulan let out a sigh of relief and flew off as quickly as it could. Koksun looked downcast. Konulans that came by and did not please Master became meals.

Koksun was in reality the feline prison of the soul of a once-feared and whispered-about Metinvurian assassin and spy of the same name. The Metinvurs, renowned more for their use of spies and assassins than for their skill in open warfare, were of the few who knew about and had sought out Tristan's services. Thinking to force him to become his puppet under pain of death, centuries ago, the king of the Metinvurs had sent Koksun to carry out the task. In spite of thirty years of successfully carrying out such clandestine missions for a king who rewarded success with life and failure with death, upon scaling Tristan's perilous walls, Koksun had been so unnerved by Tristan's convincingly warm greeting and invitation to sit down and discuss the purpose of his visit that he had unwittingly drunk the glass of tea Tristan offered him, and in a matter of minutes had been confined to a hairy, limber, twenty-pound feline prison.

At first Koksun had resisted stoically the most savage of tortures, refusing to tell Tristan the secrets of the Metinvurian spy and assassin network, but where the rack and scalpel had failed, Tristan discovered to his surprise that the threat of a bath or the withholding of a day's worth of milk never did. He had since become Tristan's ever-faithful companion, a situation for which Tristan was so grateful he had sent a warm thank-you letter to the Metinvurian king himself.

Tristan, long a committed loner, had been of the school of thought that friendships were overrated. He had once calculated precisely that an hour of quiet study benefitted the soul more than a hundred hours of social mingling. Koksun, who had first hated Tristan for having bested him but soon came to adore him as his liberator from a lifetime of thankless missions that risked life and limb, little by little began to open up Tristan's mind.

Koksun had noticed Tristan's countless late-night flights from his lair, which were intended, Tristan later confided, to discover whether a certain "prophecy" had begun to unfold. Being prudent enough not to ask for additional details, Koksun did have the audacity to point out to Tristan that what one could do well a hundred or a thousand could do better. Koksun then pointed out that, if Tristan could turn a human into an animal while retaining the ever-valuable gift of speech, surely he could impart the gift of speech to a natural born animal.

Tristan had at first scoffed at the idea, but possessing as much curiosity as the feline race itself, Tristan had been unable to resist first an hour, then a day, and then a month of some of the most intensive Glisphin research he had carried out in his centuries-long life. Having become adequately convinced that it was at least theoretically possible, he then confided to Koksun that he was afraid the deed could backfire.

"After all," he had said to Koksun, "if I arm a group of animals with the power of speech, it will only be a matter of when, not if, it is discovered, and these tools of surveillance could quickly become the tools of my enemies, who would then surely destroy me."

Sufficiently impressed, nonetheless, by Koksun's difficult-to-refute logic on the benefits of having more eyes, and then by his having been right about the possibility of arming avian creatures with the gift of speech, Tristan could not help but think out loud and reveal to Koksun detail by detail what the prophecy entailed. Koksun argued to Tristan irrefutably that he stood little chance of discovering the commencement of the prophecy by himself, at least not in a timely fashion.

"Of what use though would that be," he had queried Koksun, "if these creatures rise against me or are hijacked by my enemies?" It was then that Koksun had pointed out to Tristan his appalling lack of trust in his ability to instill fear and to detect deceit, given that he was a demonstrated master of the former and was equally accomplished in the art of carrying out and implementing deceit.

At that point, Koksun began to reveal many secrets—far more than what he had revealed previously under duress—about the Metinvurs' ability to utilize spies while avoiding or sniffing out the presence of double agents. Tristan took copious notes while Koksun spoke and later discovered to his delight that he had a few books on the subject, dust-covered and never-opened, most likely due to their titles, such as Interpersonal Skills, Social Behavior, and Inspirational Management. He almost changed each title but soon fell in love with the euphemistic descriptors for intimidating, interrogating, and inspiring subordinate spies.

Still a bit unsure of his ability to ensure the positive outcome of imparting speech to birds, he had peppered Koksun with questions, who never lacked a convincing response. He revealed that he himself was probably the first Metinvurian agent to ever turn on his sovereign, and the uniqueness of his situation was self-explanatory.

Koksun convinced Tristan, and one by one an avian spy became two, and then ten, and then one hundred. Over the following centuries Tristan had amassed an army of one thousand konulans—his tiny eyes, he liked to call them—and around forty of the majestic avian pholung species. The konulans were his bird of choice because their treachery could only come in the form of counterintelligence. Their small, two-inch frames would permit little more. The pholung was a different animal. Fifty pounds, a sixteen-foot wing span, and two talons equipped with five fourteen-inch-long, razor-sharp claws could clearly pose a nasty physical threat to even the most accomplished of wizards.

Tristan had at first been reluctant to impart speech to such a formidable creature, but Koksun had laughed at Tristan's alarm before explaining the many solutions to this. Most importantly, all pholungs to be given speech must be taken from their nests while still chicks. From there, Tristan would raise them and instill subordination and loyalty to the very marrow of each pholung's soul. Secondly, these pholungs were to be taught that every pholung could talk and was Tristan's spy but that communication with another pholung without Tristan's explicit permission would bring a death sentence. The pholung's natural solitary preference made this latter tactic particularly effective. Furthermore, in the rare circumstances a pholung attempted to betray Tristan by talking to another pholung, almost always the pholung would have the misfortune of choosing a pholung able only to utter the beautiful, but limited, "caw" characteristic of pholungs and would find the pholung looking at him skeptically as if he were insane. The rebellious pholung usually panicked when this occurred, interpreting the bird as having explicitly refused the offer to engage in treason.

However, for particularly important missions, missions that required collaboration, he would allow a temporary relaxing of the prohibition on contact between pholungs. These pholungs would be shown who their partners were going to be and told that they could talk to each other and to each other only and only with regards to their mission. Any deviation from this was a death sentence, as was any failure to report a deviation.

Tristan only permitted talking pholungs the right to mate under the rarest of circumstances, which occurred when he was particularly convinced of the loyalty of a male and female pholung. The chicks of these lovebirds would be brought to Tristan even before hatching so that Tristan could impart speech to them. Even though Koksun's strategy of only selectively imparting speech had worked excellently, Tristan knew there was no choice but to impart speech to all offspring of talking pholungs, as even the most intimidated, credulous of all would be apt to wonder why their chicks would not speak to them if all pholungs could talk. Tristan didn't want the population of talking pholungs to soar out of control, and so he only permitted talking pholungs to mate when the population had dipped below forty.

Konulans proved to be more of a challenge because of their greater numbers, but he needed large numbers if he were to keep Sodorf under effective surveillance. Disloyalty amongst konulans was a bit more common, due to their overly sociable nature. Getting them to refrain from talking to one another was like getting water to refrain from going downhill. These birds had proven so unruly at first that he was about to kill all talking konulans, but Koksun convinced him to first try a different stratagem. After killing off the ringleaders of the rebellious ones (which happened to be the plumpest, and given that the executions were carried out by Koksun, Tristan did wonder if some of them had been innocent), the rest were indoctrinated with the teaching that not all konulans could talk and that they were a superior race and that, while they could talk to other talking konulans, under no circumstances could they ever talk to anyone or anything else besides Tristan and Koksun.

He found that by giving them a way to release their social energy amongst each other it was easier for them to restrain their chatty ways in prohibited situations. Furthermore, he found the konulans' gossipy nature a particularly effective way to discover any acts of rebellion or insubordination, as they readily informed on violators of protocol, often gleefully. The konulans themselves were thus their own worst enemy, and within a short time so many of their number had been fed alive to Koksun that they found the inner strength to restrict their chatty nature to talking konulans only. Where konulans occasionally failed to report prohibited activity to Tristan, Koksun often filled the gap, noticing slight tremors in the beak or smelling certain odors that indicated deception. Over time, treachery had become such a rarity that Tristan had to hunt and catch non-talking konulans in order to keep Koksun happy.

Lastly, Koksun had encouraged Tristan to reestablish contact with the Moscorians, whom he had been furious with after their ignominious defeat at the hands of the Sodorfians centuries earlier, and whom he had vowed at one point never to rely on again due to his great displeasure. Koksun had pointed out that, while they may have failed him badly, this would only make them all the more determined to atone for their defeat by mercilessly attacking the Sodorfians when the time was right. Yet again unable to refute the logic of his feline companion, he set aside his mountain of resentment and made contact with those he had once thought he would incinerate if he ever had the misfortune of seeing them again.

Feiklen and his opponent bowed to each other. Feiklen held out his sword and watched his opponent carefully, calm as a rattlesnake waiting for a mouse to make a move. Sikon lunged forward with his sword; Feiklen stepped to the side, turned his body ninety degrees and parried Sikon's sword hard, knocking it off course. Feiklen immediately turned to his right, lifting his sword and bringing it across Sikon's throat, which was covered in armor.

THWACKK!! The dulled blade whacked Sikon's armor-covered throat. Feiklen stepped past Sikon with his left leg and spun around, using the spinning motion to deliver a powerful thrust to Sikon's ribs, covered with chain mail.

WHOOSH!! Air rushed out of Sikon's lungs as if out of a bag. Feiklen backed away from Sikon but then quickly came forward. He faked a thrust to get Sikon to parry, then immediately stepped forward past Sikon and turned to his right, spinning all the way around, back towards Sikon, who now had his sword pointed downwards, and he brought his sword around in a powerful, spinning slash to Sikon's throat.

WHACKK!! The sword slashed across Sikon's throat with such force that it nearly cut through the protective armor, dull blade notwithstanding. Sikon scowled.

Feiklen stepped back again. They faced each other, two animals looking for an exploitable weakness, a misstep. They circled each other slowly. Heavy, chain-linked armor adorned their large frames. A large helmet rested comfortably on Feiklen's head, a long, curved horn protruding from each side. A steel mask covered his entire face, except his eyes. His large, steel-tipped boots scraped the floor as he slowly circled Sikon. Thirty warriors surrounded them in a square formation.

Suddenly Feiklen charged forward with an overhead slash; Sikon raised his sword at a forty-five degree angle and simultaneously stepped forward and to the right slashing Feiklen's sword downward, slowing its momentum and redirecting it to the right. Feiklen brought his sword up to protect his upper torso, raised his right arm above his head, with the sword pointing straight downwards at a ninety-degree angle to the ground, stepped to the right, shifted his weight back, and braced himself for the slash he knew was coming.

SKWEENNNN!!! Sikon's sword crashed into Feiklen's, sparks flying. Sikon's sword was now just slightly to Feiklen's left. Feiklen brought his blade up and struck Sikon's throat hard; he continued the motion, twisting his wrists as he whirled the sword above his head and then, holding the sword sideways above his head, stabbed hard at Sikon's helmet—intentionally missing the eye holes—and then, twisting his body around the other way, smashed the sword into the back of Sikon's helmet—just as his head was being rocked back from the first blow; then he swung it around again, twisting his whole body around and switching his stance accordingly, and brought the sword smashing into the front of Sikon's helmet again. With Sikon's weight leaning backwards once more, Feiklen brought his sword up high above his head and then brought it down with crushing force on the back of Sikon's legs, taking them out from under him as if he were reaping stalks of corn. He then stuck his sword through the small gap in the armor between Sikon's collarbone and throat and held it there. Sikon tapped the canvas mat.

Kihlgun looked at Feiklen somewhat balefully. Had the battle hammer, rather than the long sword, been the weapon of choice of the Moscorians, Kihlgun would have been first in command without any doubt. He was a grotesque, six-foot-eight mountain of muscle and meanness, which his three hundred-plus-pound frame seemed to have been specially designed to carry with craftsman-like efficiency. The two hundred-pound battle hammer that he wielded with the ease of an orchestra conductor waving a baton but with the maniacal pleasure of a sadistic slavemaster striking with his whip was a challenge to most of the Moscorians to hold at waist height for more than thirty seconds, and moving it through the air without it crashing down upon their heads was a challenge few of them had attempted more than once.

However, tradition was a stubborn thing amongst the Moscorians, and the long sword had always been their sacred weapon and always would be, and they would be damned if they would change that on account of one freak of nature whose strength seemed to defy the laws of physics. They were quick to point out, on the rare occasions where Kihlgun seemed to be in a sufficiently non-homicidal state of mind to listen to constructive criticism, that while his battle hammer was unstoppable by armor or by traditional blocking techniques, if he missed his opponent the head of his battle hammer tended to end up buried three feet in the ground upon impact. Although Kihlgun could extricate his hammer from this predicament with all the speed and grace of a tornado ripping a tree out of the ground, the two or three seconds that it delayed him could at least theoretically give his opponent time to inflict a mortal wound.

They knew that, while in theory they were right, they had yet to see an opponent who was not already psychologically vanquished at the moment he saw this oddity of nature swinging around an object that no bipedal creature should be able to easily move. The gust of wind from a missed stroke could sometimes knock a man over, and when that did not happen the two or three seconds afforded by Kihlgun's momentary vulnerability after a missed chop were normally spent in an unhelpful trance that Kihlgun abruptly ended by shattering the man's bones to dust.

He had never confronted armor that could withstand a single direct stroke of his instrument of death. The strongest armor crumpled beneath the merciless power of the hammer head and turned on its owner, puncturing lungs and organs, followed closely behind by the hammer head itself whose mere shock waves could fracture bones a good distance from the point of impact.

Another matter too for Feiklen's superior ranking (although they never dared tell Kihlgun this) was that even these bloodthirsty killers were a bit unhinged by his werewolf-like transformation during battle from his ordinary, sullen self to a giggling, wide-eyed killer that they tried to maintain a safe twenty feet from during battle. Many of them secretly feared the day would come where Kihlgun would wake up covered in the blood of every last one of them unable to even remember what had happened.

Yet, unable to even calmly contemplate the calamitous consequences of Kihlgun feeling snubbed, they all agreed that keeping him second in command was the best tightrope they could walk with this creature they could neither trust nor bring themselves to get rid of.

"Impressive," a guttural voice uttered.

Silence descended on the room like rain at a picnic. No one had seen Tristan enter the room. Everyone stood to attention, then bowed. Even Feiklen bowed. Koksun lay in Tristan's arms as he stroked him slowly.

"Feiklen and I have important things to discuss," he said. The men looked relieved and headed towards the door.

"Master, what news do you bring me? Shall we finally be allowed to once again restore the Moscorians to their former glory and lay waste to the subhumans of Sodorf?" Feiklen asked in a deep voice.

"All will come in good time."

"You've been saying that for many years . . . ."

"I have; I know, but the time is now sooner than you think."

"What has happened?"

Tristan looked intently at Feiklen. "Sodorf has knighted a man who is not of noble birth."

Feiklen's face turned ghostly pale.

"Then we must act quickly," said Feiklen.

"Quickly, indeed," said Tristan, in his low throaty voice. "Quickly indeed."
Chapter 4

Pitkins lay in bed at home, his head spinning with thoughts. When his wife had died years ago, he believed he would never fall in love again. Moving to Sodorf, plying his trade, leaving behind his past, earning respect but not fame—it was all he wanted. The first time he had seen Donive, he had felt something powerful in his heart. Something powerful enough to convince him that, even if no one could replace his lost love, perhaps he could love again.

After the second and third time he had seen her, he could no longer deny his feelings to himself. He wanted her but knew he couldn't. She was of noble birth. He wasn't. He knew his sword craftsmanship was second to none but had initially held back a little of his talent when he first moved to Sodorf, not wanting the attention. But after he saw Donive, he realized his only hope of being with her was to gain the respect—even if not the love—of the nobility. The Sodorfians were known far and wide for their love of fine swords. It was almost a religion to them.

Keeping the membership of the nobility open only to those of noble birth was also a religion to them. He knew his odds were almost impossible, but no law forbade a man below the noble class from marrying a woman of the nobility. Social customs came close.

He assumed it would never happen, but it gave him something to dream of as he spent hour after hour forging swords so finely crafted the nobility could not resist them. He quickly became well known but found that his enemies in the nobility always seemed to outnumber his customers.

He hadn't even expected to see Donive the day of the dance. It was an informal festival. But when he saw her he knew he had to take the chance. Now that the impossible had happened, now that he was knighted, he knew that there was no turning back.

Chapter 5

There was a knock at the door.

When it opened, Pitkins saw a maid standing in front of him.

"May I help you, Sir Pitkins?" she said, a mischievous smile on her face. "I have a feeling you're not here to see Binstel, Patsrona, or Fritzer." Her smile had only gotten bigger.

"May I please see Donive?" Pitkins asked, smiling a little nervously.

"Donive! I knew there had to be someone here you wanted to see," she said, laughing now.

Pitkins was surprised to feel himself blush but smiled nonetheless.

"Thank you, Rena," Pitkins heard a voice say. It was Donive. Rena curtsied and then excused herself.

Donive smiled at him. "I believe you better speak to my father first."

He wasn't far behind. "Please excuse us, Donive," he said.

There was a sense of calm about him. It surprised Pitkins but calmed his nerves a bit.

"I know you're here to see Donive, and I want you to know that if you treat her with the love and respect she deserves, you have my blessing. You've already proven she's safer with you than with any other man in this kingdom, and in my heart that makes you the most worthy. Not only are you a knight, there's not a noble in Sodorf who would dare publicly question your worthiness of that honor. If you wish to marry Donive, it's her you'll have to convince." Fritzer chuckled and then said, "Best of luck!" and then clapped Pitkins on the shoulder.

Pitkins was at a loss as to what to say, since apparently Fritzer already knew the situation from top to bottom. "You have my word I will treat her with the highest dignity and tenderness."

Fritzer smiled and then shook Pitkins' hand.

The afternoon that Pitkins spent with Donive seemed suspended in time. Every moment was magical. Every gaze they shared seemed a journey through paradise. They walked along the edge of the large estate surrounding Fritzer's large mansion. As they did so, they neared the impossibly tall tree shaped like a scarecrow.

"Want to hear something silly?" she asked, her eyes playful.

"Sure," he said, smiling.

Donive looked back towards her house to see if anyone was watching, then grabbed Pitkins by the hand and gently pulled him forward. She squatted low to the ground and moved forward into the tree. Mesmerized, Pitkins followed her inside. A shaft of sunlight pierced through a small opening in the tree above them, illuminating the interior.

"When I was a little girl, I discovered this entrance. The shape of the tree near the opening makes it look like just another furrow in the tree, rather than an opening, so it's not easy to see it's hollow inside. I used to come and spend hours in here, just to think. Sometimes I still do," she smiled but blushed slightly.

"I love it," Pitkins said sincerely. "It's private, peaceful, and gives excellent shade while still allowing light to come through."

Donive looked down.

"What is it?" Pitkins asked, grabbing her hand gently.

"When I was eight years old, I had a vivid dream—a nightmare. I dreamed an evil people invaded Sodorf and began killing everyone, and I climbed inside the tree so they wouldn't see me. I saw and heard terrible things."

Pitkins paused for a moment, not sure whether to ask for more details, but couldn't help himself. "What happened?"

"I stayed there for a long time. Days, maybe even weeks."

Donive then looked at him with an intensity he had never seen from her before.

"That dream has stayed with me for all of my life. It seemed so real."

This time, Pitkins kept his mouth shut. He could feel a chill move down his spine, then back up, leaving his ears and scalp tingling.

"Someone rescued me in the dream. But I could never picture his face."

Pitkins was now feeling shivers. Donive's gaze, although innocent, was unnerving him with its intensity.

"I dreamed it again last night, Pitkins. This time I saw the man's face. It was yours."

Pitkins felt goosebumps. He had had dreams that later came true and wasn't one to underestimate a dream's power. Donive's eyes told him she was serious.

They embraced, and Pitkins held her tight.

"Donive, there's something I must tell you. Actually . . . a lot. I only ask you tell no one."

"I won't," she said, eyes sincere.

When Pitkins finished, he had a couple tears running down his cheeks, although he had fought back an army.

Donive's eyes were moist. "I'm so sorry," she said.

"Donive, there's something I must ask you."

She sat erect.

Pitkins reached into his pocket and produced a stunningly beautiful diamond ring. "I felt something special for you the first time I laid eyes on you. You have been my inspiration for longer than you can imagine. What I feel when I'm with you I know is something special and something I'll never feel with anyone else. I love you, and I want to be with you forever."

He paused for a moment and looked down. He then looked up and directly into her eyes, "Will you marry me?"

Donive looked at him calmly, then smiled, and a tear slowly rolled down her left cheek. "Yes, I will marry you."

Chapter 6

The day of the wedding had finally arrived. Donive was breathtaking. She wore a long, white, beautiful dress. Her long, strawberry-blonde hair was styled into an intricate series of braids dazzling to behold. There were many people gathered at the temple where the wedding was taking place. All the nobility was there. She had a huge smile on her face and had had one on nearly all morning because, quite simply, this was the happiest day of her life. A single gold earring hung neatly in each ear, sparkling, catching the beams of light that shot through the windows on this sunny fall day. A pearl necklace descended to just right above her bosom. Large pillars stood throughout the temple looking like well-trained guards. Rows of long marble benches covered with satin cushions seated the numerous guests attending the wedding.

The priest, Kipsin, began to speak: "Donive, daughter of Patsrona and Fritzer of Gindelson, do you agree to love forever, to care for, and to never forsake Pitkins?"

"I do," she replied.

"Sir Fritzer, father of Donive, and Patsrona, mother of Donive, do you in any way object to Donive so dedicating herself to this man?"

"We do not."

"Sir Pitkins, man of our magical forests, do you likewise agree to love forever, to protect, to care for, and to never forsake Donive, daughter of Patsrona and Fritzer of Gindelson?"

"I do," he answered, smiling.

"Then I pronounce you two man and wife."

Everyone cheered as Donive and Pitkins locked in a passionate embrace and kissed. After the wedding ceremony, to which only the nobility were invited, everyone joined in on what was one of the biggest celebrations Sodorf had ever seen. The next day, the nobility were summoned to a meeting to discuss some changes Fritzer had in mind for Sodorf.

Chapter 7

"So," Fritzer said, addressing the body of nobles, who were seated in a large rectangular formation, "are we in agreement on the issue of military training and rearmament?"

Freidor stood up. "Rearming could be a good idea. The recent events have demonstrated that we Sodorfians have grown soft. We no longer possess the martial spirit nor the martial talent that we had many years ago. But my concern is that rearmament could have the opposite of its intended effect: It could motivate the Dachwaldians to also begin rearming. For centuries, we have lived in peace. There hasn't been so much as a skirmish between our two peoples since the Seven Years War. King Duchenwald is a peaceful man, and the evidence gathered by our spies suggests the Dachwaldians have no interest in war and represent no threat. No doubt the Dachwaldians are also watching us, and they probably see ample evidence that we do not have bad intentions towards them. Rearmament could result in a precarious peace that could turn into war at the slightest offense, real or imagined. I support a mild rearmament. Perhaps all nobles should be required to spend several hours a day dedicated to the arts of the sword and archery. That way, next time we're attacked by a large creature, we'll be able to defend ourselves. But I do not support any increase in our standing army, although perhaps our reserves could be increased by a small percentage. Remember, any rearmament is going to cost money, and we must first make sure that any such increase in spending is justified by need. That is all."

Freidor sat down. For the next several hours, many of the nobles spoke. Some took a more militant stance, others a softer one.

Chapter 8

Pitkins and Donive were in Seihdun, a beautiful town in the northernmost area of Sodorf. They had a private mansion to themselves, and it was the perfect location for a couple of lovers to find both comfort and seclusion. Stepping outside of the spacious bedroom, one had an excellent view of the large, jagged mountains towards the north. Outside, a large, steaming pool of water offered relaxation, a fence surrounding it tall enough to allow privacy, yet short enough to not block the beautiful scenery surrounding this rustic locale. Neither Pitkins nor Donive had ever been so happy in all of their lives. They both felt like they had died and gone to Cixore.

Pitkins kissed Donive on her lips as they lay in bed, as happy as one would expect two lovers to be.

"Let's go to the hot springs," he said, his eyes playfully scanning her body.

"Sure," she said. She giggled.

As they were going down the stairs, Pitkins saw something move . . . at least thought he did. Grabbing Donive gently but firmly by the back of her neck he whispered, "Get down," into her ear.

She looked at him. This was no joke.

He went back up the stairs. He grabbed his sword and a small dagger and returned.

"Just in case," he said, handing her the dagger with a grin, trying his best not to let his very real concern show in his tone.

Suddenly, Pitkins felt the slash of a sword against his back.

Pain. Big, oozing gobs of it. It shot back and forth across his back like an insane arrow caught in a perpetual ricochet. He could already feel the blood trickling down his back. Then, just as suddenly as the bleeding had started, it seemed to . . . stop? Perplexed, but no time to stop and think about it. He looked over his right shoulder and saw the black-cloaked figure prepare to slash him again. The attacker's eyes were wild like a wolf's. Pitkins quickly stepped forward with his left leg and kicked hard with his right foot.

WHOOSH!!! He could hear the air rushing out of the attacker's lungs like air leaving a balloon that's just been untied by a playful child. His sword dropped lifelessly to the ground like a branch from a rotting tree. Clank.

"Uhhh . . . hh . . . uhh," was all the attacker could utter as his deflated lungs tried desperately to once again bring air into their owner's body. He reached down to pick up his sword once again.

BAMM!!! Pitkins jumped into the air and crashed his knee into the attacker's face, snapping his nose like a fortune cookie. The man doubled over, grabbing his nose in pain with both hands.

Pitkins grabbed the attacker's head by the jawbone with both hands, pulled him forward, turned his back to the attacker while rotating the attacker's head upward facing the ceiling, rested his neck over the back of his shoulder, squatted, then shot upwards while pulling down hard on the attacker's head.

"Say HI to everyone in hell for me!"

CRACK!!! Vertebrae shattered like an icicle fallen onto a stone surface. Pitkins removed the black-cloaked figure's mask. The man was blonde, handsome, and quite dead.

"Donive," Pitkins said, "Check my back. I felt a slash, and for a split second I swear I felt blood trickling down it, but suddenly it stopped. I've been cut before, and no wound scabs that quickly."

Donive examined the area. His shirt had definitely been cut through. Lifting it, she saw dried blood, but, no open wound, not even a scab. What she saw looked like a . . . welt. Like a mark left by a whip, not a sword. She looked at Pitkins and shrugged her shoulders. "There's no bleeding."

Over the next several days what had started out as romantic bliss began to turn into a nightmare. The welt became increasingly swollen, looking as if an exponentially expanding worm was inside it, gaining strength perhaps while eating Pitkins's flesh. Donive was disturbed by the nightmares that were obviously plaguing Pitkins every night. Pitkins tried hard to keep their spirits high, but everyday he seemed worse. His eyes were bloodshot; he suffered from headaches. Pounding ones that felt like two knights were duking it out with maces inside his head. By the third day, things were so bad that Donive decided they had to leave. They would return to Sodorf and seek a doctor to examine the strange wound. If need be, they might even seek a master of Feiglushen, such as Kipsin, to see if perhaps Pitkins had been attacked with some sort of poison.

(but it couldn't be that; surely not)

On horseback, it was a three-day ride to the City of Sodorf.

(dear Saixen, please protect him; PLEASE!)

The first night they stayed at an inn in a small town called Seisphen. Pitkins and Donive went to sleep. But Pitkins was not sleeping comfortably. His welt was continuing to swell—it was larger now than ever. The worm was now a garter snake, pulsating in cadence with the beat of his own galloping heart. Sweat pouring from glands all over his body. His pants and shirt soaked. He had a fever higher than most of the surrounding mountains. He tossed and turned. Donive was asleep, exhausted from the long ride on horseback.

Pitkins talking in his sleep. "No! No! Nooooo!" he kept repeating. He could see an aerial view of the provinces of Sodorf, and he was traveling north. A face flashing intermittently. The face of a tall, old man. Then he saw the man's body. He stood over six feet tall. A pair of pince-nez perched on top of his long, crooked nose. His hair was silver, long, and curled towards the ends like a scorpion's tail. Suddenly, the eyes behind these funny-looking glasses turned dark red like bottomless pools of blood.

"Pitkins," the face said in a low, ominous voice.

"Yes?"

The eyes continued to glow red, but inside his eyes there began to emerge a swirling, spinning pattern; he felt himself being drawn.

"Come to me," the voice said.

"Where are you?"

"North, far north. I will show you the way."

"But what do you want of me?" Pitkins asked.

Then the face disappeared. He was flying. Flying high above the tallest trees of Sodorf, the tops of which looked like shrub bushes from this height.

(I'll die if I fall)

It was nighttime, but the moon was full, and he could see the mountains, valleys, and streams. Suddenly, his vision became telescopic. He could see things happening down on the ground far, far below him. Predatory animals lurking about, seeking an easy kill. Wolves prowling the meadow; their howls sent a chill down his spine like a vibrating tremor along a long piece of steel. Snakes slithering around in the darkness. An anacobra killing a bear. The bear slashed at the anacobra with its claws as the snake's coils worked their way around the ambushed bear like ropes of death and did manage to cause some damage to the dreadful snake, but then the snake sank its fangs into the bear, and the bear began losing its strength from the poison, while the snake continued tightening its coils around the bear's body, squeezing the life right out of it.

Falling. He could no longer fly; he was headed right towards a pack of wolves he had seen just a moment ago following the tracks of a pregnant doe. He hit the ground with a thud. The wolves eyed him bloodthirstily. They were hungry. They had not been successful in their hunt and were desperate for flesh. Animal flesh was what they had been looking for, but human flesh would do. It would do just fine. Pitkins reached for his sword. Gone. He reached for the dagger he kept in his boot. Gone. He didn't have any boots. Nor a shirt. He was completely naked other than his undergarments; he had no weapons. The wolves began forming a circle around him.

(what a way to go down)

He got into a fighting stance, prepared to take out with his bare hands as many wolves as he possibly could, but then a sharp pain went shooting through his back. The welt was swelling now. It wasn't really a garter snake. It was an anacobra. And it was growing. Waves of pain went shooting through his back like randomly thrown darts. Suddenly, he saw the old man's face again.

"You should not question me, but simply OBEY me," he heard the voice say.

As he heard the word "OBEY" being uttered, he felt the swelling in his back wound increase drastically, as if the voice itself had some sort of remote control over it. Pitkins felt all of his energy draining like water out of a punctured canteen as the pain became more and more unbearable. And as his energy ebbed away, his courage also began to forsake him.

"COME to me, and your pain shall cease."

Now everything was switching back and forth between the wolves and the face of the old man, in slow motion. The wolves began to simultaneously charge him, their movements intermittent with the appearance of the ghastly face of this old man. Deafening silence. Time stopped following its conventional rules. It was stopping and starting jerkily like a heavy load of wood being pulled uphill by a team of oxen. His wound continued swelling. He had suffered wounds before, but this was unlike anything he had ever suffered. The pain consumed his very soul.

"AGHHH!!" he screamed, breaking away from his usual stoicism. "Tell me what I have to do!" he screamed, surrendering himself to forces he had never felt before, forces that made him feel like an ant trying to resist a swirling whirlpool in a violent sea. The wolves were gone.

"Wake up," the voice said, "and go to your window."

He awoke. His back was killing him. He reached his hand behind him, and he could tell that the wound had enlarged greatly.

(soon it'll be a full-sized anacobra)

Suddenly, he saw the face of the old man again.

"Go towards the window," the voice said.

He turned and looked at Donive. She was sleeping, but tossing and turning restlessly. The pain shot through his back again; he had never before thought death such a better alternative to living.

"Come towards the window," said the voice again.

It was impatient, authoritarian. He looked out the window. The moon was full, just like in his dream. A whirring sound. Total blackness.

Chapter 9

Donive awoke. It was morning. "Dear," she said, rolling to her side to hug Pitkins. "How are you fee—?" She stood up terrified. There was an imprint next to her in the bed where Pitkins had been lying, nothing more. It was soaking wet; she could tell by the smell it was sweat. She saw more than dampness. A vile, pussy substance lay on the bed like juice from a rotten pineapple.

(from his wound?)

She noticed the window was open and it was a beautiful day. However, its beauty didn't offset the nauseating surge of sadness, fear, and confusion that swept over her like an enveloping ocean wave.

(he wouldn't have just left me)

She didn't know why he had been attacked at Seihdun, nor did she know who was the target.

(was it I, he . . . both of us? who was he? who paid him? had anyone paid him? was it due to a grudge? perhaps someone jealous of Pitkins's recent knighting? Batsin and Gunder sure were jealous . . . I'll kill them if I find out they had anything to do with this! just KILL them!!!)

She saw Pitkins' large sword lying on the ground, fully sheathed.

(he would never leave his sword)

She went outside the inn. No sign of Pitkins. Fear bit into her stomach like a wild dog and began gnawing. She wanted to go home. If she took the route by which she and Pitkins had come, it would take two more days to get back.

(there is a quicker way)

There was. A shortcut. It would take about one full day on horseback. But it was dangerous. It was not the kind of route one or even two men would prefer to travel alone.

(and you, a woman . . . alone?!)

But she had to . . . if she was going to get help to find Pitkins while there was still time.

(if you plan on making it back to Sodorf by nighttime, you better leave now!)

It would be evening by the time she arrived if she left now. If she delayed longer, she would have to ride through the night alone on horseback. She didn't want that. With Pitkins at her side—five-foot-long, razor-sharp sword at the ready—it wouldn't have bothered her. But Pitkins was . . .

(gone?)

As these thoughts were working their way through her head like frantic, burrowing earthworms, she noticed a man staring right at her. Unfriendly eyes. Looking at her like a cut of choice meat. He was a distance away, but his unswerving gaze made it seem he was right in front of her. He smiled. Yellow, crooked teeth greeted her.

She couldn't stay here any longer. She was no good to Pitkins dead, and there wasn't anything she could do for him right here, right now. She had to get help. She looked back towards where the ugly man had been standing. To her relief, he was no longer there. She bent over to tie her boots to ready herself for the long ride ahead. When she stood up, there he was. What was ugly at a distance was the stuff of nightmares up close.

"Evening, miss," he said. His yellow, crooked teeth on display, looking like pieces of scattered, hardened corn left out in the open sun. "You seem kinda lost. Is there anything I could 'elp ya with?"

His eyes showed he had no intention of offering any kind of help she might be interested in.

"Mister, I suggest you mind your own business and that you go about minding it right now!" she replied.

He looked stunned. Who did this woman think she was anyway, talking to him like that?

She suddenly felt the spirit of a lioness. Fortunately, for her, the man had even less brains than teeth, and she was on her horse before he had fully registered the meaning of her words.

"Hey, you," he said angrily. "I ain't done talkin' to you just yet!" He grinned.

His grin added a disgust-flavored nausea to the fear flavor her stomach had been grappling with. Feeling like someone else was inside her body, she witnessed her right foot lash out like a rattlesnake right into his face, unsure if she had given it that command or if someone else was temporarily taking control of her body to make sure it did what it had to do to stay alive. The man howled in pain and fury. And then lunged for her.

"Giddyup!" she screamed and felt her feet dig into the horse's sides hard. The horse reared, almost bucking her, and then bolted off like a cheetah with its hindquarters on fire. Adrenaline was making her vision blurry, but she saw the man's lunge fall short as he landed in a giant mud puddle.

"Damn youuuuuu!!" it sounded like he said.

She rode hard all day, stopping only occasionally to give the horse a drink. Each time, she kept a tight grip on the dagger Pitkins had given her.

(just in case)

She brushed a few tears away from her cheeks as she thought about the bliss they enjoyed a short time ago. They'd made love like two dolphins in calm seas.

(there's no point despairing yet, Pitkins is still alive, just need to get help, just need to find Father; everything will be okay; there's an explanation for all this; soon we'll be telling jokes about this and laughing so hard we'll pee!)

Wolves howling. Her blood ran cold in her veins like the glacier streams of the surrounding mountains.

(those aren't really eyes looking at me, those aren't really eyes looking at me; stop imagining things!)

She dug her heels in hard to the horse, although it might not have been necessary. It had smelled the wolves before they howled and had already picked up the pace. It was galloping full speed.

Her father's house in the distance. Its sight made her feel like a sailor who's spotted a lighthouse on a stormy night. Eight o' clock. Nighttime descending quickly like a dark blanket over the City of Sodorf. As Donive approached her father's house she noticed the scarecrow tree towering over the surrounding trees way off in the distance. Tears stung her eyes.

Such a short time ago,

(Saixen, that was only weeks ago!)

but it seemed like ages had passed since that first day she met him. She had been attracted at first sight, and love didn't take too long join the party. His soft brown eyes captivated her mind, body, and soul as a bright yellow flower draws a honey bee into its cavernous interior. And she remembered the snake.

(how gallantly he fought against that beast!)

Her heart weighed heavily as she thought of the happy times they shared only a short while ago. He was gone now, and it didn't make sense. Nothing made sense . . . .

(if strong-arm kidnappers had come, why didn't you wake up? if not kidnappers, then . . . who . . . or . . . what? did he walk away on his own? could he have been tricked? no, he wasn't stupid, . . . besides, if someone persuaded him to leave the room, he would have woken you up first . . . wouldn't he have? sure, if that's what you want to hear.)

She was at her father's door.

"FATHER, FATHER . . . FATHER!!" She banged on the door. All was quiet for a moment, and for a split-second she was afraid she had been robbed of everyone she loved, leaving her to fend for herself in a mean, cruel world.

(perhaps the nice gentleman you kicked right in the mouth will open the door! you'll have plenty to discuss he's probably made dinner for you and)

Then, suddenly, the door burst open. Fritzer stood there sword in hand, sleepy-eyed, but with an aura of alertness about him, his hair sticking up and out and every which way like a jumble of ropes thrown together into a careless pile. Fritzer looked at Donive: something horrible had happened. She had tears running down her face like rivers and was shaking.

"Holy Saixen," he uttered in a whisper. "My dear Donive, what in the world has happened? Where's Pitkins? Quick, quick, come inside."

Donive told him the whole story.

"We'll assemble a search party first thing, tomorrow, my dear, and we'll find him. We will also find the murderous thugs responsible for his . . . kidnapping

(that rascal better not have run off!)

and hang them from the tallest gallows!"

(was my first impression of Pitkins right? did his display of sword know-how weaken my judgment?)

"But, Father, don't you think we should go tonight? If we wait until tomorrow it may be too late!"

"My dear, it's too dangerous for us to travel the road from Sodorf to Seisphen at night, even with a band of armed men. We would likely perish before we ever even made it to Seisphen. I understand your desire to act quickly—act quickly we shall—but it must wait until tomorrow. We will leave early—two or three hours before daybreak, in fact. Tonight, I shall go and gather men to accompany us on this journey tomorrow."

(I give my daughter in marriage to a nobody, and he leaves her to fend for herself in the middle of nowhere?!!)

But this was the anger in his head. His anger was at war with confusion because his initial impression of Pitkins was he was a shameless social climber.

(what sense would it make for him to acquire knighthood and the most beautiful woman in all of Sodorf and then leave it all?)

His head hurt just trying to process it.

Donive was disappointed they could not leave that night, but part of her knew her father was right. Fatigue was beginning to gain the upper hand in its battle against adrenaline.

"Now, my dear, you must rest."

"Yes, Father—I'll need to be well rested for the journey tomorrow."

"No! It's far too dangerous for you to come. It will be better for you to stay here."

"But, Father, I must come; how are you going to find him without my help . . . how will you even know where to look? I need to show you where we stayed."

He frowned. Then, a reluctant grin formed across his face.

"It would be difficult to conduct much of a serious search without knowing where you stayed. You'll come. But now you must rest."

Patsrona did her best to comfort her saddened, exhausted daughter. For the first time in what seemed like centuries Donive felt a glimmer of hope.

(perhaps tomorrow we'll find him, and everything can go back to the way it was before . . . perhaps)

With these mildly self-assuring thoughts Donive lay down onto her large bed in her old room. She thought it strange such a short time after her wedding finding herself back there. She had expected to spend the rest of her life going to bed with Pitkins in their bed in their house. But before she could ponder this irony further, she drifted off into a deep sleep. A dreamless sleep. No glaring eyes of wolves or yellow-toothed men with questionable motives for wanting to help her. Just sleep.

Fritzer went to the barn and got on his horse. He rode it down the dirt road that went alongside his large fields of grain. He had a sword attached to his belt in a long, gold-covered sheathe. When he finally got to the temple, he rang the bell. It was the size of a small house and was located inside a chamber designed specially to maximize its sound.

DONG . . . DONG . . . DONG . . . it echoed loudly and methodically like a giant sergeant bellowing out orders. After a brief while the nobles began stirring in their beds, wishing the fulminating sound they were hearing was part of a dream, not something that was going to require them to part company with their beds. But there was no denying what the sound was. Most of the Sodorfian nobles lived mere miles from the temple, and many lived even closer.

After Fritzer had rung the large bell for about three minutes, he stopped, slightly winded. He felt horrible for his daughter but didn't know quite what to think. The whole story was so strange. Just days earlier Pitkins had given an inspiring display of martial talent—had nearly seemed invincible—and now he had been whisked off so quickly and silently Donive didn't even wake up? How much of the story was true? Donive was no liar, but perhaps she suffered a certain amount of trauma seeing the bloody fight between Pitkins and the assassin and had also not quite gotten over her close call with the anacobra.

(her imagination could be in overdrive)

As he mulled over the strange recent events, the nobles began trickling into the temple one by one. He convinced twenty-six nobles to go with him the next day.

Five hours later, the nobles arrived. They brought swords, helmets, breastplates, and had even armored their horses. Each had a long sword, as well as a quiver packed with about a hundred arrows. The arrow tips were razor sharp, and their edges glistened as they caught the rays of sun just starting to shoot across the eastern horizon. Their helmets had a mask that could be raised to allow a wider range of vision or pulled down to protect the face.

The men mounted up after a quick breakfast served by Patsrona. Fritzer insisted Donive wear armor and bring a sword and a bow and arrow. He didn't fancy women in combat, but he had no choice but to bring her along, and he would rather have her violate Sodorfian gender norms than be defenseless against their unknown adversaries. He didn't want to lose Donive, as well as the son-in-law he had possibly lost already.

(Pitkins better not have abandoned her)

They headed towards Seisphen via the shortcut Donive had taken.

Upon arriving in Seisphen, the nobles took care not to let their hands stray too far from their swords. They attracted quite a bit of attention. "So here they are—the nobility of Sodorf," the townspeople muttered amongst themselves. The man who had accosted Donive the day before nearly soiled himself at the sight of the heavily armored warriors. He felt sure they were coming for him and went sprinting off into the forest.

Muddy streets. A cool day, but not cold. The sun still shining in the gorgeous sky, but beginning to turn orange, losing some of its midday radiance.

When they approached the innkeeper and requested to search the room Donive and Pitkins had stayed in, he took one look at the razor-sharp swords the men held and was quite accommodating. Donive led them to the room. The sheets had been changed, but Donive wasn't sure if they would have offered any useful clues anyway. They searched the room for signs of foul play. Nothing.

"Pitkins' sword!" Donive said. "It should still be here. It was here when I woke up yesterday morning, but I left so quickly I forgot it."

Fritzer's eyes turned towards the innkeeper.

He gulped nervously. "I swear . . . there was no sword when I cleaned the room yesterday, just the foulest, most disgusting sheets I've ever seen since I opened this place!"

He gulped nervously, perhaps only in that moment realizing that the wrong word or tone at a time like this could sever his head from his neck.

"Please," he said, his voice becoming accommodating, "search my office. Search my home. I have nothing to hide. There was no sword here."

"Search his home and office!" Fritzer shouted. But his gut told him the man was telling the truth. Deisun and around fourteen other nobles accompanied the innkeeper as he took them to his office.

"Let's question the townspeople," said Donive.

They spent over an hour going around the town, asking questions. They stopped in butcher shops, barber shops, inns, taverns, the constable's office, many of the residents' homes, even the town brothel. Nothing. Donive was losing hope.

(you really think he was KIDNAPPED? of course I do he wouldn't just leave on his own there is some explanation there is SOME explanation)

Deisun motioned to Fritzer to come and have a word in private with him.

"Sir, I'm very sorry for your daughter, and for you as well. This is going to be hard for Donive to accept, but we may as well admit Pitkins is likely gone for good. We searched the innkeeper's home and office top to bottom. We turned both places inside out. There's no sword there, and he wouldn't have expected an armed search party this quickly, if at all. I think we would have caught him redhanded if he had taken it."

Fritzer looked at him unflinchingly.

"Sir, with all due respect, it is possible that . . . it is possible that . . . . Pitkins simply got up and left Donive!"

A flash of anger shot across Fritzer's eyes. He had to resist the urge to strike Deisun right across the face. Deisun sensed perhaps he had spoken unwisely.

"Sir, forgive that remark; it wasn't meant to offend you. But either Pitkins left Donive, or his disappearance is beyond explanation. How could anyone get someone who can handle a sword like Pitkins out of a room by force without even waking up Donive? It's time we abandon this search. I'm sorry, Fritzer; we've reached a dead end."

Fritzer paused a moment to absorb these words. They were painful to digest.

(the truth often is)

"Perhaps the serpent was an omen, Deisun. There hasn't been an anacobra reported outside of the deep forests in centuries. For it to suddenly appear . . . it is strange. We all thought Pitkins was an arrogant social climber. Does a social climber get knighted, marry the most beautiful woman in all of Sodorf, and then abandon it all? It makes no sense."

Fritzer paused. "Do you think witchcraft could be at work here?"

"With all due respect, Fritzer, you're grasping at straws. You're talking fantasy. Witchcraft is nothing but mumbo jumbo—myths and legends. No educated man believes in it. That's from a bygone era."

Fritzer blushed. "Deisun, between you and me, the odds of finding Pitkins or even finding out what has become of him probably aren't good; however, for the sake of my daughter, can we take the men, while we still have a search party assembled, to Seihdun. If we discover nothing there, I promise you, we shall return back to the capital."

"Agreed," Deisun said.

Fritzer approached the group. "Men," "it's time we rest. Tomorrow, we go to the Seihdun."

The next day Fritzer asked the constable of Seihdun for permission to see the body of the would-be assassin.

"Sir," the constable said, "I don't doubt there was an assailant. There was plenty of evidence of a struggle in the house. We even discovered which window of the house the assailant broke in through. Unfortunately, we don't have the body. Someone must've come and removed it—why, I don't know, but someone did it. There was no body when me and my deputies arrived at the house. Perhaps this fella was part of an organized gang, and they thought it best to remove the evidence."

"Thanks for your time," said Fritzer.

"Not a problem," replied the constable; "if I find out anything else, I'll let you know."

Fritzer turned and addressed Donive and the group of men gathered before him: "You're all very brave, and we certainly won't give up hope. But, at this time, as leader of this expedition, it is my judgment that we must retire to the capital. There isn't any evidence here that is going to help us find Pitkins. Further searching would be simply futile."

Having spoken these words, Fritzer walked down towards Donive, who was a sobbing wreck now and took her into his arms. She tried to utter something, but the tears stole her voice.

(you'll never see him again; you'll NEVER SEE HIM AGAIN)

Chapter 10

Pitkins could feel the wind blowing hard against his face.

(is this dream ever going to end?)

He was flying again. Aching, throbbing pain in his back. He wished the wound would just explode and send his innards flying out into the night sky like fireworks. Anything to end this pain. Disoriented. He remembered dreaming, and he remembered waking up and getting out of bed . . . .

(did I really wake up at all?)

He didn't remember going back to bed, but he must have because here he was dreaming yet again about flying high above the trees in the northern region of Sodorf. Then, he realized suddenly, as he came to, that he wasn't dreaming. But yet he wasn't flying either. He was being carried. He looked down, and he could see the large talons of a bird gripping his midsection.

WHOOSH . . . WHOOSH . . .WHOOSH. The flapping of the wings of a large bird.

(the bird must have grabbed me from the window)

Suddenly, one of the bird's talons severed the swelling wound on his back. Smushhh.

"AGGHHHH!!!!" He wished for death. Anything would be better. The pus that had been building up inside the wound oozed out like water from a punctured balloon, spilling all over his body and legs, covering them with a sticky goo. A few brief flashes of pain made him feel like his whole body was being struck by boulders falling down the side of a tall cliff. Then, the worst part of the pain was gone. What was left was a burning sensation like when a sticky bandage is quickly yanked off. The wound in his back was raw and exposed.

"I'm taking you to Master," said the bird.

Pitkins had heard of animals that could talk, but this was his first encounter. However, given the circumstances, he had too many things on his mind to be thrilled. His primary concerns were the pain in his back and escape. But he was in too bad a shape to attempt escape, and the hundreds of empty feet below prevented escape better than the strongest jail cell ever could.

In the distance, he could see a cliff wall that they were approaching fast. The moon was full, and its silver glow lightly illuminated the valley like a powerful, yet soft, lamplight. However, as they neared the cliff, this put them at an angle where he could barely see the moon, and everything became nearly pitch black. Suddenly the bird swooped down lower. He was done for. This insane beast, this kidnapper, this clawed fiend, was going to throw him right against the cliff wall. His innards would make a nice paste to mix with his bones, which would be ground to powder, and he would make a nice stain on the cliff wall that maybe would attract vultures for a few days, but after that, nothing, no more Pitkins.

The cliff wall got closer . . . and closer . . . and closer still. Now he could see fine details of the cliff wall. Subtle color differentiations on its mostly gray rocks. A few small plants growing.

Now the cliff wall was so close he could see the small, individual bumps on each of the rocks. He was mere feet away. This was it. Time for the afterlife. Pitkins closed his eyes.

But he continued to feel air rushing against his face, although it had a slightly mustier feel to it. Somehow, the cliff wall had receded, letting him in like a mouth opening up for its meal. He saw nothing but pitch blackness and knew the bird must have somehow entered into a cave in the cliff wall.

Wind rushing against his face. Flapping of the wings of the large bird. Burning pain in his back. He figured even if he didn't perish from a collision with hard stone, the pain from his wound would soon do the job.

Suddenly, he noticed the large bird was slowing down. The wings started flapping slower . . . then slower still . . . and then stopped flapping altogether. The bird was gliding. He felt himself set down onto a cold, rough, hard stone surface. He could hear the bird's wings flapping again as it flew off into the distance, the sound thereof growing fainter and fainter. Blackness. All around him, pitch blackness. He saw nothing.

Then, he felt a pair of hands grabbing him. He was too weak to offer any resistance; plus, the hands did not seem overly threatening. Perhaps the bird had delivered him to a doctor. The hands forced him into a sitting position.

"Drink," a low, guttural voice commanded him. He drank. It was a thick, steamy substance. It tasted bad, but not horrible. At least it didn't nauseate him. "Now, sleep," the guttural voice said. Pitkins was asleep before the sentence was completed. And a deep sleep it was.

Chapter 11

"So much for that 'hero' Pitkins," Bundor said, his side heaving with laughter as he chatted in a local tavern with a small group of nobles. The rumor was out and strong: Pitkins had abandoned Donive.

"I was suspicious of that young upstart from the get-go," Bundor continued; "never trust a man that's not of noble blood. That's what I said. But no one listened to me. They were too impressed by one lucky performance at the right place at the right time with a sharp sword. Pitkins took advantage and attacked the snake while a group of nobles were distracting it, hahahaaaa. But yet . . . he gets all the credit! At most, Pitkins might make a good bodyguard, a strongman to guard your farm at night. Other than that, he's as useful as a fiddle in a battle. Just a cheap thug who knows a few tricks with a sword. Fritzer has really made a fool out of himself this time—letting a sword smith marry his daughter! Hahahaha. And that bumpkin left her in the the middle of nowhere—Fritzer believing her wild story about an assassin and a strange disappearance. Hehehehehe. Let me tell you, I wasn't going to go in that so-called SEARCH party!! Hahahahaaa. If I were Fritzer, I would send a search party after him all right: and I'd throw a party when I caught and hanged that rascal!"

The nobles at the table laughed hysterically, each chugging their glass of ale like it might be their last. But for some, perhaps most, of the nobles, this laughter was false. They had believed Pitkins to be an ambitious social climber. Why would he, after becoming knighted and marrying the most beautiful woman in all of Sodorf, then suddenly leave it all behind? Sure, it was enjoyable to pretend he left her because he was nothing but a low-down, rotten rascal and that is what rascals do, but did it make sense? But their rumor mill had rather successfully spread as fact the idea that Pitkins abandoned Donive. That way, the "hero" who had become knighted was a hero no more, and the peasantry would not get any ideas of their own in terms of social climbing. Pitkins' abandonment of Donive had proven that his knighthood was a mistake, an act committed in the heat of the moment.

The nobles realized that if Pitkins didn't abandon Donive intentionally, then whatever forced him to abandon her must be something powerful. Something sinister. Something they wouldn't stand a chance against. If someone . . . or something had taken or killed Pitkins by force, they realized they had better hope it wanted Pitkins and only Pitkins. But they were too embarrassed by Pitkins' having outdone them publicly to want to embarrass themselves further by admitting they were afraid that whatever was behind Pitkins' disappearance might not be finished. Not quite yet.

Most of them were relieved Pitkins was gone. He had been a source of unending embarrassment to them. His sudden departure seemed almost too good to be true. They were nervous about allowing themselves to celebrate too soon but were doing so nonetheless. In addition to fearing whatever it was that might have taken him, they also feared he might come back. Then, his steely eyes and steel sword would seek vengeance for their slanderous words. As a knight, he would have the right to challenge any of them to a duel for the words they were saying. None of them wanted that to happen. They sought to quench this fear with ale and false laughter.

They all knew this, but few of them dared breathe a word of it. A sense of palpable but unspoken dread had permeated the ranks of the nobility.

Chapter 12

Ssssshhhhk. Ssssshhhhk. Feiklen had a long sword in his hand. It was straight, double-edged, and sharp enough to shave with. But a sword could always be sharper.

"It was a success," Tristan said in his usual guttural tone.

Feiklen jumped to his feet excitedly: "You mean—?!"

"Yes."

"Then we must begin immediately; it's time to go to war!!"

"Not quite yet, Feiklen; not quite yet. Dachwald is in no condition to wage war, weak as Sodorf may indeed be. This country has lost all its fighting spirit. If we try to wage war now, we might even find ourselves fighting the Sodorfians and our fellow Dachwaldians at the same time. The country doesn't want war right now. That will have to change. You must brace yourself for the reality of what it might take to prepare the hearts and minds of our fellow Dachwaldians to want to fight."

"What do you propose then?"

Tristan smiled.

Chapter 13

As Tristan exited Feiklen's training camp, he got onto the back of a large pholung with a wingspan of about seventeen feet.

"Where to, master?" it asked.

He instructed the pholung to take him back to his lair, high on the side of the cliff. He entered his lair and began thinking about what would be the best formula to effect his desired ends. He searched. Then he searched some more.

(you need something powerful . . . nothing ordinary)

He leafed through page after page of his largest books on Glisphin. He came across many candidates—fleikshen, gindor, epskhahn, and eftmugen, among others—but none of these had quite all of the ingredients he was looking for. He wanted something powerful that could travel through the air and dissolve into finer and finer particles but without completely dissolving or losing its poisonous effects. Wundwiehr, for example, was a fine powder nearly lighter than air and could be continuously blown through the air for great lengths of time disintegrating into smaller and smaller poisonous particles. The problem was it would be too much like using a battle axe to kill a housefly. It would kill every living plant it came in contact with except for the largest trees. No, he needed something more precise, something that would only kill the desired plants. He had to do more research. He picked up a large sack to take with him, and as he picked up the large sack Koksun sprang out.

"REEAAARR!!" the cat screamed at him.

He impatiently extended his hand forward and, without touching the cat, picked it up in the air.

"Do you think NOW is the time to play games with me?!" Tristan roared at his feline companion. "The ANSWER IS NO!!" And with that said he flung the cat to the side of the room where it crashed into a large stack of books.

Tristan pulled out a long whistle. The words carved on its side were from an ancient tongue, a language unspoken for over five thousand years in Dachwald, although some of his books were written in this language. He blew loudly on the whistle. The frequency of the sound was so high only certain animals could hear it, but to those that could it was ear-splitting. Moments later a large pholung came, ready to do its master's bidding. Tristan got on the back of the winged beast and set off through the night. He had the pholung set him down multiple times throughout the journey so he could collect plants from each of the many farms throughout the southern regions of Dachwald. He collected samples of corn, sweet potatoes, cauliflower, grain, grapes, strawberries, apples, and others and inserted the samples into the large bag Koksun had been hiding in earlier. When he had finished collecting samples of the things he wanted to destroy, he went and took samples of things he didn't want to destroy: grass, certain types of vines and small trees, bushes. Plants that didn't produce food and would never be the logical target of an enemy, thief, or vandal. Then he got back on top of his pholung and went back to his cave.

There, he conducted experiment upon experiment. Opened one Glisphin book after another. Concocted potions, took small samples of each of the larger samples he had in his bag. He used a pit for such experiments, and he threw small pieces of each sample inside and tried different poisonous powders on them. Unfortunately, the poisons didn't kill selectively, but instead killed all the plants inside the pit. A few times he thought he had finally solved the riddle. Poxor mostly killed the desired plants, but even it killed some of the ones he did not wish to kill. He sighed aloud. He worked on through the night, the next day and night, the following day and night. Two weeks later, his frustration was starting to reach unbearable heights . . . but then, finally, he had it. He found his answer on page 24,652 of Advanced Botanical Glisphin: Poisons. The recipe, however, required the venom of a pregnant anacobra.

Tristan groaned. He preferred to not have to tangle with anacobras unless absolutely necessary, especially pregnant ones. Anacobras in general were unpleasant, but the sheer ferocity of pregnant anacobras was truly legendary. Pregnant anacobras were hard to sneak up on because they hardly ever slept. Their bloated, aching stomachs kept their tempers as foul as the putrid breath that emanated from their fanged jaws. Although by nature reclusive, pregnant anacobras often got together in groups of five or more for protection. His odds of being able to single out and kill a lone pregnant anacobra were not attractive.

He drank several foul-tasting potions of powerful herbs to counter the effects of as many as two or three anacobra bites, then grabbed a medium-sized sword, his staff, a potion that would enable him to see in total darkness for up to fifteen minutes, and some other potions with various uses. He grabbed his staff and focused. Channeling the forces around him, some of which were faintly visible to him but none of which would be to the less-trained eye, he slowly began to levitate then fly out of his lair.

It was a beautiful night. At least he thought so. Dark, but not pitch black. The mournful song of distant wolves rose hauntingly into the air like prayers being offered to some unknown god. Bats cut through the night air, their wings making loud noises that echoed throughout the canyon. After flying a few miles, he slowly lowered himself to the ground. His piercing vision sliced through the semi-darkness. He saw animals throughout the forest. Some were stalking; some were being stalked. His best chance for finding a pregnant anacobra would be in or near a cave. He knew of one not too far from this location and set out in that general direction. Suddenly, he sensed he was being followed. He smiled and turned around.

Northern wolves.

(Not surprising. Not surprising at all.)

He spotted the leader of the wolves without too much difficulty. It was larger than the others, who all seemed poised to follow its actions, like members of an orchestra waiting for their conductor to give the go-ahead. He looked the lead wolf right in the eyes. It was a killing machine, plain and simple. However, even this savage beast, this terror of the forest, noticed something unsettling as it looked into Tristan's cold blue eyes. It didn't see what it usually saw in a human's eyes. Usually, it saw fear, utter terror. These eyes, however, seemed like those of its own kind. Then the eyes became even more savage, and for a second even this killing machine began to have second thoughts about whether or not it had picked an appropriate target.

As this primal beast's brain pondered the issue, suddenly Tristan reached out his left hand and, although the wolf was about fifteen feet away, yanked it towards him, bringing it flying through the air at about fifty miles per hour. He simultaneously unsheathed his sword, stepped to the side, and cut the wolf's head off so cleanly he didn't even disrupt its path of flight. Sheer momentum kept the wolf's head and body together as they continued flying through the air, but as soon as they both landed on the ground they went their separate ways like two quarreling lovers after a harsh argument, never again to be reconciled. Whether from anger or pure animal instinct, the other wolves rushed forward. As two of the wolves jumped through the slightly moonlit night sky towards his throat, Tristan crouched slightly, and grabbed both of these incoming fur-and-teeth missiles behind the back of their necks and slammed them into each other causing them to bite each other's throat. Their eyes registered horror as they realized what they had just done. Blood dripped down onto Tristan's hair and face as he held these two fiends above his head for a brief moment.

Another wolf came rushing straight at him. He let the other two wolves, quickly bleeding to death, drop to the ground, and grabbed the incoming beast behind the back of its neck with his right hand while simultaneously swinging his own right leg back behind him, causing him to be facing the wolf's right side. He kneed the wolf hard right in the face, shattering most of its teeth like dry, brittle twigs, and then grabbed it by its hind legs and began spinning it around. This kept the other bloodthirsty wolves at a distance. In spite of the pain and frustration it was experiencing, the wolf couldn't help momentarily marveling at this interesting new perspective it had of the world as it was spun around and around like a tornado.

Ending the ride, Tristan threw it at another wolf. CRACKKK!!! Their skulls collided against each other like those of two musk oxen battling over mating privileges. This knocked one of the wolves unconscious, and while the other's head was turned to the side from the collision, Tristan pulled out a dagger and threw it right into the wolf's neck. Blood spurted out like water and steam from a geyser, and the wolf dropped like a rock.

Two wolves left.

They still had not entirely given up on the idea of him being their meal, but they were certainly having second thoughts. Tristan locked eyes with one of the wolves. Although moments before it looked savage and bold, its eyes were now struggling merely to meet his gaze. Suddenly, Tristan sprinted forward—not with the speed of a mere human, but with the speed and swiftness surpassing even that of a wolf—picked up the wolf with one hand and, while it was completely paralyzed with fear, began biting its neck savagely, like a hungry lion devouring an antelope. He then threw the wounded, bleeding heap of fur at the other wolf, which was now wetting itself. It sprinted off into the night, howling in a combination of fear and outrage at this horrifying upset of nature's laws. The other wolf limped behind, bleeding profusely. Tristan felt much better now. His head felt clearer than it had in weeks, and he was now wholly focused on his mission of getting the venom from the pregnant anacobra.

Tristan turned and began walking towards the cave, his speed hampered by the heavy underbrush. The cave in which he planned on searching for an anacobra was still a couple of miles away. In the distance, sounds of animals engaged in mortal combat, some killing, others being killed, echoed throughout the forest like the sick notes of some psychotic symphony. As he continued walking along, he came across a stream. The bed of the stream was solid stone, and with the reflection of the moonlight, it was a beautiful sight to behold. A couple miles south the stream turned into a large waterfall.

Tristan was now approaching the cave.

He crouched . . . and listened.

Nothing. You could have heard a mouse sneeze.

He closed his eyes. Concentrated. Smelled the night air. He was pretty sure he smelled an anacobra—at least one, maybe more. The smell was like that of wet fish. He went ahead and took a couple of swigs from the potion that would help him withstand up to several bites. It tasted horrible. He grimaced as it went down his throat. He squinted hard, trying to penetrate the unforgiving blackness of the cave's bowels.

He saw nothing.

(time to make some night vision)

He took out a bottle of kindror and tilted it vertically into his mouth. It tasted bad, but not as bad as the antivenom. He prepared to enter the cave.

(aren't you forgetting something?)

He was. His scent needed to be covered. Another swig. This substance was called sphinter, and it could neutralize just about the most powerful of scents. He almost always had a spare bottle on hand.

Moving forward.

(careful, it would be just like one of these sneaky fiends to be lying right next to the entrance inside the cave—coiled, smiling, waiting to give you a kiss of death right on the side of your neck)

Luckily, the kindror was starting to kick in. He could see inside the cave as though it were daytime and the sun shining. He inhaled deeply a few times through his nose, silently, sniffing for anacobras. He smelled the same wet-fish odor as before, but only slightly stronger now.

(should I go after the anacobras with magic or sword?)

Magic was slightly more reliable but took more energy, and if he used too much too soon, there was the danger he might be too enervated to fly to safety, if needed.

(don't want that to happen)

He continued looking ahead.

Nothing.

Then . . . all of a sudden . . . he felt a light, tickling sensation on the back of his neck, as if some joker were rubbing it with a long, damp dandelion.

Tristan was no fool. This was no dandelion.

Springing up like a kangaroo that's just sat on a colony of army ants, he quickly used his magic staff to hurtle himself up into the air and hover. Looking down, he saw not one, not two, but three anacobras, fat from pregnancy, down below him. He saw the strike of one of the anacobras hit where he had been standing about half a second ago.

(you're getting old, Tristan)

Unfortunately, for him, when he had shot up in the air, his kindror had fallen to the ground, and he knew he only had a few minutes of night vision left before he would be surrounded by total darkness. He stretched out his hand and used Glisphin to control the heads of one of the anacobras.

It was furious. It writhed violently, trying to free its head from the cataplexy that had overtaken the top of its body. Tristan was now perched on top of a ledge about twenty feet above them. One of the anacobras hissed irefully and began slithering towards him with all the speed that a legless creature can muster. He pulled forward hard on the head of the anacobra that he had been suspending in the air. It was glad to finally regain partial muscular control, and it was furious! It lunged forward hard, propelled both by its own energy and Tristan's pulling on it, and Tristan directed its outstretched fangs towards the back of the hooded neck of the snake that was slithering towards him to attack.

The anacobra sank its fangs hard into the other anacobra's neck like nails being driven through soft wood. Tristan knew this brief distraction was only going to afford him a few moments of safety at most. He jumped onto the back of the anacobra's body and slid down it like a kid on a slide at a playground. As he hit the ground he picked up his kindror and then shot himself back up into the air immediately, barely dodging the strike of the third anacobra. He did this right in the nick of time too, because as he shot up in the air everything turned pitch black.

Tristan was not one to easily lose his cool, but the sudden onset of darkness in this anacobra-filled room caused him to panic for a second. He had no idea of his surroundings at this point. He immediately tossed some of the awful-tasting liquid down his mouth with all the vigor of a drunk tipping back his last bottle of sour mash whiskey, and his night vision returned right as he just about smashed directly into the side of the cave. Not knowing just what might be behind him at this point, he decided it would be better not to remain stationary, so he quickly pushed off of the cave wall and flew across to the other end of the cave without even bothering to look.

It was a good thing too. As he pushed off of the cave wall and went flying in the other direction, he just barely dodged the strike of this third anacobra that was pursuing him relentlessly and furiously. He couldn't resist stealing a glance back at his previous handiwork, however. The bitten anacobra was writhing about in absolutely tortuous pain. The anacobra that had bitten it looked down strangely at it, perplexed, as if it did not know how exactly to respond to what it had just done—anacobras usually don't kill their own kind. The dying anacobra, amidst its writhing in agony, looked up angrily at the anacobra that had bitten it. It spit venom up at its murderer's eyes. The anacobra dodged the venom, a somewhat bewildered look still plastered on its face, as if it wished it could undo what it had done.

Tristan turned his attention back to the third anacobra. It was coming at him fast and with a vengeance. Tristan turned, focused hard, then shouted, "HIKSIN FIEHN FIENDWÜHER!" and aimed his staff right at the charging serpent.

The serpent was stunned and could not move. He knew he didn't have too much time. This magic spell might work on small animals for long periods of time, but on an animal this size he'd be lucky if it remained stunned for more than fifteen seconds.

Tristan wasted no time.

He lunged forward, flying through the air on his staff and cut the serpent's neck with his sword. Unfortunately, it wasn't a clean cut. He had severed about forty-five percent of the serpent's head, but the rest remained intact, and it was madder than hellfire!

He pulled two daggers out of his pocket and threw one. SWSS . . . SWSS . . . SWSSS . . . THWACKK! It landed directly in the anacobra's right eye. SWSS . . . SWSS . . . SWSSS . . . THWACKK! The second dagger landed in the anacobra's left eye, blinding the beast, and greatly wounding it also. It was hissing in anger and agony. It tried to strike, but so many of its neck muscles had been severed that it couldn't build up much speed. In fact, Tristan easily stepped to the side as the strike came towards him, putting the serpent's neck in the perfect position for a final cut.

WHACKK!!

He brought his sword down hard against the back of the serpent's neck, this time completely severing its head from the rest of its body. The head weighed about thirty pounds, and had a diameter of about three feet. He forced it into the large sack he had brought with him, and then tied it tightly.

He wasn't in the clear yet, however. He saw that the snake that had been bitten was now apparently dead, but where was the other one? He was growing tired of the cat-and-mouse games. He wanted to get back to his lair so he could finish the potion he had been working on for weeks.

(what about invisibility?)

It wasn't something he did often. It required a lot of magical energy and could leave him weakened. But at this point, it just might be worth it. He took out a bottle of fundehur, and drank the whole thing in one gulp. Then he downed the last final drops of his kindror as well as the rest of his bottle of sphinter, to remove his smell.

He began walking towards the entrance to the cave.

(is the sack invisible too?!)

Kasani! All the invisibility and smell-proofing in the world wouldn't do any good while carrying a huge, bloody snake head! It was time to leave . . . and quick. There could be many more snakes in here, and they might even be summoning each other to come and join the fight against this unwelcome intruder. Come, help us destroy the human! he could almost hear them saying.

"What the Kasani," he said to himself; "I really don't have much choice!" He clutched his staff and flew out of the cave as fast as he possibly could. Using this much magic was going to weaken him, but the alternative was much uglier. As he flew out of the cave, he saw that the third anacobra had laid an ambush for him that just might have been successful had he been walking. It was coiled behind a large rock just outside the cave, waiting to spring on him as soon as he exited the cave unwarily.

He continued flying all the way back to his lair; he knew this would drain his magical energy for some time, but he really didn't have any choice. The smell of the severed anacobra head would doubtlessly catch the attention of just about every predator on the ground. Anacobras were tasty meals, and wolves loved to eat the scraps left over whenever one died or was killed, as did lions and many other large beasts. Sometimes even other snakes came to partake of the feast.

As he flew over the large valley, hauling the severed snake head over his shoulder, he saw something that interested him. Both of the wolves that had survived their encounter with him were now being attacked by another pack. Having been reduced in number to only two, they were no match for a rival pack numbering eight. They put up a brave resistance, but within minutes they were felled and being eaten. Their howls of pain and agony echoed throughout the valley.

Tristan smiled. He loved this place. He couldn't have picked a better home. It took immense energy for him to focus as he ascended to his lair.

(what I wouldn't give for a pholung right now!)

But he didn't have his whistle. Also, the pholung might not have even been willing to come anyway, because as soon as it smelled the anacobra, it would have been petrified with fear. It would be interesting to see which primal instinct would was stronger: the pholung's fear of Tristan's wrath or the pholung's fear of being eaten by the serpent.

(perhaps another day I'll try the experiment)

His lair was about four thousand feet above the valley. The canyon walls were at a ninety-degree angle to the ground and offered very few footholds. He knew it wasn't impervious to attack, but anyone who dared attempt such a feat would pay dearly. From his home to the top of the cliff there were another six thousand feet of sheer cliff wall. This large distance made it more or less impossible for someone to attempt to rappel down the side of the cliff wall to reach him. Plus, he had a large collection of booby traps and other nasty surprises all along the cliff both below and above his lair to greet anyone brave enough and foolish enough to attempt to pay him a late-night visit. Concealed razor blades hidden in the cliff wall would cut to pieces anyone attempting to scale it. He had a large wheel inside his cave he could turn attached to an endless series of other small wheels and pulleys causing the razor blades to emerge from the cliff wall like flesh-eating zombies from the grave to cut any intruders to pieces. Many of these were features he added after Koksun successfully climbed into his lair centuries ago. Although he ultimately considered Koksun's arrival fortuitous, he didn't want any more surprise guests.

Finally, home.

He stooped down to pick up Koksun. He flinched slightly at first, fearing his master was still angry, but when he realized Tristan was no longer mad he gladly allowed himself to be picked up.

"It's been a long night, Koksun; it's time to sleep," he said, stroking him softly. He purred and relaxed in Tristan's arms.

Tristan walked to the cliff opening. By the right-hand side was a handle attached to a large steel sliding gate. He pulled it, and the gate slid along perfectly cut grooves until connecting with the other side of the opening. He then pulled out a huge padlock and put it on the handle and used a foot-long key to lock it. As he inserted it inside the padlock and turned it, large razor blades sprang from tiny slits along the sides of the padlock like retractable claws exposed for battle. A person's hand would be cut to ribbons trying to pick this lock.

The sliding gate itself was also covered with large razors. There were also some bells placed along it to alert Tristan to an intruder. Tristan would probably smell the intruder before the alarm bells would go off anyway, but he believed in extra precautions. Seeing the gate was secured to his satisfaction, he turned and walked towards the largest bookcase. He pulled out the book titled Glisphin Death Spells, and as he did so a lever pulled a lever which pulled another lever that pulled a rope attached to a pulley that in turn slowly raised a small portion of one of the stone walls. It was completely silent, so silent that even if someone had been in there and pulled the book out, he would never even know he had just opened a secret passage. The passage was only about two feet tall and two feet wide, and it was located behind a large chair. It went back about thirty feet. He pushed Koksun forward first, and then he slithered through.

The passage led into a large, luxuriously decorated room. It contained a bed about ten feet wide and fifteen feet long covered with the finest satin sheets. There were bookcases all around the room containing many books on Glisphin, and there were also volumes on Dachwaldian history and philosophy. On the right wall, Tristan had a huge collection of weapons on display: halberds, long swords, short swords, two-handed swords, maces, clubs, cudgels, throwing stars, darts, longbows, crossbows, pikes, shields, ball and chain maces, helmets, chain mail, and many other instruments of death. He also had some additional staffs there, all with ornate carvings on them written in a very ancient tongue. The ceiling was about thirty feet above the ground, so there was plenty of room for storing weapons. In front of his bed was a large treasure chest filled with gold, diamonds, pearls, sapphires, silver, and many other precious metals. Four large imposing torches lit the room.

Tristan lay down and closed his eyes and was asleep in minutes.

The next day, Tristan awoke and immediately began working on his potion. He removed the anacobra's severed head from the sack, took a sharp sword, tilted the snake's head so it was facing the ground, then cut one of the fangs off; while doing so he held a bucket underneath the area where the fang had been attached. Venom spilled quickly out of the opening like water coming out of a faucet, and he collected it in a large bucket. He would save the rest of the venom for later. Next, he took all the ingredients besides the venom, mixed them together in a large pot, and then added water. Then, one by one, he took only the plant portions he wanted destroyed by his potion and dipped them in venom. He then added these to the pot and stirred them. He lit a fire underneath. He let it burn for about five hours. The water boiled angrily, and steam rose like smoke from a bonfire. After all the water evaporated, what was left were a large number of tiny, hard pellets.

It was time to test his work.

He went to the large pit, which had within it a large combination of things he wanted destroyed and things he didn't want destroyed. He took one of the tiny pellets, rubbed it gently with his fingers, and let the powder descend onto the plants below.

Time to wait.

The next morning, when he looked into the pit, he genuinely couldn't have been happier. All of the plants he wanted to destroy were starting to rot. The plants he didn't want destroyed showed no signs of damage whatsoever. There was no point in delaying any further. Tonight he was going to have his work cut out for him. He smiled, pulled out a long pipe, and calmly puffed on it as he awaited nightfall. After a long, relaxing evening, it came.

He pulled out his whistle and blew on it long and hard and then resumed calmly puffing on his pipe.

About twenty-five minutes passed.

Just as he was getting ready to stuff some more choice tobacco into his pipe, he heard the unmistakable flapping of wings. A pholung was coming, flying fast.

"Sorry, Master, I took so long. I was in the eastern region of Sodorf; I came as soon as I heard you call," it said.

"We have much work to do, Istus," Tristan responded laconically.

# Chapter 14

Biltzen stretched slowly. He was tired. Very tired. Biltzen was a farmer in the southern regions of Dachwald, and he was getting up at dawn, as usual, to begin working on his farm. A large pot of coffee sat brewing over the fireplace, to which he walked to see if it was hot enough yet to drink. Seeing that it was, he poured himself a large amount into a massive mug and began sipping it slowly, savoring every sip.

"Mmmhh," he muttered, breaking the quiet in the room. He closed his eyes, still feeling sleepy, and waited for the coffee to produce its much-needed effects. He continued sipping it slowly and finally finished the entire mug. He put on a pair of overalls and some boots and set off towards the door to begin his daily chores.

Although he owned the farm and had plenty of hired hands to assist him, he still preferred to get out there and get dirty right alongside them. Typically, he was the first to begin. As he opened the door, his heart nearly stopped beating inside his chest. There he stood, motionless, for at least twenty seconds, his brain refusing to believe what his eyes were reporting to it.

"KASANIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!" he yelled out furiously at the top of his lungs. His fields had been desolated.

His eyes incredulously surveyed what just yesterday had been rolling, lush fields of grain, rice, corn, coffee, tobacco, and many other crops, and what were now dead, lifeless, decomposing brown remnants. Not sure quite what to expect, he walked back inside the house and grabbed a large crossbow. He then set off through the fields, surveying the damage. His dog, now excited by his master's alarm, got up and started barking loudly, anxious to know what its master had been so disturbed by and barking furiously as if to let his master know he was also furious, even if he didn't know why. Biltzen continued traipsing through the fields, flabbergasted by the damage. Never had he seen anything like this. On the one hand, the damage looked like it might have simply been due to a disease the plants had caught, but he quickly ruled out that possibility. He had been farming all his life and was very knowledgeable about plants. He had never seen or even heard of a plant disease that could take effect so suddenly. Over the course of months, certainly; over a period of weeks, maybe; but overnight, never. This had to have been the intentional work of someone who wanted to destroy his crops. The perpetrators must have thrown some awful kind of poison all over his crops, but he couldn't begin to think of how they could have done so on such a large scale. This would have required hundreds of men, each with bucketfuls of poison, throwing it left and right like snow in a snowball fight. Surely, his watch dog, or that of one of his hired hands, would have been awakened and alerted him if so many people had been walking through his fields at night. As for footprints, there were plenty of them, but there was no way to know if they were from the vandals or his farmhands. The fields were usually full of footprints this time of year.

He noticed that no vegetation on his property was damaged except that which was edible. His rose bushes were fine. His grass was fine. The trees were fine. Everything was fine except for his actual crops. For a second, his angry mind considered the possibility his farmhands had been disenchanted about something and had done this. After all, they had full access to his crops. But he quickly ruled that out. He paid them decent wages and had never had any serious problems with any of them. Furthermore, these fields were their source of livelihood as well. Without them, they would starve.

(without them . . . you'll starve)

He quickly brushed that thought aside angrily. He fixed problems. Problems didn't fix him. And he quickly returned to his analysis of who might have done this and how this vandalism could affect his farmhands. Not only would they be without food, he would not be able to pay them. No, it couldn't have been them. This was the work of an organized group of thugs—which gang, however, he had no clue. There weren't many gangs in Dachwald, at least that he could think of. Plus, most gangs he had heard of preferred to rob people. He had never heard of a gang that took an interest in damaging crops. He thought hard but couldn't figure out who would benefit. Wild teenagers? This was too much work for them. He'd been one himself once, and he knew teenage mischief. Crapping on a front porch, stealing a stash of whiskey from your best friend's dad and drinking until you puked your guts out, or sneaking into a window at night to spend a little unsupervised time with a farmer's daughter. His mind briefly started to try and remember which of these sins he had long ago committed, but he quickly shut it off. No, whoever did this job had been up all night, and even the most spiteful of teenagers would have lost steam after poisoning the first row of plants. No, this was a good job someone had done.

He quickly ruled out the possibility of a rival farmer. There was no surplus of crops that would make another farmer desperate enough to destroy another's crops so that his would be sure to sell.

Biltzen started walking upstairs to alert his wife to the situation. His wife, Gretten, was already running down the stairs, having heard him screaming.

"Dear, what in the world has happened?!" she asked.

Between curses and shouts he managed to tell her what he knew, which wasn't a lot, and she then set off to see for herself. She turned pale and felt knots in her stomach as the horrible scene revealed itself to her.

By this time there were hundreds of farmhands walking around, ashen with shock, surveying the horrific damage.

Biltzen turned to his spouse, "Gretten, I must go to Milfred's fields and see if he's suffered similar damage."

They kissed goodbye, and Biltzen then went to the barn, mounted his fastest horse, and set off for Milfred's, looking like a sheriff on a mission to catch a gang of notorious bank robbers. Mixed feelings raced through his mind as he approached Milfred's fields and saw the horrendous damage. A small part of him was secretly relieved he wasn't the only one who had suffered, but for the most part he felt sad seeing Milfred's loss. As he approached Milfred's home, he saw Milfred staring incredulously at the damage before him.

"There must have been hundreds of the scoundrels. Maybe THOUSANDS of 'em! They must have been out all night destroying my crops with some horrendous poison. I'm ruined!" Milfred said to himself.

"Milfred!" Biltzen yelled as he approached.

Milfred turned and saw his friend approaching.

"Look at what some unholy sons of Kasani did to my crops! I'll fill 'em full of arrows if I find 'em," he yelled at Biltzen.

"They got my crops too! I thought for sure I was the only one, but I can see I was wrong!"

"Who possibly could've done this?! Why would anyone do this?! This is madness!"

"I don't know either," said Biltzen; "I think we need to ride to some of our other neighbors' farms and see if the vandals stopped by to say hello there as well."

"I'll say!" Milfred replied.

They set off towards Sinizen's fields, which bordered Milfred's. They arrived after about an hour of hard riding and saw similar devastation. Unfortunately, Sinizen wasn't there, but his wife, Gladsen, was, and she informed them he had ridden off to check on his neighbors' fields.

"This's so awful," Gladsen sobbed; "almost everything's ruined. What're we gonna eat?"

"I don't know," Biltzen said, "but you're welcome to what we have."

"Thank you," she replied, "and you're welcome to the little food that we have remaining. In fact, you must be hungry after all of that riding. Please, let me fix you something to eat," she said.

"We greatly appreciate the offer," Biltzen said, "but we really must hurry. We need to go to Castle Dachwald and report this crime. However, perhaps if you could give us a glass of water and some bread to take with us, we would be immensely grateful."

"My pleasure," she responded.

Gladsen led them into the house, wiping the tears away from her eyes as she walked. She gave them a cold glass of water and some bread for their journey.

"You know," she said, "if you're gonna travel all the way to Castle Dachwald, you're gonna have to camp at least one night, if not two, on your way there. Please, Milfred, you must take a sword with you and a bow and arrow. You never know what kinds of ruffians you might come across at night. In fact, I'll have some of the farmhands go with you. There's safety in numbers, and although they certainly aren't warriors, they know some of the basics of swordsmanship. You'll be at least a little bit safer if you go with them."

"Agreed," Milfred replied, "but we must hurry."

"Certainly," she responded. "Wait here."

Gladsen went outside and then returned about a half hour later.

"I've gathered ten men to accompany you on your journey," she said.

Milfred and Biltzen looked at the farmhands. She had spoken the truth when she said they weren't warriors, but, then again, neither were they.

"They'll do," Biltzen said.

Each of the ten farmhands had a sword with him.

"We must leave immediately for Dachwald. We'll alert the city officials and find out how widespread the damage is," he continued.

The twelve men got on their horses and began the fifty-mile journey to Dachwald, which lay roughly north-northeast of their current location. As they rode along the road, they saw almost nothing but damaged crops.

"They, who ever they may be, are going to pay dearly for this!" Filzgor, one of the ten farmhands, growled.

As they rode their horses along the road, they saw many people standing out in their yards overlooking the damage as though they were observing the handiwork of a hurricane. They talked to some of them along the way as they traveled and were asked by several people, as they plodded along the road, whether they had suffered any damages or if they were just passersby. They mentioned their losses briefly and told them they were on their way to Castle Dachwald to see if a militia or posse could be organized to catch and hang the perpetrators from the nearest, and, preferably tallest, available tree.

As they got closer to Castle Dachwald, they saw less disarray and started to consider the possibility that maybe the damage hadn't been so widespread after all. By mid-afternoon of the next day, they could see Castle Dachwald off in the distance.

Towers jutted into the air. Battlements stretched out endlessly in the horizon, offering an intimidating display of power to anyone approaching. Although most of them had seen Castle Dachwald several times before, they never ceased to be amazed each time their eyes surveyed this awesome fortress. Its defenses had not been tested for centuries, but they were still there nonetheless. Waiting. The fortress itself was located on top of a large hill, and it towered above the low valley that surrounded it like a giant standing in a shallow stream.

In the valley small villages and military checkpoints dotted the large landscape like randomly planted shrubs in a large lawn. The city officials and most of the soldiers lived in the fortress itself; everyone else lived in the surrounding small towns, like servants not privileged enough to sleep in their master's house. Small dirt roads connected each of the towns in the large, beautiful valley like intricate threads of a large spider web. Even from afar, signs of life and movement could be detected. Wagons being pulled by horses, peddling small commodities. People tending their gardens. Others working sweatily in blacksmith shops. Still others in taverns. All completely oblivious to the wave of mysterious destruction that had crashed onto the large southern farms.

Biltzen, Milfred, and the other ten were dead tired by this time from the horseback riding, but they were no less focused on their mission than they had been when they first started out on their journey. Anger is a powerful energizer, whatever the poets may say about love. As they descended into the valley, their stern faces spoke to all onlookers: Stay the Kasani away from us.

They listened.

As the group began to get close to the gate, several Dachwaldian soldiers approached them.

"I'll handle this," Biltzen said, and moved his horse to the front of the group.

Biltzen was slightly wealthier than Milfred, and his name was more recognized throughout Dachwald, so he had the best chance of winning entry into the castle.

"Halt," the soldier commanded.

The twelve stopped, Biltzen at the head of the group. The soldier had on a helmet, a short sword, and steel boots with sharp points on the end. His helmet left most of his face exposed, but a narrow piece of steel descended from the top of the helmet to protect his nose. Chain mail armor covered his upper torso, arms, even his hands.

"What business have you here?" he demanded gruffly.

"I am Biltzen, landowner of one of the largest farms in the southern regions of Dachwald. Nearly all of my crops were destroyed overnight. Exactly what caused the destruction . . . I don't know. Milfred here also owns a large amount of land; his crops were nearly completely decimated. He also doesn't know what caused this destruction, although we both know it must have been the work of a large, determined group of hooligans or worse. On our way here, we passed dozens upon dozens of badly damaged large farms. These ten farmhands here with me work on the farm of Sinizen, whose lands lie adjacent to those of Milfred; the crops on the lands of their master were also nearly completely annihilated. We demand justice!! Now open the gate so we can talk to someone whose rank is high enough to organize a unit to track down and destroy the vandals!!"

The soldier's face betrayed his shock. He had been in the Vechengschaft for about three years, and the most action he had seen consisted of breaking up a few minor brawls in the local taverns and dealing with the occasional bear or wolves that came too close to the area for comfort.

He began to stammer slightly, and then simply said, "Wait here."

He walked over to a group of soldiers next to the large fortress gate, saluting as he got closer. The face of the soldier he was speaking to looked skeptical as he listened. That's a good one! it seemed to say. At the end of their conversation, punctuated by several hand gestures in the direction of the twelve, the higher-ranking soldier said a few final words, walked into the fortress, and disappeared.

Biltzen was growing impatient.

About twenty minutes later—which seemed like an eternity—the soldier returned to the open gate and motioned them to come forward. They got back on their horses and headed towards the gate. When they arrived, the soldier said gruffly, "Just you two," pointing at Milfred and Biltzen; "the others stay here. You, dismount."

Milfred and Biltzen dismounted and followed the soldier. As they did so, a group of ten soldiers began to follow them, standing on either side of Milfred and Biltzen. The interior of the castle was as awe-inspiring as its exterior. Maybe more so.

Neither Milfred nor Biltzen had been inside before. Typically non-military and non-political personnel weren't allowed in.

They walked towards a building about thirty feet tall made of stone. On the outside, above the door entrance, was a large coat of arms. The soldier approached the door and knocked. After a gruff "Come in," the soldier opened the door and led Milfred and Biltzen inside.

The soldier that had been leading them did not merely salute, but dropped to one knee and faced the ground as he addressed the officer: "Captain, these are the two men."

Biltzen and Milfred immediately followed suit, not rising until the soldier did the same.

Addressing Biltzen and Milfred, he said, "My name is Mindgkor, and I am a captain in the Vechengschaft. I have heard your names; they say you are two of the largest producers of agriculture in our great country. I'm very sad to hear of the horrible attack you two have suffered. As you may know, however, the Vechengschaft is severely understaffed, as it has been for some time, owing in large part to the pacifistic feelings among the Dachwaldians. Some question the need for the Vechengschaft altogether. I fear my commanding officer would not permit me to award you more than a dozen soldiers. Without proof of a large number of farms having been attacked, I wouldn't be authorized to dispatch a unit of troops much larger than that."

"Sir," Biltzen began, "whatever number of troops you can provide will be highly appreciated. But it looks like most or maybe all of the farms in the south have been utterly destroyed or at least have suffered severe damage. Most farmers and farmhands Milfred and I passed on our journey here informed us they had seen no gradual build-up of damage but had simply woke up this mornin' to find their crops annihilated. This was my experience as well. Yesterday, my crops was just as pretty as ever. Today, I wake up and find 'em all rotted to hell. I've seen diseases hit crops before, but not this quick. No way. Whoever did this deal . . . there must've been thousands of 'em. Just where in Kasani thousands of rascals came from to poison our crops is beyond me, but they came from somewhere. One thing that seems for sure though was they must've thought they wasn't gonna suffer for what they done. Do you see what I'm drivin' at? It had to be foreigners. Dachwaldians ain't gonna do that 'cuz if they did, how're they gonna eat?! I'm afraid that if you provide us with just a dozen-or-so soldiers we might catch the vandals, but bringin' 'em before the law would be a whole 'nother story."

"With all due respect to you, Biltzen, I can't dispatch more than a dozen troops without direct authority from my general. And my general is going to demand more than than your and Milfred's word of just how widespread the damage is for me to be able to dispatch more than a dozen soldiers. I'm very sorry. Perhaps if more people arrive from the southern provinces that can vouch for the extent of the damage, more troops will be deployed, but even then, I couldn't guarantee it. I'll leave the decision up to you: Either I can deploy twelve of my finest soldiers right now to help you hunt down these rascals and bring them to justice, or you can wait and see if more people arrive that can verify your story and thus enable me to obtain permission to deploy more soldiers. Many of the Vechengschaft would like to see some action, but I must justify it to my superiors."

Biltzen took in Mindgkor's words carefully. Biltzen was a man of action, and he hated the thought of dillydallying while these rogues made their way back to safety. But he also didn't like the idea of confronting a thousand men with Milfred, ten farmhands, and a dozen troops. His eyes narrowed slightly as he mulled over the dilemma.

"Captain, might I have a few words alone with Milfred?"

"Certainly," he replied. "I'll wait for you here."

Milfred and Biltzen stepped outside.

"What do you think?" Biltzen asked Milfred.

"I'm not sure. I'm especially not sure why we are the only ones here! Given the damage we've seen, there must be hundreds, if not thousands, of landowners and farmhands absolutely enraged by now! Where in Ifindgall are they?!"

"Perhaps they'll arrive soon. After all, we did leave immediately after seein' the damage. Perhaps we got here first. Perhaps others ain't too far behind."

"One thing's for sure: while a dozen soldiers are sure better than none, they wouldn't do much good against a thousand men! Perhaps we can wait a day, and if no one else has arrived, just accept the dozen soldiers; however, I say we wait to see if more people start tricklin' in. That way, we can hunt these rascals and be ready for a scrap if need be," Milfred responded.

"Agreed. We'll wait a day and see what happens."

They both walked back into Captain Mindgkor's office and told him.

As they were stepping out of the doorway, they heard a low rumbling sound.

It sounded like a herd of horses' hooves striking the ground. The sound was low and faint, but increasing steadily in volume. Biltzen, Milfred, and Captain Mindgkor walked hurriedly out of the castle to see what was going on.

In the horizon, a tremendous dust cloud was forming.

BOOM-BOOM, BOOM-BOOM, BOOM-BOOM! went the sound methodically and rhythmically like a distant drummer playing a steady tune.

Several of the Vechengschaft immediately began scurrying about and shouting orders, while others sprinted inside the castle. One soldier, perched high on a battlement and looking out into the horizon through a long telescope shouted, "TO THE CASTLE!! TO THE CASTLE!!"

Seconds later a large GONGGGGG . . . GONGGGGGG . . . GONGGGGG could be heard echoing throughout the valley. The sound came from a large tower in which a 240-pound hulk of a man pounded a gong with a hammer so large most men would have been proud to lift it off the ground, never mind swinging it. The sound reverberated loud enough to make one feel it was his head being hit with the hammer, perhaps an act of revenge by the large gong for the unspeakable abuse it was enduring at the hands of its cruel chastiser.

Screams echoed throughout the valley. Frightened, panic-stricken screams. Screams rarely heard in this tranquil locale. For most of the people in the valley, this was the first time that they had ever been summoned to flee to the castle, except for an occasional drill, always announced weeks in advance.

Surrounding the castle were numerous curtain walls, and an invader would have to survive the merciless torrent of arrows, stones, fire, and boiling liquid that would be cast upon him without quarter whilst piercing these defenses before reaching the innermost wall, which stood even taller and was still better defended, making the successful conquest of Castle Dachwald an endeavor legenday in its futility.

There were several underground tunnels the Dachwaldians could use to traverse these walls underground and reach the heart of the castle, a mile-long journey. The tunnels eventually joined together, leading to a single hundred-foot tunnel at the end of which lay the entrance to the heart of the castle itself. All tunnels were heavily guarded by elite Vechengschaft soldiers, but the hundred-foot final stretch leading to the heart of the castle was teeming with elite soldiers during even the most peaceful of times, all of whom were ready to give their life in defense of that corridor. In the event of an enemy invasion, Dachwaldian citizens knew they had to enter the castle without delay because by the time an enemy army got within a mile of the castle, Vechengschaft troops stationed inside the tunnels would seal all external entrances with a wall of eight-inch-thick steel whose surface was so skillfully covered vegetation matching its surroundings that enemy soldiers would have little chance of discovering it and less chance of ever penetrating it.

In the event an enemy ever did pierce this subterranean labyrinth, a large wheel inside the castle courtyard measuring twenty feet in diameter would be turned by ten of the most stalwart soldiers, opening a series of underground doors that would divert a river directly into the tunnels, quickly flooding them and trapping in a watery prison any so unfortunate as to be there. In the event the breach was discovered when the enemy were close to the heart of the castle, a lever could be pulled exposing tiny openings across the final door, and through these would be poured the foulest of acids, whose effects were so immediate and so painful that the ensuing screams of even the most hated enemy could bring a shudder to a brave man's heart.

After about twenty minutes, most of the Dachwaldians had managed to go through the numerous underground passageway entrances and were pouring into the castle courtyard. By this time, the sound of the approaching hooves was much louder, the formless shapes of the men comprising the dust cloud starting to become clearer.

A mile away and closing.

"Close the tunnels!" shouted Captain Mindgkor. A bugler promptly trumpeted his command, and the external entrances were all promptly sealed.

The soldier who was perched on top of the battlement with the telescope saw something strange. These didn't look like enemy invaders. They looked like Dachwaldians. The gonging had ceased upon the closure of the tunnel entrances. Most of the Dachwaldians from the surrounding area had long ago gotten the message and entered them, and those still inside the tunnels were scrambling like a large family of mice fleeing an army of cats. Those that had not already entered the tunnels were on their own. He descended the stairs alongside the wall as quickly as he could and approached Captain Mindgkor. "Captain, I could be wrong, but this doesn't look like an enemy invasion. They look like Dachwaldians."

"We'll keep the gate and tunnel entrances sealed," Captain Mindgkor responded, "until we're sure of their motives and who they are. Send a group of men to the front gate of the first walled enclosure and find out what this mob wants. And take Milfred and Biltzen with you; perhaps they'll know some of these men."

"Yes, sir," the soldier replied.

He, Milfred, and Biltzen walked through the gates of the curtain walls and finally arrived at the front gate. The large mob of people descending upon the castle looked like a tsunami approaching a beach, and as it did so the faces of the people became clearer and clearer. When the mob was about thirty feet away, Biltzen saw someone he was almost sure he knew, but he couldn't make the man's face out. Then, suddenly, Milfred said, "By Kasani, that's Sinizen, my neighbor!!"

"JUSTICE! JUSTICE! JUSTICE AND REVENGE! WE DEMAND BOTH OR THESE WALLS WILL BE CAVED IN! JUSTICE! JUSTICE! JUSTICE AND REVENGE! WE DEMAND BOTH OR THESE WALLS WILL BE CAVED IN!"

The mob continued shouting this chant in unison like a trained choir, armed only with words but ready in spirit to take on the mighties of foes.

"We better go speak to Captain Mindgkor quickly!" Milfred said and dashed back to the main castle wall, his sword clanking against his leg armor.

"Captain Mindgkor, I'd say enough farmers from the southern regions of Dachwald have arrived for your superior officer to not only permit you more troops, but to give you the whole damn army!!"

"But this mob must be destroyed; it is threatening the castle!" Captain Mindgkor responded, his eyes darting about, hoping that Milfred would finish talking so he could begin ordering his men to attack.

"Captain . . . sir, with all due respect, I believe you misunderstand: This is no mob. These are our countrymen. They're simply here to demand justice. They have no idea what's happened. I'm sure if they're informed the Vechengschaft is willing to deploy troops for hunting down the rascals that have ransacked our countryside, they'll quickly become much more reasonable."

"Act quickly," Captain Mindgkor returned. "My duty is to protect this castle. If this mob of ruffians isn't pacified within minutes, I'll have my longbowmen turn them into flaming pincushions."

Milfred ran back towards the front gate. By this time, the mob was already there and was beginning to pound on the door. There was a small opening on the door to allow defending crossbowmen to shoot at people using a battering ram or otherwise trying to break the door down. He could see Sinizen through the door.

"SINIZEEEEEEN!!!" he shouted through the door, "Calm this mob down, or you're all gonna have so many arrows sticking through you you won't touch the ground when you fall!!"

"Milfred??!" Sinizen could see Milfred's face through the large gate.

"Yes, it's me. Now will you please calm these rioters down!!"

Sinizen turned around: "QUIEEETTTT!!"

The roar of voices was reduced to a low rumble, like a bad thunderstorm that had done its worst and was on the verge of dissipating altogether.

"Speak quickly," Sinizen said. "I don't know how much longer I can control them."

The sincerity in his tone was chilling.

"Sinizen, I know why you're here. For the same reason I'm here . . . for the same reason Biltzen's here, for the same reason that ten of your best farmhands are here: our farms—our livelihood—have been completely demolished."

"I wondered where those ten lazy louts were; I thought maybe they were in on this!"

"Don't be silly. Biltzen first came to my place, and then we went to your home to see if your farm had been attacked. Your wife informed us you'd already gone off to check on another farm. Knowing it was a long journey to the castle, she asked ten of your farmhands to accompany us, just in case we ran into trouble. Look, we can talk about all of that later; the bottom line is the captain here—his name's Mindgkor—was already willing to give us up to twelve of his best troops simply on the basis of my and Biltzen's word, but he told me his superior officer wouldn't let him have more than that unless more farmers came and vouched for the extent of the damage. It's wonderful you all came, but you've got to calm down, or, instead of helping you, the Vechengschaft is gonna cut you to shreds!!"

"Very well," Sinizen replied; "how many of us will they permit into the castle?"

"I'll find out. In the meantime, shut this mob up!"

Without waiting for Sinizen's response, he and Biltzen dashed back towards Captain Mindgkor, but as they began to do so, they saw that he was already coming their way. As they got closer, he said, "The mob is quieting down—what have you learned?"

"Sir," Milfred replied, "it's alright. They're just mad as Ifindgall because all of their crops have been destroyed, which is understandable enough. Now, you promised you'd deploy more men if more people from the south showed up and confirmed the damage. Well, for Kasani's sake, I think this oughta be enough for you to dispatch the whole army!"

"Bring me twenty of the wealthiest farmers from the crowd. I want them to vouch to my superior officer that the damage has indeed happened. You can rest assured a large number of the Vechengscaft will be dispatched if they can do so. This could mean war. Hurry!"

Milfred and Biltzen brought in twenty of the richest farmers through the gate and walked into the castle. By the time they got there, Captain Mindgkor was already with his superior officer, Colonel Mechwalgden.

After the twenty farmers vouched for the damage, they were excused so that Colonel Mechwalgden and Captain Mindgkor could discuss the military's response. The colonel looked at Captain Mindgkor hard. "I'll give you two thousand troops. This is the most I can give. Go and explain this to the rabble outside. I'll discuss this with my general, and we'll have the force assembled and ready by dawn tomorrow. Rest assured we'll soon know who did this, and the perpetrators will be hanging like ornaments from trees all over the country side of Dachwald. The farmers and their farmhands will all spend the night in the castle to eat and recover from their long journey. Tomorrow, I need them all to return to their homes tomorrow so they can do their best to harvest what little of their crops remains."

He then turned around sharply and walked towards one of the castle towers.

Captain Mindgkor went and informed the masses of the news. Their mood was slightly elevated by it. It seemed the Vechengschaft was taking this matter very seriously. Little did they know just how seriously.

General Sivingdon, the supreme general of the Vechengschaft, addressed Colonel Mechwalgden and Captain Mindgkor: "Do you know what this means?! FAMINE! At least seventy-five percent of our nation's food is produced in the south. If the intelligence you've gathered is accurate, it appears nearly all food production in the south has been destroyed. The people in the northern regions produce a sufficient amount of food to feed themselves, but the excess that they have would only be enough to provide the southerners starvation rations. Either that or the whole country will have to go on wartime rations. Otherwise, the people in the south will likely become so hungry and angry civil war will break out! We can't let this happen. The pacifistic feelings in Dachwald already make us an extremely vulnerable target for our enemies. We must find the perpetrators and punish them viciously and publicly. If they're foreigners, we'll declare limited war on the country they came from, unless they promptly compensate us for the comestible and financial damages we've incurred and hand over the perpetrators to us unconditionally. I would be in favor of launching a total war to send a stern warning to never consider attacking us again! Of course . . . that would be difficult.

"As you know, the constitution only permits a total war if the military, senate, and King Duchenwald are all in agreement. This would be extraordinarily difficult, although perhaps this situation might make it feasible. I'll make the king aware of the situation and let him know the high number of troops I've authorized to track down the perpetrators. Fortunately, I don't need authorization as long as we don't cross any foreign borders. We'll simply have to wait and see what we find: if this was the work of traitors in our midst or an attacker from afar. We'll know soon enough."

The officers nodded. They realized this was without question going to be the biggest military operation on which they had embarked thus far in their military careers and could be the most significant operation on which they would ever embark. This was their shot at medals, promotions, glory, the right to tell lavishly enhanced stories of bravery to anyone they could get to listen over large cups of cold ale until they were so old going to the bathroom would be a quest in and of itself. They prepared to discuss with their subordinate officers the planning of the operation. For most of the remainder of the night, they reviewed the upcoming operation. Faces drooped over maps like spectators analyzing a close chess match. As they did so, the Dachwaldian farmers and farmhands slept. No chessboards for them to worry about. No positioning, flanking, ensnaring tactics to review. Just sleep. Deep, dreamless sleep.

# Chapter 15

The next morning was beautiful. It seemed a harbinger of good things to come. A bright orange glow traveled across the horizon as the sun rose steadily and slowly. While the sun rose, battle formations were being assembled. All two thousand Vechengschaft were mounted on horses. This was a drain on Dachwaldian resources but had been considered necessary by General Sivingdon. "Speed is essential!" he had repeated over and over the prior night. However, not all two thousand were cavalry. All Vechengschaft were given some training in riding and fighting on horseback, but of the two thousand soldiers gathered for this manhunt, only a thousand were true cavalry. The others were longbowmen, halberdiers, and other men-at-arms. The plan was for these troops to divide up into five groups of four hundred men each. Sivingdon named the groups Company A, Company B, Company C, Company D, and Company E. Company A was to go all the way to the extreme southwest of Dachwald; Company B, south-southwest; Company C, directly south; Company D, south-southeast; and Company E, to the extreme southeastern border between Dachwald and Sodorf.

Each company had expert trackers. Sivingdon hoped they would be able to find some tracks in the fertile regions of the south. If they rode fast, they'd make it to the southern farms within a day or two, and if they rode even faster they just might make it to the border in that amount of time. Sivingdon couldn't help but think it was at the very least slightly suspicious that apparently all the damage had been done in the south and Dachwald's longtime enemy, Sodorf, just happened to be directly south.

As the companies spread out across the vast southern countryside of Dachwald, they were appalled by what they saw. Destroyed crops everywhere, looking like the aftermath of a surprise visit from a hundred thousand locusts, even though no one had seen any large swarms of insects. Women crying. Children too, but mostly because Mommy was upset. If they had the understanding Mommy had about the situation, their tears would have been all the more bitter. Men trying to salvage what precious little remained of their crops, mostly to no avail. They weren't crying. But their faces showed the situation was taking its toll.

Don't worry. We'll avenge you, General Sivingdon thought.

Some people cheered when they saw the Vechengschaft come marching through. Most of the southern Dachwaldians had never seen the Vechengschaft. They'd read stories, of course, but never seen them in person.

"LONG LIVE THE VECHENGSCHAFT!!" the hapless farmers cheered as the heavily armored soldiers plodded along by them. They had very little hope left, but they were pinning what little remained onto these armor-clad supermen.

"Get the BASTARDS!!" an old woman yelled out. "They've ruined everything; I don't know what I'm going to eat!"

One of the Vechengschaft halberdiers turned, faced the woman. "Don't worry, ma'am, we will. We damn sure will."

Sivingdon simply couldn't believe the devastation. Never in his life had he seen destruction on such a scale. He was traveling with Company B, going south-southwest. He expected any minute to come across an enemy force and was strongly looking forward to spilling blood and releasing the full fury of his anger onto this enemy, who he was now becoming more and more certain had to be the Sodorfians. The damn Sodorfians.

(please let it be the Sodorfians, please!)

No enemy sightings.

However, reports did begin to trickle in about supposed tracks that had been found leading from some of the farms and heading south into Sodorf. When these reports reached Sivingdon, his already burning temper began to reach its boiling point.

"How far did you follow these tracks, and how many men does it appear we might be dealing with?"

"Sir," replied Efenktor, the head tracker, "all of the trackers I've spoken with report they followed these tracks to the very border between Sodorf and Dachwald. Our laws forbid us from entering Sodorf, but I'm sure if I were allowed to cross the border I could most certainly trace these tracks to their source and lead our forces to them. Based upon the tracks, it looks like this vandalism was the work of hundreds, if not thousands, of people. This is an act of war.

"However, for us to cross Sodorf, not only would you have to authorize it, but King Duchenwald and at least one-half of the senate would also have to approve. It'll take several days for a messenger to ride back to Castle Dachwald with a message from you requesting to cross the Sodorfian border . . . that is, assuming you do want the trackers to cross. Once your message gets to Castle Dachwald, it would take a while before they approve such a measure . . . if they approve it at all. And then, of course, the message will have to be brought back to us by horseback. This could all take a week or more. If it rains between then and now, all hope of tracing these tracks back to their source will be lost."

Sivingdon thought these words over carefully. He knew asking the senate and King Duchenwald to permit his troops to cross the Sodorfian-Dachwaldian border would be tantamount to asking for a declaration of war.

"Efenktor, find your swiftest messenger. I want him to go to Castle Dachwald as swiftly as possible and ask not only for permission to cross the border, but to also engage any enemy combatants we come across."

Efenktor's face turned slightly pale.

"General, this probably won't sit well with the senate. We haven't been at war in 830 years; the feeling amongst the senate is very pacifistic; they'll nev—"

"Do as your told!" Sivingdon responded gruffly. He didn't need to be reminded of just how lousy the senate was when it came to getting anything accomplished. He knew. He knew all too damn well.

"I'm all too aware of their pacifistic sentiments. They make me sick! But we must try to get their approval!"

And having said that, he dismounted and removed a piece of paper from his saddlebag. He began writing the message, and once completed he put his seal on it.

"Go now. I want you to deliver this personally to King Duchenwald. You're one of the fastest messengers I have, and not only that—you've seen with your own two eyes the damage and the tracks leading from the southern farms into Sodorf. Be sure to mention to them that all the way from the far eastern borders to the far western borders there are tracks heading southward into Sodorf."

"Yes, sir," Efenktor responded without argument. General Sivingdon had a reputation for going beyond words if forced to give a second reprimand.

Efenktor took the sealed message and got on a large black horse. He dug his spurs into its sides and took off at a full gallop towards Castle Dachwald.
Chapter 16

King Duchenwald stepped out of the bath. A nice, hot steamy bath. He grabbed a luxurious purple towel, dried himself, and slipped into a long comfortable robe made out of bear fur and decorated with gold.

(now seems like as good a time as any for a massage)

He walked out of the bathroom and down a long hall. The walls were made of smooth, solid stone and reflected the light pouring in from the afternoon sun. Elegant pieces of weaponry and armor adorned them. Golden statuettes and other luxurious treasures decorating them lent them a majestic appearance. At the end of the hallway was a rope attached to a bell. He pulled it a few times, and some servant girls immediately came running.

"Your Highness" they said, kneeling.

"A massage."

"Yes, Your Highness—as you wish, Your Highness," they said.

He lay down on the massage table. Warm oil was poured onto his back, and the massage was soon underway. Even though it was a daily enjoyment he pampered himself with, it still felt so good he thought he had died and gone to Cixore. Just when he was beginning to feel so relaxed he was about to fall asleep, he heard a loud knocking at the door. One of the servant girls went and answered it. She turned and came back to King Duchenwald.

"Your Highness, one of the servants says there's a messenger here; he says it's very, very urgent."

"Ahh, for Kasani's sake, can't it wait?!" King Duchenwald responded gruffly. The servant girl went to the door, exchanged some words with the servant and then returned.

"Your Highness," she said, "he says it's very, very urgent; he says that it has to do with General Sivingdon. He says General Sivingdon has a very urgent request and it demands your immediate attention."

"General Sivingdon?! Well, why didn't you say so? Okay, girls, massage time is up; I need to see what all the commotion is about."

As he got up slowly from the massage table, his servant girls exited the room. It was a large, spacious room. Smooth marble walls, floor and ceiling, all painted a light sea blue. An ample view of the Dachwaldian countryside could be seen from the large window. King Duchenwald adjusted his robe and said, "Come, servant, I haven't got all day!"

The servant entered the room.

"Your Highness," he said, "there's a man at the front gate of the palace named Efenktor; he says he's one of Sivingdon's top trackers."

"Yes, yes, indeed; that's true."

"Well, he has a message from General Sivingdon himself, but he says he's under strict orders to deliver it to you personally. He wouldn't hand it to me."

"Well, I suppose I'll have to go down and see him then. No doubt, this has to do with that crop damage all those farmers were raising hell about recently. Tell'em I'll be down there shortly."

"Yes, Your Highness," the servant said and exited the room.

King Duchenwald was curious. He was hoping it would turn out to all be a big lie. Surely these farmers had to be exaggerating about their losses.

It took him a while to squeeze his oceans of fat into his kingly robe. After finally managing to wrap it around his portly body, he walked towards the door to his room, down the hall, and then began descending the large, mammoth-sized staircase that went down to the main floor. His bedroom was on the eighth story of the castle, so he had a long way to travel going down the staircase. The walls held torches about three feet long, a system of small passages within the castle walls pumping a continuous supply of slow-burning oil to keep them burning. It took him about twenty minutes to get down to the bottom of the stairs, and by the time he did he was huffing and puffing like a man who had just run two miles at breakneck speed. He had often considered moving his room to a lower level to avoid such odious exercise, but he couldn't fathom the thought of anyone sleeping above him. Three guards accompanied him. Two spearmen and a man holding a large battle hammer who was larger than life and twice as ugly. As he reached the bottom of the stairs he saw Efenktor waiting for him. As Efenktor saw the king, he put one knee on the ground and bowed.

"Your Majesty," he said.

"You may rise."

"Your Majesty, I bring urgent news . . . and a request."

"Speak, Efenktor," King Duchenwald said in a mildly pleasant tone.

"Your Highness, the first piece of news I have for you is shocking, but I have seen it with my own eyes, so I swear to its legitimacy . . . ."

"Speak your mind!" King Duchenwald said in a very impatient tone.

"Your Highness, to put it both bluntly and succinctly, the tracks from the farms lead towards Sodorf. More specifically, they lead into Sodorf. I'm sure of this, and so is General Sivingdon. He's requesting permission to cross the border and engage whatever enemy he comes across. This more than likely means war with Sodorf."

King Duchenwald's heart nearly stopped. The words knocked him backwards like a solid punch to the chest. He would have fallen and cracked his skull had it not been for his muscular bodyguards that caught him. He felt dizzy. Like he was having a nightmare.

"HAS GENERAL SIVINGDON CROSSED THAT BORDER?!!!!" King Duchenwald screamed at Efenktor. It sounded more like an accusation than an inquiry. His face was red with a potent combination of rage, panic, and fear. Although Efenktor fully expected the king to not be happy with the request, his sheer ferocity overwhelmed him. Even the guards were stunned.

"Of course not! No, Your Highness; he wouldn't dream of doing such a thing without your permission! That's why he sent me, instead of just an ordinary messenger. He knew the enormity of the request would take you off guard; that is why—"

"Give me that message!" growled King Duchenwald.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Efenktor said and quickly handed it to him.

King Duchenwald's eyes devoured the message like a starving animal consuming its prey. His blue eyes darted back and forth across the words of the message, sometimes growing wide and large, other times narrowing suspiciously. Sure enough, it said what Efenktor averred and bore General Sivingdon's unmistakable seal.

"Efenktor, I'm going to have to call an emergency senate meeting. This isn't a decision I can make off the cuff, even if a substantial proportion of our food supply for the next year has indeed been ruined. Ride back to General Sivingdon and tell him I'm having an emergency consultation with the senate to resolve this matter. Your expert tracking skills are needed by him. I'll send a messenger to give General Sivingdon my response as soon as the senate and I have deliberated this important matter."

"Yes, Your Highness," Efenktor said. He stood up, turned, walked through the door, got back on his horse, and began galloping madly back towards General Sivingdon.

King Duchenwald could not have been more taken aback. The last thing that had crossed his mind when he had heard about this alleged act of mass vandalism was war. Would the Sodorfians dare launch such a brazen attack as this?

(What could their motive possibly be?)

This baffled him the most. All the spy reports he had received from Sodorf had confirmed Sodorf was basically in the same state of affairs as Dachwald: peaceful, spending little on the military. Furthermore, all reports had stated most people in Sodorf were living comfortably. Their crops were doing well; people had plenty to eat; the government was corrupt and lazy, but not overly oppressive towards its subjects.

(perhaps it was a group of troublesome Sodorfians not acting in accord with the Sodorfian government)

This was plausible.

There was a system in place for an emergency summoning of the senate. Inside the castle was a large rope that went over a pulley hanging about ten feet in the air and into a hole in the floor from where it passed through an underground tunnel, equipped with pulleys about every fifty feet to make pulling the rope easier as it went around turns. Underground, the rope was attached to a large ring with holes drilled through it and ropes attached to it that went off in different directions through the different passageways, splitting off and going to a large bell in each senator's house. The rope was relatively easy to pull, and a tug on it nearly simultaneously rang the bells in the senators' homes.

King Duchenwald grabbed the rope and pulled down hard. The ringing reverberated with a nearly ear-splitting volume. A few of the senators were in the midst of eating lavish meals, and the cacophonous sound of the bell caused a couple of them to soil their clothes with food that they spilled all over themselves. Some were in the midst of a nice, relaxing nap, and the sound of the bell woke one of them up so suddenly he fell out of bed and nearly incurred a concussion when he introduced his head to the floor. One bell caught a senator in the act of trying to seduce his maid, and the cursing that resulted would make a longshoreman blush.

Within thirty minutes all twenty of the senators had arrived, bowing to King Duchenwald as they walked in. One look at his face told them there was serious business to discuss.

"Senators, into the meeting hall," he said.

They walked around the large staircase, descended a short flight of stairs, walked down a long hallway, turned right, and then went through the second door on their left. This led into a large open room. King Duchenwald sat on a throne, and ten senators sat on either side of him in rows of two.

"Senators," he began, "I'll get right to the point. I've been requested to authorize General Sivingdon to take his men across the Sodorfian border, and, if necessary, authorize him 'to engage any enemy combatants' he might come across."

A horrified gasp escaped the senators like hot steam emitted from a pot.

"You can't be serious," one yelled out. "This is insanity!" shouted another. "We don't want war!!" chimed a third.

"SILENCE!!" King Duchenwald screamed, instantly ending the grousing. "We're here to discuss this, and discuss this we shall—but in an organized fashion. You know the rules: one senator speaks at a time and must stand while speaking. All speeches must be kept to the point! Now, before we begin to debate this important issue, let me lay out all of the known facts for you. First of all, our country indeed may be facing famine. It has now been confirmed by General Sivingdon himself that nearly all of the southern farms have been destroyed. As you well know, almost all our food comes from the south, and harvest time is merely weeks away. The vast majority of our reserves from last year's harvest are gone. We are dependent upon each harvest's success. True, some food comes from the north, but nowhere near enough to feed everybody.

"To survive the coming year, we'll have to slaughter massive amounts of livestock, including horses, dogs, and other domestic animals, and put the whole country, us included, on rations. The second fact to keep in mind is this destruction wasn't the work of a small group of men or even several small groups of men. This had to have been a coordinated effort amongst a large number working together—a thousand or more in the opinion of General Sivingdon. Lastly, all reports from our scouts and trackers indicate the tracks leading from these farms go directly south towards the Sodorfian border and into Sodorf. Now, you must bear in mind there would simply be no conceivable reason for any Dachwaldians to do this. Even if there were a few crazed Dachwaldians who wanted to ravage our farmland, they wouldn't have been able to accomplish it on such a large scale without major assistance, and our spies would have found out about it in advance. General Sivingdon reports heavy rainfall in the south and a very real danger of the tracks leading into Sodorf disappearing soon if he is not authorized to pursue them.

"If I permit General Sivingdon to cross the border, it's almost certain the result will be total war, one which would not only be very unfortunate, but also one that we might lose. We have had a peace—albeit an uneasy one—with the Sodorfians for 830 years. When the Seven Years War ended, we were more or less at the mercy of the Sodorfians. They had destroyed the majority of our most elite soldiers—the Moscorians—and assembled one of the greatest military forces the world has ever seen. They could have razed our castle to the ground and slaughtered and enslaved us. Instead, they merely demanded the return of their subjects, the expulsion of all Dachwaldians from Sodorf, and permission for Sodorfians to live in Dachwald to keep an eye on us and prevent such a horrible war from ever breaking out again. It wasn't an enormous number of Sodorfians that took advantage of that final clause of the treaty, especially not right after the war. But over time, many small Sodorfian communities have arisen throughout Dachwald. In fact, there are even some prominent businessmen in Dachwald of Sodorfian descent. The bottom line is we've had peace for a very, very long time. And while it might seem ludicrous to suggest Sodorf wants war with us, the facts can't be ignored. Something must be done. We cannot lie down like sheep oblivious to the blade cutting our throat."

After he finished speaking, an unusual silence descended upon the senate like fog on previously clear day.

Finally, one of the senators stood up. His name was Alexinduhr. He cleared his voice as he prepared to speak: "I propose we send emissaries to the City of Sodorf, bring eyewitnesses with them, and demand that justice be done."

"I second that motion," said another senator, eagerly standing and then quickly sitting.

One senator after another rose to concur with Alexinduhr. Other senators added to the proposal, stating that, if it was Sodorfians that had caused this horrible damage, the Sodorfian government should have to pay immense reparations. Just when it seemed complete unanimity had been reached and the only logical action was sending emissaries, an old, nearly antique-looking man stood up to have his turn to speak. He was the oldest of the senators: 115 years old, to be precise. He could have been the grandfather of any of them. His name was Gullingsor, and if he were lying asleep next to a corpse, you probably wouldn't notice a difference. He had long, snow-white hair, thin spectacles, and a large walking staff he used to help steady himself as he stood. Like a supporting beam keeping a fragile building from toppling right over and breaking into a million pieces.

"Good senators," he began, in an old, croaky voice one would expect from such an oldster, "it pleases me to still be here with my fellow countrymen at such an old age," he said, chuckling lightly. "I have great respect for each and everyone of you, and I can see great wisdom in all of the suggestions that have been proffered thus far, and so I must preface the following by saying that I can see the reasoning behind each and every one of the points that have been made by all of you . . . but I must say I disagree. I will say why I disagree, and I will also say what I propose. I propose you simply let General Sivingdon cross the border."

Chaos broke out throughout the senate; several senators stood and shouted things like, "That's outrageous!" and "NEVER!" The old man had lost all his marbles. He was an embarrassing piece of decoration with no real use. Or so they thought.

"SILENCE!!!" King Duchenwald thundered. "Gullingsor will have his opportunity to speak. He is not only the oldest senator, he is also the most experienced; he will be heard without interruption! Gullingsor, please continue."

"Thank you, Your Highness," he said, looking just as resolute as before in stating what he had to say. "Starting where I left off, I believe General Sivingdon should be allowed to cross the border. As many of you know, General Sivingdon isn't a bloodthirsty man. He's no warmonger. Why . . . many of you must remember the mercy he showed to the rebels several years ago after quelling that rebellion in the east. This is not a man eager to shed blood or to plunge our country into war. This is a man who wants to save our country from destruction. Now, keep in mind sending emissaries will take time. General Sivingdon says that the tracks will not be visible for much longer, due to heavy rainfall. By the time we send emissaries all the way to the City of Sodorf—assuming, they aren't attacked or even killed along the way—and get permission to send Dachwaldian soldiers and trackers into Sodorf, there aren't going to be any tracks left!

"Then what will we have to depend on—the pity of the Sodorfians?! After all, we won't have any proof of Sodorfian involvement at that point other than our word. They will be unlikely to believe us and will in no way be obligated to assist us. In the event that they were to do so, it would only be out of philanthropic goodwill. Do you all want to stake the lives of millions of Dachwaldians on Sodorfian philanthropy?! On the philanthropy of a people that, despite that fact they're not at war with us as far as we know, trusts us as far as they can throw us?! They also have an agrarian economy and aren't exactly going to be keen on living on rations to support a people they fought a vicious war against years ago, especially if they feel there's no proof Sodorfians are to blame. Most likely, they won't offer us any assistance! We'll be lucky if our emissaries aren't attacked in the City of Sodorf itself, so great is the suspicion that still exists between our two peoples!

"Now, consider an alternative scenario: We decide to authorize Sivingdon to cross the border, which, yes, would be a violation of our treaty; I do not argue with that. If we send a messenger today to authorize Sivingdon to cross the border, he could find out just how far into Sodorf these tracks actually lead while there is still time. Senators, I am, as you know, a very, very old man; I probably don't have much time left in this world. Something tells me this wasn't the work of Sodorfians. Our great king earlier gave reasons for which we shouldn't believe it was the Dachwaldians; he makes a strong argument. But there is even stronger evidence the Sodorfians wouldn't want to do such a thing. All of our spy reports inform us Sodorf is experiencing peace and comfort. Their harvests have been rich and plentiful; they've suffered very few rebellions or attacks, and as a result they have drastically cut back not only the size of their military but also the quality thereof. These certainly aren't the qualities of a nation itching for war. And although they must also know our military isn't strong and that the sentiment in Dachwald is peaceful, they certainly know if they launched such a devastating attack on our economy and livelihood and we discovered they did it, our peaceful sentiment would be transformed into a desire for martial vengeance. Senators, daring though it may be, I strongly suspect that if we were to allow General Sivingdon to cross the border into Sodorf our trackers would quickly find these tracks circling back around and going either back into Dachwald or into some neighboring country. Perhaps the Seleganians to the east or the Metinvurs to the west either wish to wage war on us or force Sodorf and us into war with each other so we'll destroy each other and let them pick up the pieces. Or, and I know that many of you might find this fantastical, perhaps this is the work of the Moscorians—"

Pandemonium broke out. The senators shouted, "ABSURD! This is fantasy! He's gone mad!" and many other derisive remarks. King Duchenwald shouted them down like a father dealing with unruly children and requested Gullingsor to continue.

"As you know," Gullingsor said, picking up where he left off, "no one knows exactly what happened to the Moscorians. Those of you who have studied history know that after the Seven Years War, the Moscorians quickly fell out of favor. Many people feared civil war would break out and the Moscorian elite would attempt a coup d'état and fight against the Vechengschaft. Mysteriously, and very contrary to their truculent nature, they simply vanished, no one knowing where exactly they went to, nor what happened to them. No one knew either what happened to Tristan, the almost mythical person purported to be a grandmaster of Glisphin and the leader of the Moscorians and the source of their ideology. Now, many of you may think such a person never existed, that he was simply a bit of Dachwaldian legend. But many of you also know that there are numerous surviving accounts of the Seven Years War reporting many amazing feats by the Moscorians: for example, fighting for days without rest, or sustaining wounds that would have killed the average person and yet resuming fighting within days without any apparent ill effects. Maybe these accounts are all fantasy, maybe not. But the fact remains most historians agree the sudden disappearance of the Moscorians was baffling and nonsensical. No historian has ever been able to come up with a convincing explanation as to their demise. Many of you are probably wondering why this old man is rambling on and on about legends, history, and folklore when we have a very pressing matter at hand. I am simply trying to make you consider all the options and to remember that things aren't always what they seem. I propose that at the very least we authorize General Sivingdon to cross the border with certain limitations.

"For example, to cross the border but not fight except in self-defense. If this indeed was the work of some outsider trying to instigate a conflict between us and Sodorf, probably a few miles into Sodorf, there will be evidence of this. Such a large group of people couldn't march very far south into Sodorf without being detected themselves. No, they would march south for several miles and then change course, going back to their true homeland, hoping all the while we don't have the courage to cross the border and find this out for ourselves. If it does turn out to be Sodorfians that did this and General Sivingdon and his men come across them and engage them in combat, then I don't think there is a man here who would say he'd be acting unjustifiably. If General Sivingdon and his men cross the border and are confronted by Sodorfian soldiers, Sivingdon can present to them a letter signed by all of us stating immense agricultural damage has been incurred in Dachwald and appears to have been carried out by Sodorfians and that to rule the Sodorfians out as the perpetrators, we couldn't waste any time in diplomatic wrangling and had to cross the border to find out who or what was responsible, lest the tracks be washed away by the rain and leave a horrible doubt as to who caused the damage. If the Sodorfians truly seek peace, then they will understand our position and, in a spirit of peace, assist us in hunting down those responsible. If, having heard our motives, and being given the opportunity to send their troops across our border to see the damage for themselves, they still seek to attack us, then it would be they who would be in the wrong, not we. For they would almost certainly do the same thing if the situation were reversed. That is all."

Gullingsor took his seat. An uneasy silence invaded the room and lasted for several minutes. The senators weighed the words they had heard and tried to assess their impact on their fellow senators. Even King Duchenwald was silent.

Finally, he broke the silence. "How do you respond to these words?"

Silence still.

"Come, speak up.

"Fine, I will speak. I must admit Gullingsor's words powerfully argue for a completely different approach to this whole matter. Our initial response was affected more by a literal interpretation of an ancient treaty and how best to follow it. Gullingsor's words, on the other hand, go far deeper. He asks us to not simply parrot what is written in an ancient treaty, but ask ourselves what is in Dachwald's best interest under these extreme circumstances. Usually, we could deliberate for weeks—go home, think it over, take time to make sure we make the right decision. Unfortunately, time isn't one of our present allies. We must vote now. Do we authorize General Sivingdon to enter Sodorf, or do we send emissaries? We'll follow the decision of the majority."

He distributed tablets amongst the senators. Every senator's vote was worth one vote; King Duchenwald's, two; and, he would decide in the event of a tie. Twenty agonizing minutes of silence ensued while the senators weighed the pros and cons of each course of action. When they had all decided, they delivered their votes personally to King Duchenwald. Once the votes were all tallied, King Duchenwald read the results: eight votes for allowing General Sivingdon to cross the border, fourteen for sending emissaries. The senators eyed each other, wondering which way their counterparts had cast the die.

"Well, rightly or wrongly, we've decided against allowing Sivingdon to cross. Now let us proceed swiftly and not lose any time." King Duchenwald said.

An uneasy round of applause ensued. Lifeless applause. Like the applause you give watching a rival receive an award that was rightfully yours. Even those who had voted against letting Sivingdon cross the border were starting to second-guess themselves. The decision was made.

King Duchenwald left the room, as did the senators, and he handpicked two emissaries to go to the City of Sodorf. Their names were Sifindel and Lixen. Both spoke Sodorfian fluently and were knowledgeable of Sodorfian customs. Ten of the king's best bodyguards were also chosen to protect the two emissaries on their journey. Three of the bodyguards wore a sword as their main weapon, both long swords, weighing about forty pounds each and measuring five feet in length. Two carried longbows; three carried crossbows; another, a large halberd; and the tenth, a long flail.

This flail was a terrifying weapon. The steel pole to which one end of the chain was attached was about three feet long, and the other end of the chain was attached to a steel ball about ten inches in diameter. Fifteen razor-sharp spikes protruded from it, some straight outward, others at an angle. The spikes protruding straight would hit their target more or less head-on. The curved spikes would tear and cut through flesh. And they had the additional benefit of being able to hook an opponent's armor, drag him to the ground, and take him on a nice, long ride. They could also be used to hook an opponent's weapon and yank it from his grasp, leaving him as defenseless as a woman in a dark alley.

All the bodyguards were heavily armored, but their horses were lightly armored because speed was essential. The horses they and the emissaries would be riding were anything but ordinary. They were spider horses.

Many, many centuries ago, a man who was both a horse-breeding expert and a dabbler in magic figured out a way, using a secret combination of magical herbs and breeding, to produce horses with an extra pair of legs in the front and in the back, as well as razor-sharp teeth. Although the secrets for creating these horses were long lost, there were still a small number of them because Dachwaldian kings had continued breeding them with one other. Only the king could own one of these horses, but in the event of war or emergency sometimes generals or emissaries were allowed to borrow them. Dachwaldian kings had long dreaded the idea of their enemies getting a hold of these horses and breeding their own.

Fortunately for the Dachwaldian kings, there was a special recipe of oats—which the Dachwaldian kings guarded very closely—these horses had to eat, without which they would turn incredibly vicious, attack everyone and everything in sight, and then die within weeks. It was for this reason that over the centuries, although occasionally spider horses were captured by other nations, they weren't able to hang on to them. The horses turned on their new owners, who were utterly ignorant of the special oats they required, and devoured them with their sharp teeth or pulverized them with their powerful, sharp-hoofed legs.

The party got onto their spider horses—two large bags of special oats inside each saddlebag—and headed towards General Sivingdon. The saddle used was very different. There was a large, extra piece of leather brought tightly over the rider's legs to prevent him from falling off. Another piece of leather covered nearly all of the rider's back, and it was tied around the front of the horse's neck and trunk. This was to keep the rider from flying off when the horse galloped. Also, shock-absorbent leather helped the rider not to injure his back when he was thrust backwards. Anybody attempting to ride one without this special equipment would either have to be a master horseman or have a death wish.

The horses took off like an arrow shot out of a longbow, the harnesses straining against the riders' backward momentum.

During their ride, they passed Efenktor, whose horse was traveling at top speed, and he was astonished to see the party gallop past him as if he were standing still. He had a head start of at least several hours, and now, less than two hours after these men on their spider horses had taken off from Castle Dachwald, they had already passed him.

The senate sure didn't take too long to make up its mind, Efenktor thought to himself, watching the spider horses grow smaller and smaller off in the distance. Did the king and senate decide to give General Sivingdon permission to cross the border? As he wondered about this, he urged his horse to go faster.

Chapter 17

Sivingdon was impatient. Three days had passed now, and it could be another day or two before he heard back from Efenktor. Rain had been pouring down incessantly for the last several days, and although Efenktor was a phenomenal tracker, he was growing doubtful even Efenktor would be able to follow the tracks. When the tracks had first been discovered, even he could see them, although not without some difficulty. He had gained some tracking experience in the lower ranks of the Vechengschaft, and although his tracking skills were not masterful, they were respectable. At this point, he couldn't see any tracks at all, but was still holding out hope Efenktor or some of his other expert trackers might, but time was running out quickly.

"Kasani!" he yelled, cursing angrily at the long delay in action. He was tempted to simply send Singdor or one of his other trackers across the border, even though he would probably be court-martialed. Then, just as his anger and frustration were nearing their boiling point, he heard horses. They were far off, but he could hear the unmistakable sound of hooves striking the ground like the low roll of a drum.

His hopes soared.

(perhaps it's Efenktor hightailing it back to give me permission from King Duchenwald and the senate to cross the border and find out where these damn tracks lead!)

He grabbed a telescope and looked.

Nothing.

He waited a few minutes, and when he looked through it again, he could see the blurry outlines of approaching horsemen. As he continued watching, these blurry figures started to become sharper, and, about two minutes later they grew faces. There were twelve men, and he recognized all of them.

"Sifindel, Lixen, and ten of the royal bodyguards—what do they want?!" he asked himself out loud.

He wasn't sure what was going on, but he didn't like it. Where was Efenktor? He had sent Efenktor to inquire on this matter and report back. He noticed they were all riding spider horses.

(perhaps they simply traveled faster than him and he'll be arriving shortly after)

He got on his horse and rode out to meet them.

"Greetings, Lixen and Sifindel; I assume you have news for me."

"Greetings, General Sivingdon," Lixen responded, bowing. "We do indeed."

He handed General Sivingdon a scroll with the king's seal on it. Sivingdon read the message.

Fury enveloped him.

"This is an outrage!" he said, purple veins emerging from his neck like large vines on a tree.

"Doesn't the king realize that within one day these tracks will not be traceable?! It'll take you days to even reach the City of Sodorf, and there could be weeks of diplomatic wrangling before they even consider giving you permission! Then, there will be no tracks to follow, and our country will be at the mercy of the Sodorfians' charity!" he exclaimed bitterly.

"General Sivingdon," Sifindel responded, "you're shouting at the messengers, not the decision makers. Lixen and I are merely here to do as told; you know as well as I do it's the senate and king who make decisions. I suggest you express your unhappiness to them if you disagree with them."

Sivingdon realized Sifindel was right, but it didn't console him.

"What shall I do then with my men?!" he asked.

"King Duchenwald wishes for you and your men to stay at the border in case any invaders attempt to cross, or in case the Sodorfians give you and some of your trackers permission to cross."

"Very well," he said dejectedly. "Very well."

Lixen, Sifindel, and the ten bodyguards bowed and then said farewell as they set off towards the border and to the City of Sodorf.

Chapter 18

About a week later, all was quiet in the City of Sodorf. Talk of Pitkins became less and less frequent, especially after several additional searches of the town where Pitkins was attacked, the town where Pitkins disappeared, and many other surrounding towns failed to produce any new leads concerning his fate or whereabouts. Even Fritzer had lost hope of finding out where Pitkins was and what had become of him. Only Donive maintained hope. She had heard the vicious rumors that he had revealed "his true colors" as a treacherous vagabond and simply abandoned her. It infuriated her that the people who were so quick to jump to these conclusions were the same "nobles" that had been put to shame by Pitkins when true valor was needed.

To a certain extent, she could see why people would think Pitkins had abandoned her. With his martial prowess it was hard to conceive of him being kidnapped so quickly and silently that the commotion wouldn't wake her.

However, unlike most of the nobility, she believed in magic—both good and bad—and she believed Glisphin might have been at work. Over the course of the last several centuries, belief in things like Glisphin, dark magic, and Feiglushen, good magic, had waned. Many people believed these things were mere superstitions from a bygone era. She, however, was all but convinced that the strange wound Pitkins suffered was the result of some form of Glisphin. Perhaps the blade that had pierced his skin had a poisonous herb spread across it. She wasn't sure, but she certainly didn't think it was natural.

(but how could Pitkins have been kidnapped from your room without you even waking up?)

She didn't know. She just didn't know.

Fritzer was heading to the temple for a meeting. Ever since Pitkins' disappearance, he had been fighting a losing battle trying to convince the nobility they needed to at least slightly increase the size of the military, raise quality standards, and begin daily martial training as had been the custom during the first few centuries after the Seven Years War. His mind wandered to Donive. He was heartbroken for her loss and had tried everything to cheer her up. He had even permitted her to work in the kitchen with the chefs, something he always banned before, thinking manual work was beneath her. He wondered if he could convince her to marry again. But that would be against Sodorfian custom. Traditionally, if a husband or wife disappeared, unless the body could be found, or unless it could be proven the spouse was dead, the husband or wife would wait at least a year before remarrying. Fritzer knew in his heart of hearts, however, Donive would never remarry, even if Pitkins' body were found. Much less if it were not.

As he neared the temple, suddenly he saw a Sodorfian scout galloping his way, his horse kicking up dust as he neared him.

"Sir Fritzer," the scout said, "Dachwaldians are coming!"

Fritzer nearly jumped out of his skin.

Seeing Fritzer's panic, the scout, Tibin, said, "My apologies, Sir Fritzer; don't be alarmed. It's only two Dachwaldian emissaries accompanied by ten bodyguards. This doesn't appear to be an attack. The emissaries are wearing the traditional white robes of peace. They told us their destination is the City of Sodorf and they have a very important issue to discuss."

"Thank you, Tibin; I'll make the necessary arrangements."

"Yes, sir," Tibin replied and headed off.

Fortunately, most of the nobles were coming to the temple today anyway for the meeting, but attendance wasn't mandatory today, and he expected some of the nobles to not show up. Fritzer drove his boots hard against his horse's sides.

When he got to the temple, he saw there were already about a dozen nobles there. As he entered the temple, he shouted, "Emissaries from Dachwald are coming!" and immediately began ringing the large bell.

The nobles were flabbergasted. There had only been two or three times that Dachwaldian emissaries had come to Sodorf since the end of the Seven Years War. This was no banality. After ringing the bell for three minutes, Fritzer addressed the nobles that were already there, "I don't know what their purpose is. Tobin, one of our scouts, told me he saw them with his own two eyes. There are two emissaries, both dressed in the traditional white robes of peace, and they have only a small number of bodyguards accompanying them. They should probably be here soon, so we'll get our questions answered then."

The nobles that had planned on not attending the optional meeting quickly readied themselves and started heading towards the temple as soon as they heard the fulminating, ear-splitting sound of the temple bell.

"Not again!" some of them bellyached to their wives or to whomever they were with. "Let me guess: another search party is needed to try to track down that worthless Pitkins!!"

Within roughly thirty minutes, all of them were inside the temple and seated, and as the nobles trickled in one by one, Fritzer quite frustratingly had to explain over and over the reason for the meeting and the very little he knew about the situation. Finally, Tibin came rushing into the temple and said, "Here they come; they're almost here!"

The Sodorfians gawked at the twelve horsemen riding down the street like children observing a carnival show. Many of them noticed the unique characteristics of the Dachwaldians that they had read about in accounts of the Seven Years War and—in a very small number of cases—that they had heard about from actual Sodorfians who had lived in Dachwald. The twelve Dachwaldians all measured over six feet tall, and most were blond-haired and blue-eyed with very white skin. They were fierce looking. Most Sodorfians had dark brown or black hair and were shorter and less muscular.

They reached the temple, tied their horses, and, distrusting the hundreds of curious onlookers eyeing them up and down like visitors from outer space, removed their saddle bags from the horses. Lixen and Sifindel led the group, and as they entered the temple, they all got down on one knee and bowed.

"You may enter," said Fritzer, "but you must all leave your weapons by the entrance. As you can see, none of us are armed; we have also left our weapons by the entrance. This temple is a place of discussion, not bloodshed."

The twelve Dachwaldians looked at each other uneasily. Sensing their discomfort, Fritzer asked the Sodorfian nobles to open their cloaks and show they were unarmed. Finally convinced the lack of weaponry would be mutual, the Dachwaldians removed their weapons slowly and set them by the door.

"Thank you for respecting our custom," Fritzer said; "now please, we would like for the two emissaries to come forward and state the purpose of this visit. We politely request your bodyguards stay by the entrance."

They were also uneasy about this, but Lixen and Sifindel reassured them. Lixen and Sifindel walked to the area in front of where the nobles were seated.

Lixen began first. "Greetings, good nobles of Sodorf. First, I must confess, this is the first time I've ever been to Sodorf; it is a beautiful country! I have learned the Sodorfian language both from books and from a few Sodorfian tutors who live in Dachwald that have been kind enough to teach me your wonderful language. I must admit, your language is a much softer, prettier language than Dachwaldian. To cut to the chase, all of you want to know what in Kasani we're doing here, right?!"

The nobles nodded.

"I don't blame you. The history between our two countries is a very unfortunate one. Even though 830 years have passed since our calamitous war, I know there is still tension between our two countries. The memories and legends of such a brutal war die hard. I'm here because I don't want such an unfortunate conflict to ever break out again between our two peoples. Sadly, some events that have happened recently in my country have greatly increased the likelihood of that happening."

"What are you saying?!" shouted one noble, threateningly.

"ORDER!" shouted Fritzer; "Let him speak!"

"Thank you," said Lixen, and he continued. "A horrible tragedy has occurred in my country, and before I continue I want to make it absolutely clear that at this point I am not accusing the Sodorfians. However, over the course of last week, farmers began traveling to Castle Dachwald with horrible reports of wide-scale agricultural damage. We sent General Sivingdon and two thousand men to go and investigate. Nearly all of the crops in the vast expanses of lush, fertile farmland in the southern regions of Dachwald had been destroyed. Only edible vegation was destroyed, and all reports indicate that the damage occurred in a single night. Furthermore, no sightings of locust swarms or any other crop-eating insects have been reported. Thus, it is clear this was not the work of a fungus or insect but rather a thousand or more determined men working together. Our trackers discovered a thousand or more tracks leading towards the Sodorfian border! We are in danger of famine. Our senate almost authorized Vechengschaft troops into Sodorf to investigate, but they sent my small party of emissaries and bodyguards instead in an effort to avert war."

"It's a lie!" shouted Freidor, standing up and screaming accusatively at the top of his lungs; "this is a PRETEXT for war!"

"SILENCE!" shouted Fritzer; "let the emissary finish."

"Thank you again," said Lixen, addressing Fritzer. "This is NOT a pretext for war—far from it. In fact, General Sivingdon sent a tracker all the way back to Castle Dachwald to ask for permission simply to follow the tracks into Sodorf and see how far south they went. Even knowing the good intentions of General Sivingdon, the senate and King Duchenwald voted to send emissaries to the City of Sodorf first to request your permission for us to cross the border with a small group of trackers and soldiers—to work jointly with Sodorfian trackers and soldiers—to find out where the tracks lead to so that justice can be meted out. Please bear in mind, as you consider the request, the sacrifice and risk that we Dachwaldians made. There is very little chance, due to the heavy rain over the past several days in this area, that these tracks will even be visible for much longer.

"Even though the king and senate knew that by sending emissaries to ask for permission to cross the border under the foregoing guidelines we were probably losing the one chance we had of finding out just where these tracks lead, they still decided to ask for permission first, showing that our desire for vengeance, as righteous and understandable as it is, is trumped by an even greater desire—peace. That is why I beg of you: Please do not be dilatory in granting this request! As we speak, rain is washing away the tracks; if action isn't taken soon, the only things that will be left are suspicion and distrust on both sides. Sodorfians will think we made this up as 'a pretext for war,' as one of you has already opined; and Dachwaldians, many of whom might end up starving, will claim the Sodorfians got away with an egregious crime. I think it goes without saying where such widespread suffering and distrust would lead . . . . All I'm asking is that some of our best trackers be allowed to cross the border immediately, along with two hundred Vechengschaft. As for your troops, we ask that they remain slightly south of the border, as the tracks will be impossible to follow if even a small contingent of Sodorfians comes up from the south and mixes their footprints with those of the perpetrators.

"I wouldn't object to a small group of Sodorfians accompanying us to see the damage for themselves, but we would need assurance that, if the damage is as we tell you, we will be authorized to immediately execute the aforementioned plan under the stated guidelines; otherwise, as I said, it will be too late for us to ever know for sure who was responsible. I know you will need to discuss this alone. We can step outside while you discuss this amongst yourselves. I beg of you—please take into account the evidence that Dachwald greatly wishes to resolve this situation peacefully. The Dachwaldian senate had to make a very quick decision regarding this issue as well; please show the same thoughtfulness. That is all. Thank you."

Silence descended upon the room. Suspicion lurked in the nobles' minds. Finally, Fritzer broke the silence by thanking the emissaries for coming and politely asked them to step outside while the matter was discussed. They regathered their weapons and stepped outside.

"Well," Fritzer said, "what is your reaction?"

"Lies!" a noble shouted; "this has got to be a trap." "It is awfully suspicious!" opined another. "But they need help," said a third. "What kind of message is it going to send if we just sit on our laurels while they are in such great need of assistance?" asked another.

As the nobles debated this issue vigorously amongst themselves a bird, perched inside a small opening in one of the temple walls, watched the nobles intently as they bickered amongst each other. No one paid it much attention. Its cocked head and overly interested expression went unnoticed.

As the nobles continued to debate the issue, the tide of opinion changed constantly like the swirling, crashing waves of the ocean on a rocky beach. At moments it seemed the nobles were sure it was a trap. Perhaps no damage had been sustained, or the Dachwaldians had inflicted the damage themselves to have a pretext to demand the future right to cross the border without permission. Maybe the Dachwaldians were hoping to lure the Sodorfians from their defenses and deal a crushing blow to their best soldiers, followed by a ruthless assault on the city itself. However, as abundant as these fears were, quite a few thought perhaps the Dachwaldians really were sincere.

Freidor said, "The Dachwaldians need our help. We'd want them to help us if the situation were reversed. After all, the Dachwaldians sent emissaries over; this is in strict accordance with the Seven Years War Treaty. If the Dachwaldians were looking for trouble, they sure are picking a strange way to do so! I think this is a good sign. Perhaps this could be the beginning of an alliance, dare I say, even a friendship, with the Dachwaldians, instead of a mutually suspicious, fragile 'peace.'"

A few clapped. Some rolled their eyes. The tide kept turning.

"This isn't going to be an easy decision," said Fritzer, "but, the facts of the matter are the Dachwaldian emissaries are here, and they've followed the treaty to the letter thus far. I propose we have an anonymous vote right now."

Unable find any reason to oppose putting the matter to a vote, the nobles agreed, and Fritzer and Freidor began passing out pieces of parchment. After a tense fifteen minutes, the folded pieces of parchment were all placed on a large table in the front of the room. Fritzer and Freidor counted the votes three times to ensure accuracy. The result: 204 people in favor of lending assistance to the Dachwaldians and 196 against.

"Very well," said Fritzer, once again taking the floor; "by a slight majority we have voted to give some assistance to the Dachwaldians. I believe giving them assistance is the right thing to do. Now that we've decided we are going to give them some assistance, we must decide exactly how. Personally, although I'm not ashamed to say I voted in favor of assisting them, I also have some suspicions about their motives. In particular, I'm not very inclined to allow many, if any, Dachwaldian troops across our border for the purpose of hunting down these purported vandals. We're going to need to see considerable proof of the destruction before we even consider allowing Dachwaldian troops to enter Sodorf!

"If our trackers indeed observe horrible agricultural destruction as described by the Dachwaldians and indeed there are tracks leading from the southern farms towards our lands, I think we'll not have any other option than to at least allow a certain number of Dachwaldian soldiers and trackers to cross our border so they can join us in a cooperative search. Think of the unity and the trust that this could build between our two peoples—Dachwaldians and Sodorfians hunting down a common enemy together! If indeed this turns out to be some kind of wicked scheme, then the shame won't be on us. We will proceed cautiously, but we will proceed in a genuine manner that allows for the possibility the Dachwaldians are actually telling the truth. Bear in mind the fact that while indeed there is some risk involved in trusting the Dachwaldians, there is even greater risk in demonstrating complete distrust. If famine were to break out in their land and it could truthfully be said we did nothing either to assuage their misery or to allow them to find the perpetrators, it will be automatically assumed that we were the perpetrators, and an uneasy truce could certainly turn into a major war! I don't think a single person in here wants that."

Applause erupted. Confident, convinced applause. Most of the Sodorfian nobles, even the majority of those most staunchly opposed to allowing any Dachwaldians to cross the border, had been persuaded by Fritzer's speech that, while indeed they were taking some risk by going to the assistance of the Dachwaldians, there was certainly much greater risk in not doing anything. The only matter that remained to be discussed was the issue of how many people would accompany the Dachwaldians to the border. Inspired by the cogency of Fritzer's words, a new feeling of optimism spread amongst the nobles, and they started working much more harmoniously with one another to try to come to a fast agreement so they could soon be assisting their Dachwaldian brothers. After some further discussion, the Sodorfians, although not entirely devoid of dissension, decided that twenty-five Sodorfian trackers would accompany the two Dachwaldian emissaries and their ten bodyguards, as well as five hundred Sodorfian regular troops.

"It's settled then," Fritzer said; "we've made a decision; let us now call in the Dachwaldians."

Sifindel and Lixen remained waiting outside the temple. More than an hour had passed, and they were beginning to become somewhat agitated. Even if they left right now at full speed towards the border they would be lucky if any of the tracks were still left. This was unacceptable. Just as their agitation was about to reach its crescendo, they heard the temple doors open and a voice say, "Come in." Both Lixen and Sifindel were slightly anxious, not sure what to expect. They stood up straight and tall and walked into the temple with their bodyguards.

"Gentlemen," said Fritzer, "we are going to send twenty-five of our own trackers to investigate this damage and help you track down those guilty. We assure you that if Sodorfians are the culpable parties they will be turned over to Dachwald for punishment, and we will offer assistance to you both agriculturally and economically to help you survive the coming winter, given the substantial loss in harvest you've suffered. We'll also send five hundred Sodorfian regulars—should these perfidious vandals be successfully tracked down, we can fight them together as allies! We'll summon the twenty-five trackers and the five hundred regulars immediately!"

"Thank you, Sir Sodorf; I assure you King Dachwald will greatly appreciate this!" said Sifindel. Sifindel and Lixen bowed, and then they and their ten bodyguards picked up their weapons they had laid next to the temple entrance and exited the temple.

Optimism had returned.

Chapter 19

The bird that had been observing the meeting was a konulan, and it was now traveling north as fast as its tiny wings could possibly carry it. It knew all too well if it didn't get this information to Tristan in a timely fashion, it would be Koksun's next meal.

Tristan paced anxiously back and forth inside his cave. He was unusually tense. Everything had been going according to plan before he found out Dachwaldian emissaries were going to the City of Sodorf. In fact, the horrible devastation that he had wrought on the southern farms of Dachwald had exceeded his expectations. When he had received the report from one of his konulans that emissaries were crossing the border into Sodorf, he almost had a heart attack right on the spot. This wasn't part of the plan. This was a deviation, and he did not like deviations. Unfortunately, he had almost no way of spying on the king and his senators when they were in Castle Dachwald, so he had no idea what had been decided. This left him completely in the dark. He had let the konulan know if it didn't find out everything of import, it would find itself exploring the inside of Koksun's stomach.

He had tried to take into account every contingency. His biggest fear had been General Sivingdon would simply say to hell with the rules and cross the border, or even get permission to do so. What he had hoped for was King Duchenwald would deny permission to cross at all.

Suddenly, just when he thought his head was going to explode from all the building tension, he heard the unmistakable sound of a konulan's beating wings.

This better be THE konulan, he thought to himself.

Koksun licked his lips with anticipation of what he hoped would be a wonderful, feathery treat. As the konulan got closer, Tristan, having lost all patience, held out his hand and yanked the terrified bird towards him like an invisible chameleon tongue snatching an insect from thin air.

"Tell me—what have you found out?!" Tristan thundered to the bird he now held in front of him by the throat.

Koksun, overly excited by the prospect of eating the bird, jumped towards it. Tristan backhanded him hard, sending him flying across the room and crashing into several large books on Glisphin and poisons.

"You eat konulans when I feed them to you, and only when I feed them to you!! Do I make myself clear?!" Tristan shouted. Koksun meowed loudly and indignantly and then went and hid underneath several large books, embarrassed at having been handled so roughly in front of a lowly spy bird.

Turning back to the bird with fiery eyes, he repeated his question, "What have you found out?!"

"Master, the Sodorfians have agreed to assist the Dachwaldians! As we speak, five hundred Sodorfian regulars and twenty-five Sodorfian trackers are accompanying the two Dachwaldian emissaries and their ten bodyguards. I listened to their whole meeting. They're going to check to see if the damage is as bad as the Dachwaldians say it is. They also want to see if the tracks truly go from Dachwald into Sodorf. In the event they do, they've agreed to work in tandem to hunt down those responsible. Master, there seems to be quite a bit of unity arising between the Dachwaldians and Sodorfians. It seems like—"

"SILENCE!!" shouted Tristan. "Bird, if you value your miserable little life, fly like the wind to Feiklen. Tell him I'll be there shortly. Tell him to be ready to do battle!"

"Yes, Master." Off it flew.

Tristan felt slightly bad for having struck Koksun; he was really one of his favorite possessions in the whole world.

"Here kitty, kitty, kitty." He heard Koksun meow cautiously. "I have something I think you'll like."

Koksun shyly exited his hiding spot, tail low, ready to make an abrupt dash for safety at the first sign of danger. In Tristan's hand was a konulan. The hapless thing was becoming incompetent in its old age; one of its fellow konulans had turned it in for sleeping when it was supposed to be spying.

"Please, master, don't feed me to that horrible cat; I've worked hard for you for many years. Please I beg of you; I—"

As soon as Tristan set the konulan down on the table, Koksun leaped across the room, clearing four feet easily, maybe five. His eyes, previously innocent, grew large with a maniacal desire that went far beyond hunger. He tore into the poor bird, which died quickly—possibly from fright as much as being torn to pieces. No longer would it have to serve Tristan.

Chapter 20

It was now the Dachwaldians' and Sodorfians' second day of traveling. The twelve Dachwaldians were led the group, about twenty feet in front. The Sodorfians had a confused mixture of feelings. To a certain extent, many felt optimistic. Here they were, with their age-old adversaries, the Dachwaldians, marching together in unity. The rain continued to come down hard, striking the ground repeatedly like miniature bombs being dropped by vengeful clouds. The sky was dark gray, and the clouds stirred about angrily. An occasional bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, painting some interesting geometric formations and causing more than a few of the ironclad soldiers to flinch as they thought about the effect the lighting would have if it connected with their helmets. A few of the bolts of lightning struck some trees off in the forest, singeing them instantly and smashing a couple of them into pieces. Notwithstanding the slight optimism, all the Sodorfians were feeling on edge. The lighting seemed foreboding.

"It shouldn't be too much farther," announced Lixen in a loud voice.

Ehbit was one of the Sodorfian regulars, and he was traveling in the very front row. The twelve Dachwaldians were about twenty feet ahead of them. Ehbit was a tall man for a Sodorfian, standing about six feet tall, and had a long, dark beard. His nose was slightly long and just a little crooked at the top, the result of a bar fight. As the soldiers traipsed through the mud, every once in a while one of their boots would get stuck, and they would have to pull hard to yank it out of the soggy ground. Ehbit was feeling nervous; he didn't really trust the Dachwaldians at all. He liked the idea of being at peace with them, but he didn't trust them.

SWIIISSSSSHHHH!! Suddenly out of nowhere an arrow came flying through the air and passed through his throat completely. Blood sprayed out of his neck as soon as the razor-sharp arrowhead made contact with a small area of unarmored flesh on his throat. It covered the faces of several Sodorfians standing next to and behind him. He immediately went into shock, blood pumping out of both sides of his neck with great force in sync with the beating of his heart. He tried to swear because of the pain, but simply gurgled blood. He fell to his side, causing several soldiers standing next to him to jump out of his way.

"IT'S A TRAP!!!" one of the Sodorfians yelled.

Arrows began raining out of the large, thick clusters of trees. But this rain didn't fall harmlessly on them like the bothersome droplets of water had been doing all day. Within seconds, scores of Sodorfians looked like porcupines from all the arrows flying out of the forest, crashing through their armor, and burying themselves in their bodies. They immediately began to panic.

"RETREEEEAT! RETREEEEAT!!" yelled a Sodorfian officer; "we're being ambushed!!" The Sodorfian troops were now in complete disarray and fleeing wildly for their lives.

Suddenly, from high, high above, they saw something coming towards them. They couldn't tell what it was . . . a dragon . . . a falling tree, struck by lightning perhaps? As it came closer they realized it was a large tree attached to a rope and was swinging towards them like a pendulum. It was about a hundred feet long and twenty feet wide, and on the front of it was a row of glistening spikes. The spikes looked like the smiling fangs of a devilish monster preparing to give an unsolicited kiss. They were attached to a piece of steel perpendicularly placed on the front of the tree as wide as the path itself.

"KASANIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!" yelled several Sodorfians in horror as they watched this terrifying missile approach them. As it neared them its speed easily exceeded a hundred miles per hour.

THUD!! WHACKK!! For a brief second, sparks flew as the steel spikes made contact with the steel armor of their targets. Giving the unsolicited kiss. It was as if about fifteen glass pitchers of blood had been hurled at each other at a hundred miles per hour. Blood flew far up into the air, even drenching some of the nearby trees. As this horrible device completed its descent, it then proceeded to somehow run horizontally for about a hundred feet before it began to rise up in the air once again. It seemed to be a living, breathing organism. And it wanted to keep on kissing.

Several men whom it just barely missed wet themselves from fear and shock. Each spike had about fourteen screaming, writhing Sodorfians impaled on it like flailing sardines on an extra-long shish kebab as the wooden beast sailed high up into the air, north of the Sodorfians. Some had been impaled cleanly, a spike going directly through their torso. Others had been hit in different places, such as the skull, and these were picked up in the air only briefly, the impact shattering their skulls so completely they couldn't stay attached to the spikes. Others were pierced right through their thighs and were hanging upside down and bleeding profusely as they sailed through the air.

The utter greenness of the Sodorfians began to show. While all this was going on, many of them were so paralyzed with shock and fear they simply couldn't move, and while the deadly swinging spear was doing its damage, arrows continued flying from the trees, turning dozens of additional Sodorfians into bloody pincushions. The arrows went right through the Sodorfians' armor like a hot knife through butter. Then, the huge swinging monster began to come towards them again, like a relentless stalker. A few of the dozens of men impaled on the spikes were still conscious enough to be screaming horribly, and as the spear began to swing back the other way, the Sodorfians on the ground could hear the screams of their hapless companions, quite faint a second ago while the spear soared hundreds of feet up into the air, begin to increase in volume. They turned, and to their horror they realized the other end of the swinging spear was also lethally armed. It was equipped with two blades on either side that came towards each other, making a triangle of razor-sharp steel. They tried to run to either side of the path and get out of the way. Some even tried to simply outrun the beast, but the sticky mud made for slow moving.

The screams emitted as they helplessly watched the device rush towards them could give a wolf nightmares.

CRASHH!!! As it slammed into them, it severed over two hundred in half instantly. Unfortunately, as their severed torsos hit the ground, they didn't all have the good fortune of dying instantly, although none were far from death.

A few looked at each other, each wishing there was some way he could help the other, as large pools of blood formed around them on the ground. There were only eight Sodorfians alive at this point out of the original 525 that had come. Seeing their boots were slowing them down in the mud, they quickly pulled them off and began running down the path in their bare feet like madmen. They were shaking with fear, their whole bodies trembling uncontrollably. They were mumbling strange things not found in any known language. Although perhaps it was the language all men speak when death is mere seconds away.

SHOOMMM!! Fortunately for them, they barely managed to get out of the way as the large tree descended yet again to destroy everything in its path. It sailed harmlessly over the mutilated, bloody corpses of its previous victims. Victims it had already kissed. It was slowing down now, like a lion that has finally satisfied its hunger. Yet the gust of wind created by its passage was still strong enough to knock them off their feet.

Although these eight Sodorfians had been lucky enough to just barely miss a kiss from this monster, they weren't all lucky enough to survive the next volley of arrows that came whizzing out of the dark forest.

SHOOMM!! SHOOMM!! SHOOMM, SHOOMM, SHOOMM, SHOOMM, SHOOMM!! Seven were felled by the volley of arrows. Only Ruksin was spared. Terrified, covered in filth, gore—and not to mention some of his own bodily fluids—he ran south, frightened to death. His large brown eyes were dilated so wide they looked like saucers. He was shaking, talking to himself. His psyche only had a few strands of sanity left, which he held to desperately like a man holding the slimy hand of a friend hanging over the side of a tall cliff with alligators at the bottom. The grasp slipping, slipping away each moment.

Suddenly, the whir of arrows from within the forest ceased as abruptly as it had started. But not the rain. The large spear had more or less ceased swinging now. Each end of it looked like the mouth of a lion that has been starved for weeks and then let into a barn full of sheep to devour ravenously.

Chapter 21

Lixen, Sifindel, and most of the bodyguards had now crossed the Sodorfian-Dachwaldian border. When the fighting had started, two of the bodyguards had been killed by the overwhelming barrage of arrows that had come flying out of the woods. If it had been up to them, they would have stayed and fought, but their mission was to protect the emissaries, and they had no choice other than to form a defensive circle around Lixen and Sifindel and command them to run like the wind. They had galloped north on their spider horses, whose wide hooves and quick gait permitted them to gallop through the mud as if on hard soil, oblivious to the devastation occurring behind them. They mistook the screams of agony behind them as the Sodorfians' shouts of frustration at their quarry having narrowly escaped the trap—that is, with exception of Tulgug, an overly curious bodyguard who had looked over his shoulder. As they crossed the border, which was about ten miles north from where the battle had taken place, General Sivingdon came rushing up to them on his horse, sword in hand, and began firing questions excitedly.

"Do we have permission?! Can I cross the border?! Where are the Sodorfians? Wait a second, there were ten bodyguards; what happened to the other two? What's going on here?!"

"We were attacked by those perfidious Sodorfian traitors!" yelled Lixen. "They must not have liked the fact we were on to them and knew we were going to find out it was they who had destroyed our crops! Those mercenaries ambushed us! We lost two men, and the rest of us barely escaped!"

"Then it will be war!!" shouted General Sivingdon; "I'll assemble my men at once. We will attack immediately!"

"Not so fast!" said Tulgug, the largest of the royal bodyguards. "I happened to take a look back as soon as the arrows started flying, and I swear I saw some Sodorfians being struck by arrows as well! In fact, just before I lost sight of the Sodorfians due to a small hill blocking their view, I could almost swear I saw some of them impaled on some kind of flying tree!"

General Sivingdon's face turned white. "If I find out some of my men attacked without orders, I'll have every last one of them impaled on spikes!! Captain Mindgkor?!"

"Yes, General."

"Go check on all of the men. Make sure they're all accounted for!"

"Yes, General. Right away!"

General Sivingdon was sweating bullets. He knew if it turned out some of his men had become hotheaded and attacked without orders he was going to be in a load of trouble. First of all, he would ultimately be considered responsible for what could turn out to be the beginning of a major war. Secondly, he could be held responsible for violating the king's explicit orders, notwithstanding the fact he had authorized no such attack.

"What do you think about Tulgug's statements?! Is he telling the truth, and if so, what do you think it means?!" General Sivingdon asked Lixen, frantic for an explanation. He hated not having been allowed to be there to see what happened firsthand, given that he suspected deep down he would ultimately be considered responsible for what happened.

"My job is to carry messages on behalf of my sovereign and to deliver messages to my sovereign, not to engage in speculation. That is the job of the king and the senate. I must report to the king the known facts, and it will be up to the king and the senate to fill in the blanks," Lixen said dryly, having lost the enthusiasm he seemed to have a moment ago when he had first told General Sivingdon his opinion. Then, almost as an afterthought, he said, "The king will probably want to know whether you have thoroughly investigated the possibility of any of your troops being involved. Sifindel can stay here, and then as soon as you find out whether you can rule out the possibility of your own troops being involved in this attack, Sifindel can come to Castle Dachwald and give his report."

"Well, I don't like it, but until I receive new orders from the king, I have no choice other than to wait for the Sodorfians to arrive and give my trackers permission to cross or at least tell us what in Kasani is going on! Something that clearly is not going to happen now!"

Lixen mounted his horse and rode off at a full gallop.

The rain continued to fall hard. Sivingdon was as perplexed as he was outraged. He noticed most of the tracks weren't even visible at all now. His only hope was that something would change for the better soon, and his trackers would still be able to follow some of the tracks. He had confidence some still could, but time was running out fast. His mind began to engage in endless speculation about who could have been behind the attacks. The apparent fatalities of a number of Sodorfians complicated what would have otherwise been the obvious explanation that the Sodorfians wanted war. But would they kill their own troops in order to accomplish this? he asked himself.

Chapter 22

About two or three days later, the nobles were starting to grow anxious, having heard no updates on the situation, and were wondering what was taking so long. Fritzer decided to organize a meeting so the nobles could discuss whether they should send more troops to find out the cause of the delay. As the nobles began to pour into the temple, a horseman was heard barreling down the road.

"Make way!! Make way!!" the horseman shouted. Startled women and children rushed to the sides of the road to get out of the way of this horseman, who apparently had urgent business. Bundor, one of the Sodorfian nobles, was making his way towards the temple for the meeting when he heard the commotion. He could hear the pounding of the horse's hooves against the hard stone road growing louder and louder. Bundor shouted inside the temple, "Hey, come out here!!"

The nobles looked at each other in bewilderment and quickly began walking towards the entrance. As the horseman came nearer, Bundor noticed a rope around the rider's torso securing a passenger that was either dead or unconscious. He approached the horseman, who brought his horse to a halt just outside the temple entrance.

"Found'em just outside of Seihdun," he announced. "Found'em just like this. I was goin' on a hunt, and lo' and behold I come across this here fella runnin' down the muddy road barefoot, drenched in blood, and scared to death. He was shakin' all over and stammerin' terrible. The last plain words he spoke before passin' out was something like, 'Get me to the City of Sodorf; I must speak with the nobles!' I spent a few years in the Sodorfian army, and I could tell by his armor, in spite of all of the blood coverin it, that he was a Sodorfian regular. I hadn't been to the City of Sodorf for a long time, and I knew it was going to be a long ride, but I could tell that this young fella had somethin real important to tell y'all, so I rode down here as fast as I could, armed only with ma bow n' arrow, to deliver'm to you. He couldn't ride by hisself, so I had to strap him tightly on my horse while I rode. It wasn't exactly a comfortable journey—no, sir!"

Fritzer emerged from the temple and was horrified. "Uchinweld!" he uttered in astonishment. "What in Kasani has happened?" he asked, quickly approaching the Sodorfian regular. "Quick! Let's get him inside. Hurry!"

Fritzer and Bundor each grabbed one end of the pale, nearly lifeless body and took it inside the temple. They then took off the soldier's bloodstained armor to see if he had sustained any serious wounds. Upon examining him, it did not look like he had . . . at least not physical ones. Some scrapes and some bruises but nothing more.

"He must just be in shock," one of the nobles said. The man's face was deathly white. He was breathing, but sporadically. For a few moments he would breathe lightly, and then suddenly begin wheezing and struggling for air.

"We've got to find out what this man had to say before we lose him!!" Fritzer screamed. "Someone bring cold water now!!"

One of the nobles stepped outside the temple and barked the order at a servant standing outside the temple. He quickly ran towards the nearest well to comply with his master's request. He came back about twenty minutes later with a bucket full of ice-cold water. The Sodorfians had a system of deep underground tunnels that brought freezing cold water from lakes high up in the mountains to wells located throughout the city.

The bucket was brought inside the temple and handed to Fritzer.

"Hold him upright," he said.

Bundor grabbed the soldier and sat him up. Fritzer carefully poured some freezing cold water over the soldier's face and down the back of his neck. The soldier moved a little, as if he could sense the contact the cold water made with his skin, but did not wake up. Fritzer waited a few more moments and then tried again, cautiously. The soldier stirred more this time, and even mumbled something in a soft voice, but didn't come out of his unconsciousness. Forgetting for a moment the extremely fragile condition the soldier was in, Fritzer grabbed the bucket of ice-cold water and flung all of its contents full-force at the soldier's face and began shaking him, saying, "Wake up! Wake up!"

Suddenly, the soldier came to, his eyes open wide like saucers, and he began to scream, "No! No! Don't kill me! Please don't kill me!!"

He began struggling frantically and violently to free himself from the grips of the several nobles trying to hold him still. The look in his eyes was one of an utter lunatic. His pupils were widely dilated. The utter horror and terror in his eyes unlike anything the nobles had ever seen.

"What on earth are you talking about?!" asked Fritzer. "You're safe; no one here wants to harm you. Calm down!"

The soldier's eyes darted about rapidly, evaluating his surroundings, trying to figure out whether the men surrounding him meant to do him harm. He was drooling and stammering, and one of his legs was twitching violently.

"For Kasani's sake," said Fritzer, "would someone get this man a good stiff drink!!"

Fortunately, for this it wasn't necessary to even leave the temple, as the temple itself contained a large cache of strong liquor. It was usually only drunk on special occasions and in relatively small quantities, as this was some of the finest, oldest, most expensive spirits in all of Sodorf. However, there was to be no moderation in this case. Bundor brought Fritzer a large bottle of Haftler, one of the strongest brands.

"Hold him steady!" said Fritzer. A few more nobles joined in to help steady the writhing, paranoid soldier.

"Open wide!" said Fritzer. Fortunately, his mouth was already slightly open, since he was stammering and moaning incessantly. A noble standing behind the writhing soldier sensed perhaps he was going to close his mouth as soon as the bottle came near, so he grabbed the soldier's mouth to keep it open. He did the right thing, because just as Fritzer brought the bottle near his mouth, he tried to close it and turn away. It took all of the noble's strength to keep this wild man's jaws open, but he somehow managed. Fritzer began pouring the Haftler right down the man's gullet. Although still terrified, the soldier felt a warming sensation come over him as the Haftler went down his throat, into his stomach, and started producing its powerfully intoxicating effects. Sensing the slight relaxation of the man, the noble holding his jaws open cautiously let go. The soldier grabbed the bottle with both hands and began drinking the strong spirits with all the vigor and enthusiasm of a lifelong drunk.

After about ten seconds of non-stop guzzling, he pulled his mouth away.

The nobles looked at him anxiously.

Slowly, his leg ceased twitching. The drool that had been running out of his mouth stopped. He started to relax. Although he was now utterly drunk.

"They're all dead," he said plainly, looking straight ahead with glassy, nearly lifeless eyes, not looking at anything or anyone in particular.

"All of them," he repeated, "DEAD!"

Fritzer could tell he was quickly beginning to lose consciousness again, so he knew he had better not waste time.

"Tell us everything," he said softly, in a soothing voice.

"We were marching," he said. "The Dachwaldians were in front. They were going to show us the way. They were going to show us where—" Suddenly, the soldier began coughing violently. He wheezed and hacked for a few minutes and then finally regained most of his composure. "Forgive me. They were going to show us where all of the damage had supposedly been done to their farmland. Suddenly, arrows came out of the forest from everywhere. It was a well-planned, well-executed ambush. No doubt about it. There must have been over a thousand of them. We tried to flee, but the mud made running impossible and walking difficult. Suddenly, a huge device that must have been tied hundreds of feet up in the tallest trees and attached to a large rope came swinging down. There were spikes all over it. It smashed, impaled, and otherwise tore to pieces hundreds of men. I could see the Dachwaldians—they were the only ones on horseback—fleeing northward as soon as the ambush began. It looked to me as if they all made it out of there alive. It was a trap. Plain and simple. I saw my friends die and—"

Before he could finish, he passed out.

"Get this man to a hospital!" barked Fritzer. The nobles ordered the servants inside the temple, and they hastily grabbed the soldier and began transporting him to a hospital.

"So," said Fritzer, "the Dachwaldians once again wish to wage war against us and enslave us; and we believed they came to us in a spirit of peace and lawfulness!" He smiled a strange, angry smile that bespoke his mixed feelings of anger and astonishment at just how thoroughly the Dachwaldians had deceived them. "We will have to look to our defenses," he announced.

Chapter 23

Upon feeding the konulan to Koksun, Tristan knew he didn't have much time to spare. It took quite a bit of energy to fly long distances, and he didn't want to be exhausted when he arrived to give orders to Feiklen, but he didn't want to call a pholung and wait for it to arrive. The solution was a stash of a substance called Kapur, which was extremely difficult to make. It required at least four to five weeks of work to simply mix properly.

It was a painfully precise combination of anacobra venom and rare herbs called Kilur that had to be mixed with a specific proportion: three percent anacobra venom, ninety-seven percent Kilur. If this proportion was in any way inaccurate, it was rendered worthless. Although a grandmaster of Glisphin and very precise in all his calculations, making this substance was so difficult and time-consuming he rarely did so. Once completed, it had to sit for six months before being used. He marked the bags carefully so he knew how long they had been sitting on his shelf.

In the end it was worth it, however, because Kapur made it much easier for forces to be channeled—at least those which enable flight. He reached up and grabbed a bag. Per the label, it was well over six months old.

He withdrew a mug from a cabinet and walked over to the eastern wall of his cave. He had access to running water, which came from an elaborate system of small tunnels originating from a stream about two miles away, on top of the canyon. He pulled a lever, filled his mug with cold water, poured Kapur into it, pinched his nose, and chugged it all in one gulp.

He felt a strength pulsating through him.

He hated flying during the day. Seeing an object fly through the air that didn't resemble a bird could raise questions, questions he didn't want people asking. The solution was a large bird he killed ages ago that was about as long as he was tall. He had removed the bird's insides and preserved the carcass by keeping it in a cold room and stuffing it with spices. He hated using it, however, because afterwards he had to restuff the thing.

He crawled through the secret passageway and entered his bedroom. Underneath the bed was another secret passageway. One of the floorboards could be removed, which revealed a large handle, which, upon being pulled, caused a section of the floor to fold back. Each individual floorboard had small hinges, so as the floor was pulled away, it folded up nicely. This revealed a staircase, and Tristan descended the steps.

The room was cold. About ten miles from here was a large mountain with a glacier on top. About two hundred feet below its surface was a trap door about twenty feet in width and thirty feet in length designed in such a fashion that whenever Tristan pulled on a large rope—located in this room—the trap door gave way, and about fifty pounds of icy snow came barreling through the trap door entrance and then passed through a series of slick steel passages until being deposited in this room. As the snow slowly melted, it was caught in a series of small holes that led to a passage below the cave that ultimately exited into a small stream in the valley below. Tristan walked into the room and picked up the large, spice-stuffed pholung. He shook it vigorously, dumping all of the spices out, and then went back up the staircase and put the floorboards back in their original arrangement.

The wall inside his bedroom that faced the entrance to the cave was a sliding door with a bookcase on it. He approached it and pulled back on Origins of Glishpin, which exposed a large steel handle he pulled on and slid back the entire bookcase. He dragged the hollowed-out bird carcass into the entrance of his cave and set it down. He went back inside his room to select a weapon. He scanned the large array of instruments of death and finally decided to pick his old favorite—the longbow.

He put it inside the bird, along with a quiver of about two hundred arrows, grabbed his staff, and put it inside as well. Then, he pulled the bookcase wall back into position. Koksun looked at him curiously as he got inside the carcass. There were a few leather straps inside the carcass to hold weapons, and he used these to tightly secure the longbow and arrows. He then got inside the carcass and wrapped his legs around the staff. There were holes protruding from the bird's carcass that his arms went through, and on the bottom of each wing was a small handle. He took off into the air, occasionally flapping the bird's wings. He had told Feiklen to have the Moscorians hide just north of the town of Seihdun, along the large dirt path that continued north to the border of Dachwald.

It was an ugly day. Still raining hard. Lightning flashed intermittently across the sky, sometimes striking a tree and causing branches and splinters to go flying in different directions as if a small case of dynamite had just been exploded. Tristan was not particularly worried about the lightning. He could sense the forces in the sky that formed it and carefully moved when necessary to avoid a collision.

About two hours later he saw the path far below him. Seeking to enter the forest stealthily, he chose to first land on top of one of the largest trees—a huge massive tree that stood at least six hundred feet tall. From the top, he scanned the ground carefully, looking for any sign of the Moscorians.

Nothing.

This pleased him. If he couldn't see them, they were hiding well, which was what he had ordered.

(unless they're simply not here)

He breathed deeply, smelling the air. Sure enough, he smelled them.

He decided to scout the area before making further efforts to locate the Moscorians. Flying away from the large, six-hundred foot tree, he began circling the area. Upon flying north about ten miles, he saw hundreds upon hundreds of Vechengschaft waiting right next to the border. With his eagle-like vision, he could even see some of their faces and expressions. Some of the Vechengschaft looked like they were really looking forward to doing some fighting. That fighting spirit will eventually come in handy, he thought to himself.

He circled back to the top of another tree more or less in the same area on which he had been perched before, except on the other side of the path. He scanned the ground again, his eyes devouring every leaf, every twig, every speck of dirt, like a hawk. Just when he was about to become seriously frustrated, he saw something move. Down on the forest floor, hundreds of feet beneath him, some leaves rustled. Tristan reached inside his pocket and removed a small shell with a pebble inside it and shook it until it made three clicks.

He counted to thirty.

He heard numerous shells make two simultaneous clicks all throughout the forest. He smiled. There was still hope.

Tristan climbed out of the carcass, lowered himself to the ground, and clicked his shell again.

From underneath the leaves, like sprouting plants emerging from the soil, hundreds of Moscorians slowly rose. Fog and mist hovered above the ground. The Moscorians were all heavily armored. Not a single inch of exposed skin on their entire bodies. The portion of their helmets covering their faces was made out of solid steel carved in the shape of a skull. They had camouflage netting draped over them, laced with a combination of mud, branches, and leaves. A large Moscorian approached Tristan cautiously.

"Master?" he said in a low voice. It was Feiklen.

"It's okay; you can speak up," said Tristan. "I've scoured the area. There's no one within miles. Right now, our primary concern is setting up an ambush. Soon silence will be of absolute necessity, but until then we have a large amount of work to do."

"Yes, master," Feiklen said, in a low, guttural voice.

"How many Moscorians are with you?"

"Three hundred," Feiklen responded, "all equipped with longbows and other weapons."

"Good," Tristan responded; "however, arrows alone won't be enough. We have to create a large booby trap. I have the perfect trap in mind. The first thing we have to do is cut down a very large tree."

"My men can do that."

"Good. It needs to be over one hundred feet long and at least twenty feet wide."

"Yes, master."

"Have a group of men begin work on that, and then report back to me."

Feiklen went off into the forest with a group of Moscorians to find a tree that matched Tristan's specifications the closest. As soon as they had done so, he had them begin chopping it down with their large halberds. Then, Feiklen returned to Tristan to see what would be required next.

"Show me what kinds of sharp objects you have available for this booby trap," Tristan ordered. Feiklen brought him to a location about fifty feet away from the path, where he removed a large number of leaves, revealing a frightening array of spears, spikes, and other instruments of death. One object, in particular, caught Tristan's eye, however. A short, yet wide, T-shaped, steel object. Along the top of what looked like a T were numerous sockets which obviously had some use.

"Tell me," Tristan said, "what exactly does this instrument do?"

Feiklen smiled evilly. "Oh, you will really like this." He picked up a large steel spike that was razor sharp towards the end. The bottom portion had threads on it, allowing it to be screwed into the sockets. Feiklen took the spike—at least fifteen feet long—and began screwing it into a socket. It didn't take but a few seconds for Tristan to realize the lethal use of this device. Excited by the death that it could wreak, he quickly dropped his role of overseer, picked up a spike, and began screwing it into a socket with all the glee of a six-year-old assembling a new toy. Feiklen assisted him, and after about ten minutes, they had screwed in fifteen long spikes along the twenty-foot-wide, steel, T-shaped rod.

While Feiklen and Tristan had been working together on creating this lethal device, the sound of loud chopping had echoed throughout the forest. It was noisy, but Tristan was confident no one was close enough to hear it except for them. Besides, he had Moscorian pickets posted in a circular formation, about ten miles in diameter, approximately one per mile. While he knew that neither the Sodorfian regulars nor the Dachwaldian emissaries and their bodyguards would be here until tomorrow afternoon, there was always the possibility a stray hunter or traveler might venture through the area. Their minutes would be numbered as soon as a Moscorian spotted them.

As soon as Feiklen and Tristan finished screwing in the last spikes, the chopping ceased. A large crash followed. The tree had been cut down. Feiklen and Tristan went to inspect it.

"This will do," said Tristan; "now, cut it at the ends and make the cut smooth and clean. If it's not even, it'll be hard to stick the spikes into. Cut it so its length is a hundred feet."

"Yes, master," the three Moscorians who had cut down the tree responded. They set to work immediately. The forest was so thick that when the tree fell, it had initially not been able to hit the ground. It got stuck on numerous branches during its fall, even though its immense mass and heavy weight had snapped in half most of the branches in its way, and the tree remained at about a forty-five degree angle. A dozen or so Moscorians began yanking and pulling on the tree, tying ropes to it and pulling with all their strength. Some of the other Moscorians climbed up into the trees whose branches were keeping the tree upright and began sawing away. Within about ten or fifteen minutes, the Moscorians managed to get the tree all the way down to the ground. They then quickly set about sawing off its branches. Having done so, they measured one hundred feet of the tree, using a thin string wrapped around a cylindrically shaped piece of wood, with a diameter sufficient for one thousand feet of this string to be wound around it without slipping off. Every foot was marked with a stroke of red paint, every half-foot with a stroke of black paint. In between the black strokes were tiny blue markings to demarcate inches.

They began sawing. Strong as they were, it was backbreaking work, and they had to stop and take turns with the heavy saw about every ten minutes so they could keep up a brisk pace. It took about thirty minutes of sweaty, backbreaking work to saw through the ten-foot-thick tree, but they achieved a clean cut. Seeing that they were done, Tristan ordered them to bring it down to the path. To carry this huge tree was going to take strength and plenty of it. All the Moscorians except the pickets came to assist.

To carry the tree they used a special tool: a thick leather strap, which could be adjusted to a length of anywhere from fifteen to thirty feet, with steel handles on either side. Using about thirty-five of them, they laid each on the ground, perpendicular to the tree, and then began pushing the tree with all of their might onto the middle of the straps. Due to the absence of branches and the nearly unhuman strength of the Moscorians, it only took them about a minute of pushing to roll the tree into the correct spot. Now came the hardest part—picking it up and carrying it to the path.

They each grabbed one of the steel handles attached to their end of the thick leather strap. The seventy Moscorians counted to three, and then simultaneously lifted with all of their might. The tree was lifted, but the Moscorians were certainly using every ounce of strength they had.

"Forward!!" they shouted in unison. As they pushed ahead, the other Moscorians worked to clear room for them. Finally, after about ten minutes of straining, they managed to get the tree to the middle of the path.

"Time to switch," said Pitgon, a middle-ranking Moscorian, with a smile on his face. Seventy Moscorians replaced the previous seventy and began carrying the tree, which weighed thousands of pounds, down the path. They struggled with their burden but managed to carry it about fifty feet before they were replaced by another seventy fresh Moscorians. This process continued for the next hour, by which time they had carried the tree about a quarter of a mile down the path from where it had been cut.

"Now," Tristan said, "we must turn this harmless clump of wood into a real weapon." He and Feiklen carried the T-shaped object with all of the razor-sharp spikes jutting out of it towards the tree, and then Pitgon and another Moscorian grabbed opposite sides and held it directly in front of the tree. The bottom of the T was sharp and designed to be hammered into wood. Directly on top of the T, there was a round, thick portion of steel onto which one could hammer away without breaking the device.

"Hammer!" Feiklen called out. It was superfluous. Kihlgun stood there, his eyes gleaming, his palms growing sweaty with anticipation, holding his behemoth battle hammer in his hands. Kihlgun came forward. Feiklen and Pitgon nervously held opposite sides of the device, dreading the reverberations that would soon travel throughout the steel upon receiving the earthquake-like blows from Kihlgun's hammer.

WHAAAAAAAMMMMMM!!!!

Feiklen and Pitgon held tight, first against the gust of wind that came from the hammer, and then against the painful vibrations bouncing and ricocheting throughout the steel delivering what seemed to be bolts of lightning to Feiklen's and Pitgon's hands. Five more strokes, and the device fit snugly into the tree.

"Now, we must arm the front of the tree," Tristan said. They could have just as easily equipped the front with the exact same kind of device, but Tristan's mind would never have been satisfied with such repetitiveness.

"Let's put a death triangle on the front," he said. And smiled.

Kihlgun pounded the base of the razor-sharp triangle into this end of the tree with the same vigor and enthusiasm with which he had pounded in the spiked contraption, but Feiklen and Pitgon asked for replacements to hold the device, both claiming important business that had to be attended to elsewhere, something about checking their longbows to make sure they were properly strung. Once the metallic base was secure, Tristan personally assembled the rest of the triangle.

"Now," Tristan said, "comes the hard part. We have to raise this spear to at least five hundred feet. The first thing we have to do is construct a device up in the trees onto which a rope can be attached so that we can raise the spear. Once we pull the spear to the correct height, we need a steel cradle to hold it."

A team of Moscorian engineers quickly stepped forward to begin the task. They put on gloves with spikes protruding therefrom to enhance their grip. The bottom portion of their boots was fitted with slots into which climbing spikes were inserted. About 150 Moscorian engineers climbed up dozens of trees on each side of the path well over five hundred feet tall, wearing backpacks filled with tools. Once they were slightly above five hundred feet, they got to work. Within an hour, they had placed a thick piece of steel that stretched all the way across the path far below and then put a large pulley in the center. About two hours later, the majority of the steel cradle was complete. Two hundred pieces of steel, all ten inches in diameter, would hold the large weapon in place. However, the large pieces of steel faced downwards for now; they couldn't be raised and fastened until the tree had been lifted to the appropriate elevation. The ends of each piece had a large steel circle one foot in diameter.

Siggins, one of the most agile Moscorians carried a 1,500-foot-long rope up one of the trees and climbed out onto the large steel beam. Although a fearless climber in general, he couldn't help shaking slightly as he looked down. His fellow Moscorians looked like a team of black ants foraging for food below him. As he reached the pulley, he threw his end of the rope over it, which had a large stone attached to it, the weight of which pulled it all the way to the ground, looping the rope nicely over the pulley.

While the Moscorian engineers had been working away like dogs in the trees above, the Moscorians below had been working diligently on a handle to attach the rope to the tree. Kihlgun pounded a U-shaped piece of steel into the tree. The Moscorians on the ground took their end of the rope and wrapped it around the U-shaped handle, tying it into an intricate knot. The rope was about ten inches thick and was more than strong enough to hold the spear. Great manpower was going to be needed, however, so the majority of the Moscorians came down from the trees to help pull it up.

Tristan stood back and used Glisphin to push upwards on the tree without actually touching it. This upward push significantly reduced the weight the Moscorians had to lift, but the spear remained immensely heavy. Over two hundred Moscorians grabbed the rope and were pulling with all of their might, looking like a group of hardworking slaves. The short spikes on the bottoms of their boots helped them keep from sliding.

"HEAVE HO!!" the Moscorians shouted in unison. The spear began to rise into the air slowly, gravity trying desperately to keep it on the ground, where it belonged. After about thirty minutes of sweaty, backbreaking work, not to mention plenty of cursing, the spear had been raised to the correct elevation. The Moscorians were on the verge of collapse. Veins bulged from their necks; sweat covered their bodies. Each looked like a boxer after twelve tough rounds against the reigning champion.

"Raise the steel rods!!" Tristan shouted to the Moscorians still in the trees. Lifting with all their might, the Moscorians in the trees raised the steel pieces so that the circular portions on the ends thereof overlapped perfectly. The cradle was in position. It just needed one more piece put in it.

Tristan shot upwards with the steel rod clutched tightly in both hands. Rain and wind whipped his face as he flew quickly up into the air. Once he got to the overlapping steel holes, he immediately began shoving the long steel pole through the circular openings. This took about two minutes, and by the time he was done he was sweating profusely.

"FINISHED!! YOU CAN RELEASE THE ROPE!!" he shouted to the hapless Moscorians below. They let go even before the word "FINISHED" had completely exited Tristan's mouth, hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes. The spear, which had been hanging slightly more than five hundred feet in the air dropped a few inches, and, to all of their relief, the steel cradle held it firmly in place. It would nap for now.

Lastly, the Moscorians set to work building a horizontal track in the trees to enable the spear to not merely swing downwards but to travel horizontally mere inches above the ground before reaching the end of the track, which would send it flying up into the air until gravity demanded it come back down. This was a difficult task but seemed light compared to the Herculean tasks they had just completed.

## Chapter 24

Lixen and his eight bodyguards galloped full speed along the path to Castle Dachwald. The spider horses sensed the urgency of their riders. Some unnerving growls from the horses forced the riders to stop, briefly rest the horses, and feed them some of their oats to avoid becoming lunch themselves, but aside from that they galloped at nearly full speed all the way back to the castle. The guards were on the lookout for the emissaries and their bodyguards, so as soon as they appeared on the horizon, the guards immediately opened the castle doors.

"LIXEN HAS RETURNED!" shouted one of the guards, and a soldier quickly went to alert King Duchenwald. The king quickly summoned the senators.

As Lixen entered the senate chamber, all eyes were on him, inspecting every square inch of his face, trying to determine whether he brought good news or bad news.

"Well," said King Duchenwald, "how did it go? Did you manage to work together successfully with the Sodorfians? Did you find the perpetrators? Were they all brought to justice? Come, speak!"

"King Duchenwald . . . senators . . . it is with great trepidation that I bring this news to you. At this point, we . . . we just don't know exactly what happened. We—"

"Well, that's not overly surprising," said King Duchenwald, interrupting. "I mean, it might take a few more days to track down these varmints and bring them to justice. How much longer do you think it will be before the joint team of Dachwaldian and Sodorfian trackers bring these vandals to justice?"

"Good King, at this point, we will be lucky if the Sodorfians do not wage total war against us!"

"WHAT IS THIS YOU SAY!!?" yelled King Duchenwald, rising from his chair, veins bulging out of his fat, bull-like neck. "I told you and Sifindel to go over there to make peace and to negotiate, not to cause problems and agitate things!"

"Your Majesty, let me explain. Everything was going well; I swear to the gods by it. Sifindel, the ten bodyguards, and I all made it safely to the City of Sodorf. We were all very nervous we would not even be granted an audience. Instead, all the nobles were quite generous. They listened and showed sympathy and concern. They even sent five hundred Sodorfian regulars and twenty-five trackers to accompany us back to the border. The Sodorfian nobles instructed the Sodorfian trackers to cross into our lands and take a look at the damage. In the event they discovered we had suffered serious damage and the perpetrators' tracks led into Sodorf, they had full permission from the nobles to authorize some of the Vechengschaft to cross into Sodorf, as well as some Dachwaldian trackers. Then, the Sodorfian and Dachwaldian trackers would work together to trace the tracks to the perpetrators. Then, the Vechengschaft and the Sodorfian regulars could fight side by side against the vandals. The survivors would be handed over to us for punishment, and the Sodorfian nobles fully intended to help us with our upcoming comestible shortage. However, just when we were within miles of the Sodorfian-Dachwaldian border . . . ." He paused, struggling for the right words.

"Yes, go on; speak up!" King Duchenwald prompted him.

"Well, there was an attack."

"An attack?! An attack by whom?"

"We don't know exactly. Arrows started flying out of nowhere. Two of the royal bodyguards were killed within seconds. The other eight bodyguards formed a protective circle around Sifindel and me and escorted us to safety. At first, I thought that surely the Sodorfians had laid a trap for us. However, Tulgug managed to look back as we were fleeing, and he attested he saw Sodorfians being shot with arrows and apparently being killed on some kind of large trap. Unless there is some third party at work, which is highly unlikely, what the evidence does suggest is that perhaps some of General Sivingdon's men were just a little bit too anxious for action, and they decided to take matters into their own hands!"

Then he paused. "But why they would also shoot at us . . . I don't know. Perhaps they intended to kill all me, Sifindel, and all of our bodyguards so that it would be assumed the Sodorfians killed us."

"This is egregious! Horrible!" yelled King Duchenwald. "Here we were, on the verge of getting full cooperation from the Sodorfians, and now this?! They're going to think we led them into a trap! Not having seen the damage that truly has been done to our farms, they'll assume it was all a pack of lies! They're going to think we want war! We'll be lucky if we don't all die from famine! Believe me, Lixen, you can tell General Sivingdon that there will be an investigation. I want everyone that was anywhere near the border questioned. This is scandalous! Lixen, the senators and I are going to have to discuss what measures to take as a result of this horrible turn of events. Go—have refreshments and rest; when we have decided what we are going to do, you will be summoned."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." He bowed politely to the king and to the senators and then exited the room.

As soon as he left, the senate erupted into debate like a series of large volcanic explosions. Even if there were an investigation, and even if it were discovered that Vechengschaft hotheads had been responsible for this, and even if, in that event, the hotheads were punished severely, even executed, how would they ever be able to convince the Sodorfians they had not planned an ambush? They feared if they even attempted to make contact with the Sodorfians now, the Dachwaldian emissaries would probably be killed on the spot. Furthermore, they realized there was also a strong possibility the Sodorfians themselves might be planning an attack now in retaliation for what likely appeared to them a well-planned ambush. The senators debated on and on. They realized that for the first time in their lives that hardship just might reach their doorstep.

The best initial step they could think of was forming an investigative committee to question the Vechengschaft and see if there was any evidence some of them had crossed the border and ambushed the Sodorfians. They took a vote and decided to go ahead and set up the committee. King Duchenwald called Lixen back into the room and gave him his instructions.

## Chapter 25

"This is outrageous!" shouted Fritzer. All of the Sodorfian nobles huddled around the gore-covered, frightened-to-death young Sodorfian soldier nodded their heads in consent. "They once again wish to enslave us!" Fritzer said. "Just like in the Seven Years War! The next Dachwaldian who even sets foot into our country must be killed on the spot!" he added.

"Fritzer," Bundor said, "the evidence certainly does seem to show this was an ambush laid by the Dachwaldians. I don't question that. But let's not be overly swift to shed blood. Let's send warriors to go and check out the site of this ambush and look at the evidence. Then, they can come back and tell us their conclusion. If they conclude it was a Dachwaldian ambush, then I'm in agreement with you: We will have to look to our defenses, and we will have to ready ourselves for a possible attack. Possibly an imminent one. However, regarding your desire that the next Dachwaldian who even sets foot into our country be killed, I say this is too hasty. Let's give anyone that comes from Dachwald into our country one warning to turn around and go back the way he came, at top-speed, and that if he returns he will be killed."

"I suppose that's reasonable enough," said Fritzer, his hot temper cooling slightly, "but I'll certainly ensure the people going to investigate don't suffer a similar massacre. I'm sending all six thousand Sodorfian Hugars!"

"All of them?!" responded Bundor. "That will leave only ten thousand troops to protect the rest of Sodorf, and the rest are Sodorfian regulars, not nearly as skillful as the Hugars."

"There's always some risk when it comes to military maneuvers. However, as you well know, our spy reports indicate the entire Vechengschaft only has nine thousand men. Even if they sent over every last man, that would still be a thousand less than we will have defending the rest of Sodorf. I say it's a reasonable decision, and I am the elected leader this year. Granted, the position is normally just administrative, but during times of war or dire threat of war, the nobles have the option of increasing the leader's power until the emergency passes. We simply don't have the time to be voting on every single decision right now, and if you aren't willing to give me that power, give it to another noble then. Someone must take charge!"

The nobles unanimously expressed their approval of his powers being increased.

"Send for General Fuhdor," he commanded. Without delay, a messenger was sent for him, and about forty-five minutes later he arrived.

"Yes, Sir Fritzer," he said; "I have heard about the horrible massacre. Do you want me to go and investigate?"

"Yes, I do. I authorize you to use military force against anyone crossing the border, unless they are carrying a white flag, in which case you are to give them one warning and one warning only to promptly go back to where they came from. No second warnings."

"How many of my Hugars shall I take with me?"

"All of them," Fritzer replied, looking the general dead in the eye. General Fuhdor was stunned and immediately sensed the gravity of the situation.

He summoned his Hugars and set off for the site of the ambush. When he and his men got there the next day, they were all sickened by what they saw. Body parts everywhere. Maggots gnawing away at the dead. Flies buzzing around. Fuhdor was disgusted by the gore covering the tree with the severed rope attached to it. He looked high into the trees but could not see what exactly the rope had been attached to. He pulled out his telescope and looked.

Nothing.

As he looked at the smashed remains of what once had been strapping young soldiers, he vomited. He would have been embarrassed under other circumstances, but this was unlike anything he had ever seen. And it wasn't just the sight. There was also the smell. It smelled as bad as 524 rotting people filling the bellies of millions of maggots possibly could. Most of his men were puking their guts out.

He regained his composure and examined the bodies. The force of the spear had been so great when it hit these men that huge cracks had gone throughout all of their armor, like the cracks formed when a rock is thrown onto ice. Some pieces of armor had been knocked clean off even though they were not even at the point where the spear made contact. And then there were those who had been cut in half. It was chilling how clean the cuts were. They had been sliced through like a hot knife through butter.

"The bastards are going to pay for this," he said under his breath.

The remainder of the bodies—those that had not been mauled by the devilish device—were pincushions. Some had been pierced clean through by so many arrows that they were partly propped up, not touching the ground. A diligent student of military history, he knew the feathers on these arrows were those used by the Vechengschaft.

"THE BASTARDS ARE GOING TO PAY!" he said again angrily, this time shouting.

Just as these words were leaving his mouth he heard the sound of approaching horses.

"Horsemen approaching!" announced a Sodorfian picket.

General Fuhdor pulled out his telescope and looked through it. He couldn't believe his eyes.

Approaching southward down the path appeared to be a group of Dachwaldians.

"READY YOUR WEAPONS!!" he screamed furiously at his men. Some used crossbows, and they immediately loaded them with arrows. Others had bows—not longbows, but quite large—and they promptly, but calmly, fitted them with arrows. Most of the rest had swords, which they quickly unsheathed and held ready for battle.

Fuhdor began walking towards the Dachwaldians. When he was within thirty feet of them, he could see eight bodyguards and one emissary. The emissary was carrying a white flag.

"I'm giving you one, and only one, warning to get out of here and not look back! You're lucky you're not already full of arrows!"

"Good Sir," replied Lixen, "there has been a big mistake; we had no knowledge of the ambush. We are going to conduct an investigation; we—"

"Now you listen to me, you treacherous, two-tongued, lying son of a whore! I don't want to hear ANY of your lies!!" General Fuhdor responded. He then proceeded to raise his crossbow and shoot an arrow right through the white flag of truce Lixen was holding.

"That is how much respect I have for your flag of truce!! Now, if your back isn't turned and you're not heading back to where you came from in ten seconds, the next arrow's going to be aimed right at your throat. And I have deadly good aim."

Lixen was disappointed, but not surprised. As he and the eight bodyguards had neared this scene of carnage, they had seen the bodies. From where he was sitting on his horse while having this exchange with General Fuhdor, he could see even more terrible destruction further down the road. Although it was several hundred feet away, the sight was still disgusting enough to make him nearly sick. He had known the odds were nearly nil that the Sodorfians would listen to him. It was no use.

"Let's go," he said to his bodyguards dejectedly. They turned around and headed back north.

When they crossed back into Dachwald, they began to speak with General Sivingdon.

"I will launch a thorough investigation into this, and I will show no mercy to the perpetrators when I find them!" he said angrily.

But days turned into weeks and weeks into months. After about three months, still no evidence had been found by General Sivingdon or his subordinates that any of the Vechengschaft had crossed into Sodorf at all. Sivingdon had his most trusted, able trackers scour the area to see if there were any tracks from Vechengschaft troops going into Sodorf. None.

The situation was getting bad in Dachwald. Rations had already been reduced by seventy-five percent throughout the south. The northern regions had seen about a fifty-percent decrease. Even the senators and the king had suffered a twenty-five percent decrease in their rations; of course, they still ate well compared to the rest of the country. Much to their frustration, the one-hundred-man committee they had appointed had failed to find any useful information at all. They were as perplexed as Sivingdon.

People throughout Dachwald were showing signs of malnutrition, losing their teeth, growing emaciated.

Crime was on the rise. Before, one could travel throughout the whole countryside without fear of being attacked or robbed. Now, you'd better have a good reason to do any traveling across the countryside because you were risking your life. Gangs of hunger-crazed Dachwaldians roamed the countryside, ready to attack anyone they thought might have food.

Or anyone who looked like food.

Unconfirmed stories of cannibalism had begun circulating. Stories were being told about wealthy people being attacked, killed, cooked, (although not always in that order) and then eaten by bands of Dachwaldian cannibals.

Some had begun mixing sawdust with their food.

In spite of the fact it did no good nutritionally, it filled up your stomach if only for a short while. Women were so malnourished they couldn't produce breast milk, so thousands of infants were dying. The country was transforming. Before, people had talked about peace, shunned war as a barbaric activity, and encouraged philosophy and the writing of poetry. The Vechengschaft was looked down upon by many, especially those in universities, as remnants of a barbaric, outdated past. Most common people had not gone to quite this extreme, but they didn't feel there was much point in having a military, much less a powerful one. It had been so long since they had had any kind of military conflict or any serious suffering. Especially on this scale.

Rioting became common throughout the numerous cities of Dachwald. As a result, security at Castle Dachwald had increased drastically. The number of guards assigned to guarding the castle gates, walls, towers, and especially the underground tunnels had nearly tripled. The senators and the king were horrified at the crimes being committed throughout Dachwald due to hunger, but they didn't know how to stop it. If they could just make it through this winter, they told themselves, they could plant food again, and everything would go back to normal. But making it through the winter at this rate was going to be a long shot. It had the kind of odds that would scare even the most compulsive gambler from placing a bet.

The king and senators feared revolution was imminent. They got so scared they even cut their own rations by fifty percent. They prayed rumors would circulate about just how gaunt they had become, how they were suffering right along with everyone else.

They considered hunting. Unfortunately, the vast majority of Dachwaldians hadn't hunted for centuries. The land to the north was ripe with game, and had enough animals to feed everyone until they burst. But no Dachwaldian was skilled enough to hunt in the northern regions. These were unforgiving lands. In addition to the animals that would be easy prey and make good meals—deer, caribou, fish, squirrels, etc.—there were . . . others. Animals that weren't so soft and cuddly. Animals that could wipe out small hunting parties in a matter of minutes. Bears measuring over fifteen feet tall and weighing over two thousand pounds, with flesh so thick and muscles so large most arrows wouldn't even come close to reaching a vital organ. Wolves the size of deer traveling in packs as large as, and occasionally exceeding, a hundred. Wolves that made the vicious northern wolves of Sodorf look like the kind of pet you'd buy for your three-year-old daughter's birthday party. A few Dachwaldians, out of sheer hunger and madness, had gone to the northern regions to try to hunt. Those Dachwaldians weren't seen again.

The king and senators reached the sober conclusion there was no chance of completely rectifying the situation. Thousands more would die and suffer. However, in order to avoid revolution, something had to be done to show the Dachwaldian people their government wasn't a bunch of incompetents. Someone had to be punished. A scapegoat was necessary. This idea was first set forth by a shrewd senator about a month after the disastrous incident with the Sodorfians, but King Duchenwald had rejected it initially as being underhanded. After about three months, however, he brought the senate together to discuss the proposition again. After some difficulty, they decided the only person whose punishment could possibly quell the wrath of the Dachwaldians sufficiently to prevent rioting was none other than General Sivingdon himself. After dozens of lengthy debates and discussions, the senators decided, nearly unanimously, that the best approach would be to falsify reports and state that the hundred-man committee, after a lengthy and careful investigation, had found out General Sivingdon had secretly and illegally ordered fifty Vechengschaft soldiers to cross the Sodorfian border and attack the Sodorfians.

Crooked work lay ahead.

Forgeries would have to be made, confessions extracted—by whatever means necessary.

The Dachwaldians knew there had been an attack on the Sodorfians by some unknown persons, and that as a result all chances of obtaining assistance from Sodorf had vanished. They were angry about the attack, but none concluded the Vechengschaft was responsible. But . . . they could be led to believe this, and that was all that mattered. Once the populace found out General Sivingdon was to blame for their suffering, they would scream for his blood.

And the government would give it.

They would publicly execute him and fifty Vechengschaft soldiers, who would all sign confessions to having participated in the egregious attack. This wouldn't solve the hunger problem, but it might stave off revolution. That would have to do.

They had to tread carefully, however. If they simply tried to round up fifty Vechengschaft soldiers and General Sivingdon, they would all be slaughtered like a gang of pups taking on a group of angry lions. No, they would have to be methodical. They came up with a plan. It was understood, even by the Vechengschaft, that the investigation committee had arrest powers and could call people in for questioning.

The king and senators prepared lists of people to be "questioned."

The committee members took no great amount of convincing to go along with the scheme. The king knew better than to pick an investigation committee that was afraid to get a little blood on its hands. The committee members went around to the various Vechengschaft camps and, one by one, summoned individual soldiers to Castle Dachwald for questioning. These soldiers were then tortured mercilessly in a dungeon below the king's palace used for the most hideous of purposes. The torture could make a man admit to cheating in a game of poker with the gods if it would make the pain stop. Once all fifty signed confessions had been obtained, the king and senators decided to make their next move. They summoned the general.

General Sivingdon was finishing breakfast when he received the message:

Esteemed General Sivingdon:

It is imperative that you report to the senate chambers at Castle Dachwald immediately. A matter of the highest urgency must be discussed.

Your prompt compliance with this request is greatly appreciated.

Yours truly,

His Majesty King Duchenwald

Perplexed, he got on his horse and rode to the palace. Upon entering, he was escorted by guards to the senate chambers. All the senators were there, and it was obvious hunger had taken its toll even on Dachwald's elite. Even King Duchenwald, formerly a grotesquely fat man, was now thin.

These starvation rations have probably been good for your health, he thought.

Those senators that had been medium-sized or even thin before the "Great Famine" (the name it had already earned) were now walking skeletons.

"Greetings, King and senators. I have come before you as requested," General Sivingdon said. He noticed that the king's eyes—and those of the senators, for that matter—looked tense and uneasy.

Something was amiss.

"General Sivingdon, you have served this country for many years, and we are grateful. We can never repay you for all the times you kept order when domestic disturbances have broken out or for your leadership during some of the skirmishes we have had with our neighbors. But, recently, some very unpleasant news has reached our ears. People from your own ranks have come forward and confessed that YOU gave the order for them to go and attack the Sodorfians. Now—"

"But, Your Majesty, this is outrageous! This is slander! How dare these vile men speak such treacheries about me?! I would have never endangered the fragile peace we enjoyed with the Sodorfians. If I had wanted to do so, I would simply have taken the Vechengschaft across the border into Sodorf without even asking for YOUR permission, and would have CRUSHED those vile maggots and made them pay for what they did to our farms! We would now be served by them as our slaves, not starving like wretches; mothers and fathers would not be going mad with hunger and eating their own children; people would not be eating sawdust! NO, I did not order any of my Vechengschaft to attack, and I believe that none of them did. The only witnesses we have to this supposed massacre of Sodorfians were eight bodyguards and one emissary. No military officer viewed this supposed bloodbath. The whole thing was probably made up by Sodorfians to distract us from discovering that they did indeed ravage our farms, probably as a preliminary move to INVADING OUR COUNTRY, which, with the current state of affairs here, would not prove overly difficult!! A rowdy band of barbarians from the east could wipe this country of walking skeletons right off the map with a good stiff blow of air. With the abominable cuts in military expenditures that we have suffered over the centuries following our ignominious surrender to the perfidious Sodorfians, it probably never would have taken much of an army to wipe us out, and just look at us now: pitiful, starving, vulnerable! Furthermore, even if there was indeed a massacre of Sodorfians, it was probably a massacre ordered and sanctioned by none other than the Sodorfian nobles themselves! What better way to make themselves the victims and prevent us from discovering what they clearly did to our farms?!

"Those despicable maggots have always sought to prevent Dachwald from becoming great again, the way she once was. They have always sought to destroy our people! Believe me—no Vechengschaft soldiers attacked the Sodorfians! They wouldn't dare do so without my explicit orders! And furthermore, these vile Sodorfians—"

"I have heard ENOUGH of your invective," shouted King Duchenwald. "Do you DARE defy me?"

"No, Your Majesty."

(not yet)

"Good. Now, you will of course receive a fair trial. We will see if the accusations brought forth by these fifty Vechengschaft soldiers are true or not. We will see if they are lying. If they are, they will be executed, and the committee will continue its investigation. However . . . and, believe me, this is not easy for me to say . . . as of right now, we have no choice but to relieve you of your command. You must turn over your sword and your armor immediately. The Vechengschaft and the rest of the populace will be notified tomorrow of the upcoming trial and of you being relieved of your command pending the trial. The people of Dachwald must and SHALL know that we do not take treason lightly at any level, no matter how high!! Your trial will be public; if you are found innocent, you will be reinstated as general of the Vechengschaft. If you are found guilty . . . ." King Duchenwald paused.

He looked down.

"If you are found guilty . . . well, you will be executed."

"Treason? Executed? Your words cut deeply. I do indeed look forward to looking into the eyes of every one of these so-called 'soldiers' who are falsely claiming that I gave them this command. I doubt they will have the nerve to tell their lies to my face!"

"You will be judged based upon their written confessions. You will not be permitted to cross-examine them or see them."

Sivingdon looked like someone had just thrown a brick and hit him square in the nose. As the shock subsided, however, it was replaced with something else: fury. It rose inside his soul like lava exiting a place where it had rested calmly for centuries, now shooting upwards to erupt.

"This is outrageous! This is a violation of the constitution of this great land! I am being considered guilty until proven innocent and will not have the chance to look my accusers in the eye?! This goes against everything our legal system stands for!"

"Stood for," corrected King Duchenwald. "That system is for times of peace; this is clearly a national emergency and will be treated as such. You have mere seconds to turn over your sword and armor, or I will have twenty of my fiercest royal bodyguards subdue and imprison you!!"

General Sivingdon was stunned. The lava was not quite ready for eruption.

It rested again. Shock replacing it.

For now.

He felt like everything he had ever believed in had just been proven to be a complete lie. He had believed that Dachwald was a just country. He had believed it had fair laws and a good constitution. He was flabbergasted and sickened. Reluctantly, sadly, and very slowly, he removed his sword and sheath from his belt and removed his breastplate armor, which bore the insignia indicating his generalship. He set it on the ground before the king.

"The trial will be in two days," said King Duchenwald. "It will be a public trial and will be held in the town square at noon. Please do not show your face around here until then, and get out!"

These last words stung deeply, like a whip on bare skin. He didn't know what to think. He strongly suspected he was being made a scapegoat. Perhaps some soldiers, mad with hunger, were enticed with the promise of food or out of fear had invented this lie to take the heat off of their shoulders and point the blame in another direction. He turned around and stormed out of the room. As he did so, he looked at the senators' faces. They were also watching him closely, but as soon as he made eye contact, they quickly looked down or off in another direction, unable to meet his fierce gaze.

As he walked out of the castle gates and back to his mansion, he felt his life was over. He had lost his generalship, upon which he had based most of his sense of purpose and self-worth for nearly as long as he could remember. He had always been patriotic towards Dachwald. He loved her. He had been raised on stories of Dachwaldian legends, of times when Dachwaldians ruled large areas of land and were rich and prosperous. Over time, they had been constantly thwarted from success, however, by the . . . Sodorfians.

(the DAMN Sodorfians)

The Sodorfians had always acted to undermine the Dachwaldians. Oh, yes. This was all the more apparent now. They had ransacked the largest, most vital farms in Dachwald, feigned a desire at alliance, and then pretended to be attacked by Dachwaldians. And all this for what?

(to soften you up for the kill)

If the Sodorfians attacked now, after all, it wouldn't be the least bit difficult for them to conquer Dachwald. They could probably do so within a few months. Maybe weeks. As these infuriating thoughts raced through his mind, the most pressing demanded attention.

(you're going to be publicly discredited, humiliated, and EXECUTED!)

How would they do it? he wondered. By archers? The gallows? The ax? He shuddered.

His entire life he had strived for honor and integrity. Sure, there was perhaps some chance he would be found not guilty,

(sure, and one day pigs will fly, monkeys will write poetry, and fish will walk on land holding hands with one another)

but the odds were too low for him to risk it. He knew the government was all too happy to have a scapegoat, especially one as important as him, to blame and thereby shift the focus off its own horrible mistakes and misjudgments that had gotten the Dachwaldian people into this horrible predicament in the first place. He knew the Sodorfians were responsible for this.

(It was a bold move. I'll give the bastards credit for that, damn 'em!)

They had gambled on Dachwaldian weakness and pacifism and had won.

(If only you could have taken your troops across the border, you could have crushed them!)

As he thought about this more and more, it became clear there was no reason to go on living. It was time to hang up his sword. Call it a night. His last night.

(can't win 'em all sometimes that's just the way the crap falls)

After living a life of such honor and dedication, he wouldn't allow himself to be publicly shamed and humiliated as King Duchenwald and the senators obviously planned on doing. There were two options: flee or kill himself. The first option had some appeal to it: He could thereby demonstrate the utter inefficiency of the Dachwaldian government when they failed to find him.

(and you know if you chose to disappear you could; you're adept at surviving off of the land; you're knowledgeable about the geography of the mountains and forests of the northern regions; hell, with any luck there will be a revolution and the king and senators will get their just deserts);

However, after thinking it over some more, he decided that he couldn't live the rest of his life on the run, being thought of as a coward and a criminal. No, unfortunately, he was going to have to hang up his sword and leave this rotten world, this world that had ungratefully decided to use him as a scapegoat despite a lifetime of service to his country. He began considering the different ways he could do the job. He could stab himself with his sword, cut his femoral or carotid artery, jump off a cliff, hang himself. After mulling these options over, he decided he would prefer hanging.

He decided that his death would be completely in vain, however, if he did not leave a note behind explaining why he killed himself. Taking out some parchment and a quill pen, he wrote these words:

I, General Sivingdon, have been forced, due to the egregious injustices of the Dachwaldian government, to take my own life in order to prevent being unjustly and falsely exposed to shame and dishonor. I have been falsely accused of ordering the Vechengschaft to attack the Sodorfians and thereby angering the latter to the point of not being willing to assist us during this horrible famine. Ashamed of the fact that indeed the Sodorfians were to blame and that they should have allowed me to avenge their evil deed from the beginning, the Dachwaldian government, to cover up its own mistakes, cowardice, and stupidity, has decided to come up with bogus claims against me and put me in a capital trial wherein I will be considered guilty until proven innocent and will not have the right to even see, much less confront or cross-examine, my accusers. I implore all those who love Dachwald to rise up against this horrible government and remove its leaders. They are not worthy of ruling this wonderful nation.

It was getting quite dark by now. Sivingdon put the note inside his pocket and began walking towards a cliff nearby his mansion. Part of him wanted to go and say goodbye to his wife before turning in, but he knew if he saw her face he wouldn't be able to go through with it.

It had to be done.

By the cliff, there was a tree, one of whose branches extended over the side of the cliff. He went to his barn and got a twenty-foot rope and came back to the tree. Ironically, it was a beautiful night. Its contradiction to his current circumstances could not have been greater. It was slightly cold. Winters didn't get very cold in the southern regions of Dachwald, but they did in the north. The moon was full; the stars shone brightly.

"Well, at least I get to die on a beautiful night in this beautiful country that I love so very much," he said out loud, not giving a rotten damn if anyone heard him. He took the rope and began forming a noose. He had never hanged a man before, but he certainly had plenty of expertise tying knots. It only took a few moments before he had a perfectly formed noose. He tied the other end to the tree and then wrapped the noose around his neck as he looked off into distance.

"What a damn beautiful country I live in," he said out loud. He was saddest about leaving his wife, but he did not want her to have to endure the shame of being the widow of a disgraced, executed husband. Perhaps this way, at least, he and she might retain some of their honor.

"Well, ancestors, here I come to spend eternity with you," he said. He went to the cliff and, without too much hesitation, jumped.

He could feel the wind rushing by his face as he fell, and then suddenly he stopped. Here it comes, he thought to himself: I'll meet my ancestors.

But he didn't.

No ancestors.

Wind still rushing against his face. He wasn't dead. Somehow, he was even breathing normally. This couldn't be.

(Have I gone insane? Has this all been a horrible dream and nothing more? Am I going to wake up any second?)

Suddenly he felt himself being lifted. Very, very slowly.

"What in Uchinweld's going on?!!" he shouted.

He continued being levitated. The rope was now hanging limp and lifeless below him . . . yet it was still around his neck. Suddenly, he felt his body being turned.

What he saw nearly made him wet himself. Hundreds of tall, blonde, armor-clad figures, heavily equipped with crossbows, halberds, and swords facing him. In front of them all was a tall, thin man with white hair and eyes as blue as the sky.

(What in Kasani!?)

"Have you given up on Dachwald so easily?" the tall, thin man asked.

"Oh, I see," he said; "I am dead; you all must be Dachwaldian heroes from years gone by. Well, yes, I apologize; I did indeed give up on Dachwald, but I think it would also be fair to say that Dachwald gave up on—"

"YOU FOOL!!" the tall man thundered. "You're not dead, and for that you should be thankful, for anyone who has given up on Dachwald, like you were about to, wouldn't end up in Cixore with Dachwaldian heroes from long ago, but rather in Siphore, to be tormented by Sodorfian scum for eternity!! Now, I ask you again—HAVE you given up on Dachwald? You're not dead. You are in fact being levitated by the last surviving grandmaster of Glisphin, and if I do not like the next answer that comes out of your mouth, I'll let you drop; the noose will snap your neck; and you will quickly find out what happens to cowards like you who give up on Dachwald without first shedding their last drop of blood! Now, HAVE YOU given up on Dachwald, or would you like to regain her?!!!"

Sivingdon was in shock. On the one hand, he was experiencing something unexplainable—gravity appeared to be taking the night off. On the other hand, this terrifying person—if he could even be called a person—was arousing his instincts of fear far more greatly than his instincts of doubt.

"W-w-w-well, of course, I'd like to regain her, but I think that it would be nearly impossible. She's run by cowards and weaklings, and the Sodorfians have plunged us into famine!!"

The shadowy figure smiled. "Good answer," he said. "You just might survive the night. I decided to save you from killing yourself tonight. Do you know why? Because I've been watching you. That's right. You don't know it, but I have eyes and ears in many, many places. I know that your heart would like to see Dachwald strong again and to wholly crush the perfidious Sodorfian maggots, but you thought it impossible. Well, let me ask you a question: If I gave you my word that it was not only possible, but probable that this goal could indeed be a reality, to what extent would you go to see this dream achieved?"

Sivingdon was flabbergasted. "I'd do anything! I'd go to the end of the earth, fight the devil . . . give up my soul!"

The man smiled. "Good answer. Now, one more question. One of the reasons I chose you was because I believe you know about Dachwald's grand past, how we were betrayed at the end of the Seven Years War. Let me ask you, do you know who these men are?"

Having said this, the men lit torches and held them close to their faces so that Sivingdon could get a good look at them. He was stunned, absolutely speechless. He had done lots of military history research, and he knew what these men appeared to be, but . . . .

(no, that's impossible, they died centuries ago)

"ANSWER!!" shouted the shadowy figure.

"Well, they l-l-l-look like Moscorians, but s-s-s-surely—"

"Right again," the shadowy figure said. "Your accuracy is improving greatly; at this rate, I strongly believe you're not only going to survive tonight, but also do great things for Dachwald. However, before I can be totally sure, I have just one last question: who am I?"

Sivingdon hesitated; he thought all the grandmasters of Glisphin had died several millennia ago. According to Dachwaldian history, they had all been hunted to extermination by the Sodorfians . . . but there had been a legend that one had survived, and that this person's name was Tristan. He hesitated, but he felt more afraid of denying the possibility than affirming it.

"T-T-Tristan?" he said, "The last surviving grandmaster of Glisphin?" He flinched after saying the words; he was afraid he had perhaps spoken incorrectly and would be dropped to a certain death below. Somehow his life had gained immense importance, and he was now scared to death of falling.

"CORRECT!!!" Tristan responded, and then he started moving his fingers in the air, untying the noose without touching it. Once untied, Sivingdon was left hanging in the night air, held by nothing other than unseen forces this man was somehow able to manipulate. Tristan held out his hand, and slowly drew Sivingdon towards him. Sivingdon shuddered as he looked down into the utter blackness which would be his death if Tristan stopped levitating him. He breathed a sigh of relief once his feet hit terra firma.

"Now, the first thing we're going to have to get straight is the chain of command, from the bottom to the top: the Dachwaldian populace, then the Vechengschaft, then the Moscorians, then me. You will very rarely see me. In fact, you may never see me again. I prefer to work behind the scenes, but, as many of the Moscorians can attest, occasionally I just can't resist getting involved in the action. Now, as you well know, this country is on the point of collapse, and the current government has got to go. Fortunately for you, the Moscorians here are going to help you take care of that. What I need from you is quite simple. To swear an oath of allegiance to me and to the Moscorians right now. After that, I need you to promise me that once the Moscorians take over and the Vechengschaft has been properly retrained, which will take some time, you will make the Vechengschaft swear loyalty to Feiklen"—Tristan pointed to Feiklen—"as ruler over all of Dachwald. He, of course, will answer to me; but they don't need to know that. You're not to mention my name to anyone other than the Moscorians. If you do, I'll find out. And if and when I find out, you'll wake up one night to see my face hovering over yours, and it'll be the last thing you ever see. We're going to make this country great again—are you with us?"

"Yes, master," General Sivingdon responded. Tristan then proceeded to have him repeat the oath:

I acknowledge that in this great world that we call Gackse there is one nation and one people destined to rule all others. That nation is Dachwald; its people are Dachwaldians. The destiny intended for Dachwaldians by the powers that created this world was one of conquerors and rulers, not beggars and slaves. For hundreds of millennia the Dachwaldians ruled as intended, but due to the most evil race of man ever conceived—the Sodorfians—the Dachwaldians fell from grace and have continued to be thwarted by their enemy, the Sodorfians. All other peoples can be dealt with and reasoned with, when possible, but as long as there is a Sodorfian alive in this world, Dachwaldians will continue to suffer and anger the gods by failing to live up to the purpose predestined for them. The gods have chosen the Dachwaldians as a favored race, and are angry with the Dachwaldians for failing them time and time again. For great love of the Dachwaldians, however, their paternal love has been ever patient. But it will not always be so, for if we fail to destroy the Sodorfians categorically, the gods will certainly annihilate our people in anger for having let them down. I acknowledge that there is only one group of Dachwaldians strong enough to help the Dachwaldians overcome their petty differences and unite as one to destroy the Sodorfians. That group is the Moscorians; its leader is Tristan, the last of the grandmasters of Glisphin, and the last hope of the Dachwaldians. I hereby swear this solemn oath in front of all present that I will shed my last drop of pure Dachwaldian blood in this struggle against the Sodorfians and will unquestioningly serve the Moscorians and Tristan, who alone can make victory possible, and if I shall ever break this oath, I am aware and it is my desire that my tongue shall be ripped out at the seam and my eyes plucked out.

Tristan smiled. "Welcome," he said.

# Chapter 26

Sergeant Iginverd was dead tired. He had been standing at his post now for about ten hours straight, which was located in the final stretch of the tunnel below Castle Dachwald that went straight into the heart of the castle. He guarded the doorway leading to this final stretch.

He heard footsteps coming.

"Open the gate, Sergeant," General Sivingdon said as he approached.

"Yes, General," Ivingerd responded, and he promptly opened up the gate. He wondered who were the men with the general were. They were wearing Dachwaldian armor but were larger than any men he had ever seen, and not just since the famine had gotten in full swing either, but in his entire life.

Sergent Ivingerd had about fifty men with him ready to fight off anyone trying to break through the gate. They also didn't recognize these men, but seeing they were with General Sivingdon, they figured they must just be some higher-ups they had never seen before. They thought it strange that General Sivingdon wasn't wearing his armor. He always wore it. But they recognized him nonetheless and didn't dare question him.

After passing through the gate, they walked down the hundred-foot corridor to the last gate, which led directly to the heart of the castle. There were another dozen or so guards there, but seeing General Sivingdon and that the men accompanying him were wearing Vechengschaft armor they let them pass without incident. Although it was true something about the picture seemed just a little strange, they figured the danger in daring to question a superior officer was far graver than keeping their mouths shut and ignoring their suspicions about the large, fierce-looking soldiers accompanying him.

They were now inside the castle itself.

They had to be careful because of the many sentries and guards on patrol. If they suspected anything, they just might unleash a hail of arrows first and ask questions later.

It could have been a real nightmare getting inside the royal palace without being immediately attacked by several dozen bodyguards. They already knew General Sivingdon had been stripped of his command and ordered to stand trial for high treason, whereas the rest of the country was to find out the next morning. This was where Tristan came into play. He had had one of his pholungs, Istus, fly silently through one of the palace windows and deposit a large loaf of bread onto one of the tables. The guards, being large men with voracious appetites, simply couldn't resist eating the sweet-smelling bread. They would have been better off if they had exercised self-restraint, however, because the bread was poisonous, and within thirty minutes they were as dead as a mouse struck by a rattlesnake.

This left King Duchenwald all alone.

While Feiklen and the rest stayed at the base of the stairs and kept watch, Sivingdon proceeded to go up the stairs, carrying a large knife in his hand.

The lava that had been temporarily resting was now starting to flow upwards again. Soon it was going to erupt. He went up the numerous flights of stairs before finally reaching the top. Then, he proceeded to walk down the hallway to King Duchenwald's room.

As he got nearer and nearer, images and words from their last conversation were flashing through his mind at a hundred miles per hour.

(Stood for. That system is for times of peace; this is clearly a national emergency and will be treated as such.)

The king's room was now closer.

(You have mere seconds to turn over your sword and armor, or I will have twenty of my fiercest royal bodyguards subdue and imprison you!!)

Closer.

(You will be judged based upon their written confessions. You will not be permitted to cross-examine them or see them.)

Closer.

(If you are found guilty . . . well, you will be executed.)

(It will be a public trial and will be held in the town square at noon.)

Inside the room.

(Do you DARE defy me? Do you DARE defy me?! Do you DARE—)

"YESSSS!!!" Sivingdon couldn't help but scream. King Duchenwald's eyes opened. He looked like a mouse that has just realized a black mamba has decided to come pay it a surprise late-night visit.

Sivingdon's armored, gloved hand went down over King Duchenwald's mouth like an airtight seal over a leak. He brought his sword down hard into King Duchenwald's stomach.

And again.

And again.

"How were you gonna do it?" Another stab.

"Death by archers?" Another stab. "The gallows perhaps?" Another stab.

"I know . . . maybe you were going to drawwww—

(Sivingdon twisted, pulled, and dragged the knife throughout King Duchenwald's stomach)

—and quaaaaarter me!"

It was a good thing Sivingdon's hand was armored because King Duchenwald was thrashing around like a fish on dry land, biting, gasping, doing anything he could to free himself from this angel of death that had descended upon him.

"I deserved BETTER!!" Sivingdon said, and then he slowly cut King Duchenwald's throat from ear to ear. A geyser of blood erupted, soaking Sivingdon's face, body, and hands. He licked some that had gotten on his lips. Salty. He liked the taste.

Next to King Duchenwald's bed was a huge stack of papers. General Sivingdon picked one of them up. It was a message to be distributed the next day around all of Dachwald, telling everyone, in so many words, that he was the reason for all their grief and suffering. Although Sivingdon had already been sufficiently outraged with the Dachwaldian government not to feel the slightest bit of guilt about what he had just done, this made him feel all the more confident he was doing the right thing.

But there were still the senators.

Sivingdon walked down the stairs and let the others know King Duchenwald had done all the damage to his country that he could on this side of the grave. Of course, it hadn't been necessary. The blood covering his hands, face, and chest told the tale.

He walked over to the large rope, and pulled down hard. Within seconds bells were ringing in the house of every senator.

Cursing vehemently, they dressed themselves and began heading towards the royal palace. "This figures!" said Alexinduhr to his wife as he dressed. "The king said he was a little uneasy about the decision he had made to use General Sivingdon as a scapegoat because he has put in so many years of service for this country. I hope he hasn't gone soft and changed his mind at the last minute!"

The other senators made similar complaints to their wives—or, in some cases, mistresses—as they dressed and readied themselves for the meeting. Within forty minutes they had all arrived inside the royal palace. They thought it was a little strange that they didn't see any guards around, but it wasn't the first time. Sometimes the guards were just a bit lazy. Shirked their duties when they thought they could get away with it. Perhaps they had just stepped away for a couple of minutes to relieve themselves or sneak a swig of strong spirits. It would sure as hell help pass the night. Maybe they were dozing. Regardless, the senators were tired and wanted to get the meeting over with as soon as possible and get back to sleep.

They proceeded to go down into the senate chambers.

The room was lit by a series of torches, but by choosing which torches to light, one could selectively make parts of the room well lit, others shrouded in darkness. Sometimes King Duchenwald did this purposefully so the senators would have a harder time reading his facial expressions as they deliberated a matter. They sat down and waited for King Duchenwald to begin speaking. Alexinduhr, in particular, was starting to grow uneasy.

"Your Majesty, with all due respect, you have summoned us here at such an awful hour of the night—most of us were asleep—and now you just sit there? What do you want?!"

Silence.

All of the senators had a certain amount of fear and respect for King Duchenwald, but of all the senators, Alexinduhr was the least respectful, least fearful, and tonight, he would reach his boldest.

"Aghh, to Kasani with this. I'm leaving." He started to get up.

Suddenly, the torches above King Duchenwald were lit. What was left of him.

His blood-smeared, tattered body sat in its normal chair, looking like a gutted fish.

Sivingdon stepped out from behind the throne. He was smiling lightly. You'd think he had just heard a mildly funny joke.

"He doesn't want anything," he said, calmly. Too calmly. "But I do. I want a whole helluva lot. I want to save this country. And by Kasani, I'm gonna do just that."

For a brief moment silence froze the room, seeming to turn into frozen, mute statues all who were in it. Alexinduhr broke the ice.

"We all want that," Alexinduhr began. "In fac—"

"Sure we do. And, in fact, we would both do anything to see that through. Anything at all," Sivingdon said calmly.

"Exactly," Alexinduhr said, fear invading his body like a virus, despite the calm exterior he was trying desperately to uphold.

"Like . . . sacrifice me, for example. You all thought that was a damn good way to save this country. Didn't you?" He smiled again. A paternal smile. The smile of a father calmly explaining to his six-year-old son that his ridiculous tale about how the family window got broken just wasn't going to fool Daddy and that there were going to have to be consequences. Serious consequences.

"General, we had reports. We must have been deceived. We—"

"Lies. All lies. Lies have been sapping this country's strength like dysentery draining a man's bowels! But enough is enough. There are going to have to be consequences. Very serious consequences."

He unsheathed his sword slowly and calmly, with all the surety and conviction of a stern father pulling his belt out of its loops in order to give his wayward son one hell of a beating.

"Your end has come. Dachwald . . . is going to rise."

Alexinduhr made a last-ditch effort to appear confident. "What . . . you think you can kill ALL of us?! The bodyguards will be here in a moment's notice. All I have to do is call them!"

"You can call them all night long. The moon will respond and engage you in a philosophical debate on the meaning of life before they respond."

He smiled.

"And no, I am not going to kill all of you, but I am going to kill you. My friends will see to it that you all get your just deserts. That you all get the consequences."

The Moscorians began entering the room. None of the senators knew who they were—almost none of them. Gullingsor, on the other hand, noticed something eerily familiar about these men as they entered. Especially Feiklen. An avid student of military history, especially in regards to the Moscorians and their origins, Gullingsor knew that amongst the Moscorians, one had particularly distinguished himself by excessive savagery. Although no portrait had ever been made, there were written descriptions of him. Large and powerful, eyes that were a beautiful blue, yet somehow terrifying. A bad scar on his left cheek, obtained at Dachwaldendomel by the sword of one of the Knights of Sodorf. This was this man heading towards him right now. His menacing blue eyes appeared to look straight through his soul.

"Moscoria—" he began to say, but his words were cut short by the single blow from the large halberd Feiklen swung down onto his skull, splitting it in half as easily as a watermelon on a cutting block.

The senators tried like mad to shove past the Moscorians and General Sivingdon, but it was no use. Sivingdon, his erstwhile chillingly calm demeanor now replaced with the savagery of a wolf chasing its meal, charged towards Alexinduhr. He leaped over several of the large benches that were in his way, jumped up in the air, and brought his sword down in a stabbing motion right into Alexinduhr's throat. Blood showered across his face. His sword penetrated several inches into the thick oak wood on the ground beneath Alexinduhr's neck. He pulled the sword out violently, a stream of blood even more powerful than the first shooting out as he dislodged his sword, and he immediately turned around and decapitated a senator to his right.

Within less than a minute, every senator lay in a pool of blood on the floor of the senate chambers, which Sivingdon and the Moscorians were wading through like a shallow creek. General Sivingdon saw his armor next to King Duchenwald's throne, smiled, and put it back on, along with his sword.

The next day, General Sivingdon summoned a large meeting of officers, soldiers, and citizens outside the castle. He stood on a large platform surrounded by thousands of eager listeners.

Hoping for good news.

Hoping against hope.

Behind him on the platform were about two hundred of the deadliest Moscorians wearing Vechengschaft armor for appearance's sake. This would change soon. General Sivingdon began his speech:

"Officers, soldiers, and citizens of Dachwald. This has been a black chapter in our great history, perhaps the blackest ever written, but, I promise you, it has an end, and it is in sight. And at the end of this black chapter lie very great things: this I also promise you. Yesterday, unbeknownst to any of you, this chapter almost became even sadder. The so-called king and senators of this great country conspired against me. Conspired to scapegoat me for the suffering we've all endured recently. I am going to tell you the truth about what happened to our crops and what happened shortly thereafter, because few if any of you know the truth about these events. As most of you probably suspect, the Sodorfians indeed DID DESTROY OUR CROPS!! All of my officers knew this, all of my trackers knew that the tracks were Sodorfian, and all of my trackers knew that the Sodorfian tracks went directly into Sodorf!! As general of the Vechengschaft and as an ardent Dachwaldian patriot, I wanted to do what any ardent Dachwaldian patriot would under such circumstances—attack the Sodorfian vandals and MAKE THEM PAY FOR WHAT THEY DID!! But the Dachwaldian government didn't see it that way. They wanted . . . negotiations. They wanted to . . . talk things over. Look at how much good that did us!! We talked to Sodorf, and our emissaries looked their leaders right in the eye and demanded JUSTICE!! But did they give it?! No! They conspired against us! For conspiring is what Sodorfians do. Sodorfians cannot be trusted; Sodorfians cannot be reasoned with. They were a serpent in our bed. A scorpion underneath our pillow.

"They pretended to cooperate. They sent soldiers to examine the damage, but, this was only a trick. The Sodorfian nobles attacked THEIR OWN SOLDIERS so they could frame the Vechengschaft! They made it look like an unauthorized Dachwaldian attack had occurred so that they could self-righteously refuse to negotiate with us or allow us to cross their border. Our foolish king and senators fell for the ruse easily!! The Sodorfians took advantage of the pacifism they knew was rampant in our country! All they were doing and still are doing is preparing us for slaughter. That's right. And are we ever ripe for it! Many of us are so weak we can barely stand. We have had to eat our pets, our horses; some have eaten their children. Many eat sawdust just to obtain temporary relief from the horrible hunger pains. Some have chosen to kill themselves out of despair. And all the while, who do you think is watching . . . waiting . . . plotting? The Sodorfians! They are your greatest enemy! They are MY greatest enemy! They are OUR GREATEST ENEMY!! But what can we do about it? We will never get the king and the senate to act; they are too cowardly!!'

Angry remarks from the crowd expressed strong agreement.

"Well, they WERE too cowardly. Here are the failures that have abandoned us to conquest."

The Moscorians withdrew from large sacks the heads of the senators and the king.

"Here are the men who would oppose US!!"

And, saying this, he grabbed the severed head of the hated King Duchenwald and slammed it onto the platform in a show of defiance.

"NO ONE can stop us now!"

The crowd cheered wildly. Finally, someone with some backbone had taken over.

"But I can't do this alone! I ask for YOUR help! Will you give it?!"

"YES!! WE'RE WITH YOU!! YOU CAN COUNT ON US!!" came the loud response.

"Now, thus far the only thing I have done is talk. The king and senators did that just fine. But when was the last time they offered you . . . a FEAST?!!"

He picked up a large bugle, blew hard on it, and then pointed towards a hill just east of them. Down the hill came an armada of large wagons pulled by enormous oxen and guarded by hundreds of soldiers. Though still at a distance, the hunger-crazed mob could see they were loaded with food. Mostly, deer, but also slain wolves and large bears. The mob began rejoicing loudly and triumphantly.

"We're gonna eat again! We're not going to starve!!" they cried, amongst other declarations of joy.

"But I am going to need your help if we are to truly overcome our enemies. All males between fifteen and forty-nine must enlist in the Vechengschaft. Our country has a long way to go before she recovers. These animals we're about to eat were slain in the perilous northern regions, where few have dared to hunt for centuries. These brave men you see escorting the wagons are some of my bravest, most highly trained soldiers. Men, will you fight for your country?!!"

"Yes!!" the male Dachwaldian listeners proclaimed in a frenzy of enthusiasm and determination.

"Brave Dachwaldian women, will you support your husbands and sons who so bravely decide to fulfill their patriotic duty and join the Vechengschaft?!!"

"Yes!!" all the women proclaimed ecstatically. "Yes, we will!!"

"Let us begin the feast!!" General Sivingdon proclaimed triumphantly.

Everyone was revelrous—that is, everyone except for the few Dachwaldians of Sodorfian descent that happened to be listening to the hate-filled rhetoric. Frightened, most of them hurried back to their homes to begin a dash back to Sodorf and never look the hell back. Everyone else, however, couldn't remember being happier. All the Dachwaldians pitched in. Some skinned the animals; others gathered wood to make bonfires. Others went back to their homes to get ale and other spirits. Within an hour, fires were blazing, meat was roasting, and ale was being guzzled. They ate and they ate, and then ate some more. Ate until they nearly had food coming out their ears. A few got sick, but didn't care. One frail man, who looked like a toothpick, said triumphantly before vomiting, "I've never been happier to vomit!!" Similar scenes abounded. The whole valley was an orgy of gluttony and ale-guzzling. People formed large circles and happily danced traditional Dachwaldian dances. Dances they hadn't thought they'd ever have the occasion or spirit to dance again.

Sivingdon was enjoying some ale himself and dancing happily with his wife. In spite of the joy, a tear almost escaped his eyes as he recalled how close he had come to ending his own life.

(don't ever tell her; it would destroy her to know you almost did that without saying goodbye)

He noticed Feiklen approaching. "Pardon me for a moment, would you, love." He excused himself and walked over to Feiklen.

"Don't forget, Sivingdon," Feiklen said, "Tomorrow, we will gather all males ages fifteen to forty-nine and take them north to begin turning them into real soldiers. We're not going to allow them to even consider breaking their word!"

"Yes, sir," General Sivingdon responded.

The next morning, when the stuffed, happy Dachwaldians began waking from their deep sleep, the Moscorians and Vechengschaft quickly began escorting the Dachwaldian males between fifteen and forty-nine and started forming them into lines to begin marching north. Most were not only willing to keep their word; nearly all were enthused to do so.

First, they were permitted to kiss their sweethearts goodbye and hug their mothers, fathers, and other family members goodbye, as well.

"Fall in line!!" barked the Moscorians at all of the Vechengschaft except for the highest ranking officers.

They quickly did so.

Special units of Moscorians had already been dispatched along the southern border of Dachwald to intercept any Sodorfians that tried to escape. They intercepted several hundred men, women, and children, and slaughtered them all on the spot. Afterwards, they dug deep graves for the bodies and spent considerable time evening the soil on top of the graves so they wouldn't look suspicious. They even took loose grass and put it on top to cover up the fresh dirt and planted grass seed so grass would eventually cover up the graves completely.

There were many other Sodorfians throughout Dachwald unaware madness was consuming the country like fire spreading through a dry haystack. Tristan was consulting frequently with his konulans, and a growing list of names and locations of the remaining Sodorfians was emerging.

They would be dealt with.

The Dachwaldian mothers, wives, and daughters were sad to see their sons, husbands, and fathers go away, but it was the right thing. This horrible famine had to be recovered from, and it had to be avenged. They knew the Sodorfians would soon close in for the kill, but that was okay. There was a new sheriff in town. A strong one. And as long as they did what he said, everything would be right as rain.

# Chapter 27

Over the next several weeks, Vechengschaft messengers were sent throughout all the regions of Dachwald. They brought food, and after giving food to each Dachwaldian household, they explained the truth behind what had really gone on. And, to their listeners' horror, explained how the king and senators had attempted to shift all of the blame to General Sivingdon and kill him as a scapegoat. After going on to further describe how the country was going to become strong once again and put aside her prior pacifistic policies, they informed them that all males between fifteen and forty-nine had the privilege of enlisting into the Vechengschaft to prevent the utter destruction of Dachwald. They encountered few cases of unwillingness, and even in these rare cases it only took a bit of extra encouragement to get compliance with the privilege being extended. They brought numerous large wagons with them that could hold over five hundred Dachwaldians a piece. Each was pulled by six strong spider horses.

Within a month, all fighting-age Dachwaldian males had been rounded up and brought to an enormous training camp in the north, where they began undergoing rigorous training immediately. They had to get up at five in the morning, train until at least ten at night, and had ten minutes to eat breakfast, ten minutes for lunch, and ten minutes for supper. Then, the fun started all over again. At first it was nearly impossible for them to adapt. Months of malnutrition hadn't exactly left their bodies in tip-top shape.

However, there was also classroom training. They were taught about the Seven Years War and how pacifism and Sodorfian treachery had caused them to lose that war and their rightful spot as rulers of Gackse. They were introduced to bizarre rituals they were promised would make them better warriors. There was a temple dedicated to Veihgung, the god of war, and they all worshipped this deity daily and prayed to him to make them stronger, to not let them have any softness, remorse, or weakness while in combat.

Softness, their instructors lectured, was their biggest enemy.

They were told that when they finished their basic training and became Vechengschaft soldiers, they would be privileged to drink blood from the skulls of ancient Dachwaldian warriors. This would impart to them some of their power and warlike nature. This would give them hardness.

During the centuries between the Seven Years War and the present, Tristan had not allowed the Moscorians to become idle. He had demanded weekly reports from Feiklen concerning their productivity in many areas: training, sparring, spying, etc. One area he had demanded they devote a large amount of time to was the engineering of new weapons. Even a warlike spirit, a large army, and good training wouldn't be enough to achieve success. No, new weapons had to be made. Big nasty toys, like the kind that had turned 524 Sodorfian soldiers into a pile of human mush. Its remarkable debut had since earned it the nickname Kiss of Death.

It was one of the first weapons that the Moscorians began teaching the Vechengschaft how to make. The next weapon they had invented was also lethal, but it was hand-held. It was called a fishing mace. Tristan fell in love with it the first time he laid eyes on it. He had never seen anything so beautiful.

Ivingerd was currently practicing with one, along with about 180 others. It was a resplendent day, and the recruits were glad to do an activity that mostly required precision. It was a pleasant break from the taxing exercises they spent most of their day involved in: running, sparring, lifting and carrying heavy stones, climbing trees, swimming across rivers. Iksindong was training the 181 students. Some were new recruits; others had already been in the Vechengschaft. But they were all raw recruits in Iksindong's mind.

"Here's how you use what we call a fishing mace," Iksindong said. About seventy feet away stood a target made of solid oak. It was three feet thick and contained a life-size carving of a Sodorfian. Holding the fishing mace in his hand, he flipped a switch on the handle and held it for less than a second before releasing it. The steel ball immediately descended three feet, attached to the thin steel chain.

"It is important to keep in mind," he continued, "that only when this switch is held forward will the chain itself continue to come out of the handle. The ball's ability to be launched forward depends on two things. One, the chain itself exiting the handle. Two, the large, flexible spring inside the handle. If one were to allow, for example, two feet of chain to descend from the handle and then pull the chain's switch back to its starting position, no more of the chain would exit the handle unless the chain's switch were flipped again. The spring is controlled by the second switch, just an inch below the chain switch. The spring itself is capable of stretching up to twenty feet, or until it comes in contact with a Sodorfian's skull."

The recruits laughed.

"When you are ready to strike your target, you will release both the chain switch and the spring switch. But you should first allow a few feet of slack, as I have done, before making the forward motion with your arm because that way you will better combine the force of the spring with the force you manually produce by swinging the chain. You can simply swing your arm forward without first releasing slack if you don't have time to do otherwise, but you will end up with less power that way."

Iksindong decided to demonstrate. He brought his arm forward hard, simultaneously releasing the spring switch and the chain switch. The steel, spike-covered ball went flying off the top of the handle like a ball out of a cannon.

BAMM!! It smashed into the oak at well over a hundred miles per hour. Splinters went flying everywhere, notwithstanding the sturdiness of the target. Iksindong released the switches back to their resting position and pulled back. The ball came hurtling back towards him. He extended his right arm as far forward and to the right as he possibly could. This made the chance of the retracting steel ball coming back and kissing him right on the nose almost impossible.

"Impressed?!" he asked, his tough-guy military bark echoing across the field.

"SIR, YES, SIR!" all 180 recruits affirmed enthusiastically.

Except for one.

His name was Eihven. Eihven was daydreaming and looking at the beautiful tree line far off in the distance. Iksindong spotted this daydreamer immediately. Not hesitating for a second, he released about four feet of chain, flicked his wrist, and brought his arm forward hard, simultaneously releasing both switches. Twenty feet of spring flew out, sending the ball and chain hurtling through the air ahead of it. The steel ball crashed hard into the earth right between Eihven's legs. Eihven suddenly snapped back to attention, and noticed everyone was staring at him. The ball had plowed a small hole in the ground from the impact, and when Iksindong pulled back, the spikes took off some of Eihven's pants as a souvenir.

"THIS IS NO PLACE FOR DAYDREAMERS!!" Iksindong shouted loudly at Eihven. "THAT STEEL BALL DID NOT HIT THE GROUND BECAUSE I MISSED. IT HIT THE GROUND BECAUSE THAT WAS A WARNING: NEXT TIME I'LL SEND IT RIGHT INTO YOUR FAMILY JEWELS—DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, SON?!!!!"

"Sir, yes sir!!" shouted Eihven, incredibly embarrassed at having been made an example out of in front of his entire unit.

"NOW, DROP DOWN AND GIVE ME ONE HUNDRED PUSHUPS!!"

"Sir, yes sir!" he said and dropped down to begin pushing away.

"Now, with the exception of this moron, does everyone feel he is ready to give this beauty a try?!" Iksindong roared.

"SIR, YES SIR!!" they shouted back.

"Good. Now, I don't want you lousy maggots bashing your own skulls in, so you are going to be using practice fishing maces!" He went to a nearby wagon, reached inside, grabbed something, and came back.

"As you can see here, the only difference is that instead of a solid-steel, spike-covered ball of death and destruction, there is instead a wooden ball designed so that idiots such as yourselves don't bash your skulls in and cease to be of value to the Vechengschaft! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!!"

"SIR, YES SIR!!!" they all said in unison—even Eihven, panting madly and soaked with the sweat of a hundred pushups.

"Good. We have 181 targets set up here, and there are 181 of you. START SWINGING!!" Iksindong roared at the recruits.

Most missed the target by at least twenty feet. Many couldn't fling the wooden ball as far as the target, since they struggled to flip both switches in unison, as a result of which the twenty-foot spring reached its maximum stretch point before the recruit had managed to release the slack in the chain. Additionally, almost everyone struggled to make the ball go where they wanted it to.

Iksindong watched the recruits fumble with the weapon like a bunch of teenagers undoing a bra for the first time. He didn't curse at them, though, because he could see all of them, even Eihven, were trying their best. In fact, he remembered very well how much trouble the weapon had first given him when Istung had first given him one to practice with many centuries ago. It had taken several months of intense daily practice to get to the point where he could handle it accurately and effectively, and it had taken years to master it. But that was just the beauty of the weapon. You didn't have to master the fishing mace for it to be lethal. It was a weapon far more advanced than anything the Sodorfians had—this much the Moscorians knew for a fact—and mere competence with the weapon gave its user a tremendous advantage against an opponent with an inferior weapon.

Besides the fishing mace—the Moscorian engineers' crowning achievement, as far as hand-held weapons were concerned—other weapons had been developed. After poring over thousands of books on Glisphin and ways in which to use it in war, Tristan had made a very important discovery. Inside the center of the Achendung tree was a thick pulp, which, if mixed with the correct amount of salt, small steel fragments, and bits of wood, could be used as an extremely powerful fireproof elastic capable of withstanding thousands of pounds of pull without snapping. The name Tristan had decided to give it was Achenpulp, and it could launch heavy objects across long distances. He had tinkered with several designs and had come up with several deadly uses of this substance.

To sustain the food supply throughout the country—which was vital if the goodwill of the people were to be maintained—several hundred Moscorians went into the large, dense forests several times a week, in groups of eleven, and killed a large number of deer, bears, and wolves. The Vechengschaft was in charge of distributing this food to about nine major supply stations throughout the country to which the people would travel to get the meat.

For centuries, most Dachwaldians had been too scared to even attempt to hunt in these terrifying forests. Once the famine had begun, some had gone there and attempted to hunt out of desperation, but they were quickly devoured by wild animals. But the Moscorians believed they were at least as wild and mean as anything those forests could offer, and they enjoyed the danger of hunting there, considering it preparatory for combat. They hunted with multiple weapons. Some preferred the halberd, some, the longbow, others, the long sword. But Tristan ordered them to begin hunting exclusively with the fishing mace. He wanted to make sure that they completely mastered the weapon.

Feiklen and ten other Moscorians set off into this forest, armed only with fishing maces. Feiklen was a bit uneasy. He felt comfortable with the fishing mace in theory, but when it came right down to it, it was his long sword he truly trusted. But Tristan was right. Unless they actually used the fishing mace in a life-or-death situation, they would never have complete confidence with it in battle.

It was early in the morning. The weather slightly chilly, but not too cold. Winters in Dachwald usually only got as cold as sixty degrees, although an exception came along every once in a while, freezing everyone to the bone before saying goodbye and heading off farther north. The wind was blowing lightly. A beautiful smell from the many pine trees in the forest permeated the air, as well as from the thousands of fragrant flowers that dotted the open meadows separating one patch of trees from another.

As they entered into the forest, they formed a circle. Two people walked inside the circle itself and watched the trees above for an ambush. The people on the back part of the circle had to walk backwards so that no animal could sneak up behind them unnoticed. The people in front and on the sides also carefully scanned for any movement.

They hiked for about two hours before they saw their first animal. A deer, and it was drinking water from a stream. It noticed them, however, and immediately took off running. They turned to start walking down the stream in the other direction to see if they could find any more deer. After about fifteen minutes, Kihlgun alerted his fellow Moscorians. About a hundred feet away, coming from a thick clump of trees and undergrowth, they could hear what sounded like a large animal foraging for food.

Suddenly, the sounds ceased, and they heard nothing.

They froze, not wanting to make a move until they knew what they were up against and what it was doing. They heard a loud sniffing sound. It got louder and louder. Then, a low growl. Seconds later a large grizzly bear came crashing through the dense undergrowth, knocking bushes out of the way, even uprooting a few small trees.

Keeping their cool, the Moscorians spread out into a large semicircle.

The bear was angry.

It didn't slow down, and it didn't seem to care that it was outnumbered. It chose to go straight towards Fasendall, one of the smallest Moscorians—but still a very large man. Although it was unusual for him, he began to panic slightly. After all, his preferred weapon was the pike. He didn't feel very comfortable with this fishing mace yet, but he knew he better get used to it fast. He held his arm back and then flung it forward flicking his wrist and flipping both switches at the same time. The steel ball missed the bear's face by inches, went past its head, and on the way back bounced off of the bear's shoulder, causing the steel ball to return on a less-than-even path back towards the weapon. Forgetting to hold his arm out straight to the side, the ball hit the ground and bounced hard into his stomach, although fortunately for him not with enough force to pierce his armor. As he fell, the chain got wrapped around his right leg, and rendered him nearly immobile.

The bear was about six yards away now and was breaking the gap quickly.

Not hesitating, Feiklen brought his arm back and then brought the weapon forward like a plantation master cracking his whip against a rebellious slave's back. The weapon slammed with great force into the side of the grizzly's body, ripping out flesh.

The bear didn't stop.

It instead proceeded to pick Fasendall up in the air. It was getting ready to throw Fasendall onto the ground and introduce him to a whole new galaxy of pain. Kihlgun let just a little bit of slack out of the fishing mace and then moved the weapon back and forth a few times to get his rhythm. Once he felt he had it, he brought his arm forward with all of his powerful might and released the switches.

The ball went slamming right into the face of the grizzly. Blood went flying everywhere; the hit had taken off much of the grizzly's jaw.

It was furious.

It threw Fasendall to the ground hard and came for Kihlgun. As soon as it started to, the steel balls from the other nine Moscorians' fishing maces slammed into its body like meteorites crashing into a planet. Chunks of flesh were torn out; blood erupted at the points of impact. But the bear wasn't calling it quits just yet—it continued rushing towards Kihlgun.

"Ah, I wish I had my damned battle hammer!!" Kihlgun moaned angrily, backing away from the bear evasively. For perhaps the first time in his life, Feiklen also wished Kihlgun had his battle hammer with him. In his mind, he could imagine it sending a cloud of blood, bone, and brains into the air from a single stroke or pulverizing a limb with one blow or squashing internal organs like a heavy boot on a tomato . . . .

Realizing wishful thinking would do him no good, Feiklen decided to make the most of the weaponry they did have. He flung his steel ball forward, but instead of aiming it at the bear's body, aimed it towards the ground at an angle, right by the bear's foot. The chain wrapped around its foot, and he began to pull hard. He wasn't able to completely stop the bear, but it definitely wasn't moving as fast. Seeing that Feiklen had bought him some time, Kihlgun stopped backing up and instead launched a vicious offensive. For the first time getting a true grasp of what the weapon was capable of, he began whipping it back and forth rapidly, slamming the spike-covered ball into the bear's face again and again, his inhuman strength delivering blows twice as powerful as even Feiklen's. As he felt himself adapting to the timing involved between flicking his wrist and flipping and releasing the switches, his hits became faster and faster. Within seconds they reached a fever pitch, eight devastating blows being delivered directly to the bear's head within as many seconds.

In spite of the immense thickness of the bear's skull, it had been cracked all the way through in a few spots. All of these blows to the head caused it to slow down, which, of course, made it an even easier target. All of the other Moscorians, except for Feiklen, who was still pulling on the bear's foot, and Fasendall—who was lying on the ground in immense pain—began delivering devastating blows to the beast's body. Despite its massive muscular thickness, the balls began tearing into the bear's ribs and vital organs. It finally stopped advancing, trying vainly to swat away what seemed to be a swarm of large angry bees, but it couldn't remember any bees that stung this hard.

As it did so, Feiklen finally managed to pull the bear completely off balance. As soon as it hit the ground, everyone except Isendall delivered a final and fatal blow to the bear's skull. Its brains oozed out; the great beast became silent.

The Moscorians knelt next to the slain grizzly and offered solemn words of praise for it having fought so nobly. They made a promise to the god of hunting, Ichindall, to make good use of the bear's flesh and that the killing had not been done in vain.

Fasendall tried to get up, but couldn't—his back was broken in three different places. He was paralyzed, and this was going to take serious expertise to heal. The Moscorians knew only Tristan would be able to do it. Under other circumstances they would have been hesitant to ask him to heal anyone. Healing required the use of Feiglushen, and they knew Tristan hated Feiglushen worse than a cat hates being thrown into water. However, the Moscorians knew all of them were valuable to Tristan and his plans of conquest and despite his hatred of Feiglushen he would use it in order to not lose a valuable soldier.

Kihlgun carried Fasendall over his shoulder with the ease of a knapsack, and the other ten Moscorians picked up the bear, and they all walked back to the camp. It had been a successful hunt, in spite of the serious injury. They were glad for having participated in it, because it showed them Tristan was right: They had to practice much more with the fishing mace before they could even dream of using it in combat. Kihlgun's experiment with the weapon had shown that the true key to the weapon's success was mastering the timing of the flipping of the switches so that the warrior could strike repeatedly in quick fashion. Tristan had very high expectations for the weapon, and apart from the large contraptions they were working on, he considered it to be the weapon of the future.

Chapter 28

Pitkins woke up suddenly.

Aghhh, my head hurts so bad, he thought to himself. Where am I? How did I get here? Then, just as suddenly as he had woken up, it came to him: the attacker, the slash, the strange wound, the bird, the cave, a terrible drink, and then . . . sleep. He reached back to feel the wound. To his amazement it was almost totally healed.

"Where in Uchinweld am I?!!" he screamed, not caring if his kidnapper heard him.

He could see nothing.

He was in utter darkness. How am I going to get out of here? What about Donive? I hope she's okay!! He felt angry as he realized just how helpless he was. He couldn't even see. Holding his hand out in front of him to keep himself from hitting his head on anything, he began walking forward slowly. About a minute later, his hand touched a wall. He felt it, and then began walking to his right. After he had done this for about fifteen minutes, he realized that he was just walking around in a big circle. It seemed that there were no openings in the walls of this pit, but, hoping that perhaps he might find a small hole somewhere towards the bottom of it, he got on his hands and knees and started circling around the pit again, this time searching lower. Suddenly, he heard a noise. Not knowing exactly what to expect, he instinctively moved away from the noise and assumed a fighting stance. He heard a few very faint footsteps and then . . . silence.

Just when he was starting to think that he had imagined the whole thing, he heard a very faint sound of something falling into the pit.

It was about twenty feet in front of him.

He moved back again quickly, keeping his fighting stance. But then, a few seconds later, he heard the footsteps moving away; he heard what sounded like a door close; and then . . . silence.

He hesitated. Not quite sure what to do. This pitch darkness was somewhat terrifying, even for a hardened warrior.

Let me see my enemy, and I'll take on anyone and anything, but this darkness is unbearable!! he thought to himself angrily. For all he knew this person might have just dropped a sack full of highly venomous snakes inside his pit.

Maybe venomous spiders. Maybe tarantulas. Maybe . . . okay, time to stop thinking like that!

Although it was already so quiet he could have heard a needle drop on a soft blanket, he focused his ears harder than he ever had in his life. After all, he knew that his auditory abilities were going to have to become very acute if he was going to survive in this hellhole because his visual abilities were now completely useless. Out of the equation. After about ten minutes of the most agonizing waiting he had ever endured in his life, he decided to investigate what it was that had been dropped into his new home.

Here goes nothing. One . . . two . . . thareee! He leaped in the direction of where he had heard the object dropped, and he reached out his hand and tried to grab it. His hand hit something,

(SNAKE??!)

and he felt a strange sensation on his hand. "Aghhh!!" he screamed, recoiling in terror. He had felt something wet and slimy . . . surely it was a large, venomous snake! Then, he began to laugh. A loud, hearty laugh. The "venemous snake" was a bit of water he had spilled on himself. Apparently the jar of water that had been lowered into his hellhole.

Although laughing at himself had calmed him down a bit, he still wanted to proceed with some caution. Reaching his hand out again, he touched the object: it was definitely a large jar of water.

"I'm so thirsty!" he said out loud, and he arched his head back to begin guzzling the water. Then, suddenly, panic hit him like a kick from a mule. What if its poison?! The thought sent waves of terror through him like volts of electricity hurtling through the body of a man struck by lightning. He smelled the water cautiously. It smelled normal. In fact, it had a very fresh smell, as if it had just been taken from a cold stream.

(you're doomed either way; which is better death by thirst, or quick-acting poison?)

(I'm NOT doomed, but . . . .)

After thinking it over for a few minutes, he finally decided that if he was going to be able to escape from this place at all, it was certainly going to take some time. And if he didn't hydrate himself, he was going to die of thirst before he could ever even come close to figuring out how to escape. Finally, he decided that, although there was some risk to drinking the water, the risk in not doing so seemed far greater.

Here goes nothing . . . . He took a long, deep drink of the water. It was wonderful!

Where did this come from? A freshwater spring?

He started to guzzle the water but then quickly stopped himself. He knew it was dangerous to drink water too quickly. Furthermore, he needed to conserve it. He had no idea when, if ever, the mysterious kidnapper might return again to bring him more water.

He felt a sack next to the water, and he quickly figured out that it contained bread. He decided to forego all the doubting and second-guessing this time and tore into it immediately, stopping only when he realized that he was in danger of eating all of what might be his last meal for a long time . . . if not his last meal ever. With a renewed determination to find a way out of the pit, he circled it again.

And then again. A third time. A fourth time. On his knees. Standing up. Jumping.

"UCHINWELDDDDDDD!!!!" he suddenly shouted out in fury. He began punching the sides of his prison, furious at himself for having allowed himself to become captured and imprisoned like an animal.

This went on for weeks. Then months. There was always water and bread for him to eat. It didn't come everyday, but sometimes it came twice a day. He realized that for some strange reason, his kidnapper wanted him alive

(or wants to be the one who decides when and how you DIE!)

He wanted to yank on the rope that his kidnapper must certainly be using to lower the food and water into the pit so silently and crush his vertebra in about seven or eight places. For starters. But the person somehow always knew when he was sleeping and chose that time to bring the food. He knew that somehow, in addition to being able to move very stealthily, the person must have had some way of seeing in the dark.

(and Kasani knows what other talents . . . .)

He simply could not think of any other way in which his kidnapper could consistently slip past his detection. He tried sometimes to stay awake and pretend to be asleep so that he could wait for his captor to come and feed him. His plan was to yank on the rope and send the jailer tumbling down into the pit, hoping against hope he would still be alive when he landed so that he would still be capable of feeling pain when he grabbed his head and . . . . But it was no use. Somehow his captor knew when he was just pretending to sleep.

This disturbed him. He had looked death straight in the eye many times in his life and not blinked, but this darkness and utter isolation were beginning to test the limits of his mental and physical strength. To try and avoid becoming completely weak and emaciated

(which would be fatal if you ever do get lucky enough to catch Mr. Jailer off guard)

he did lots of exercise. This helped him quite a bit mentally, as well as physically. He did thousands of repetitions of each exercise everyday, and he found that anything that got his mind somewhat off of the darkness was helpful.

Chapter 29

"Cut this one down!" shouted Istung. The large tree fell and was sawed to a length of one hundred feet, then placed into a large steel machine with adjustable steel rings through which the tree was placed. The rings were placed about two feet apart from one another, the diameter of which could be decreased to as little as one foot or as much as twenty feet. The rings were held together by about five long pieces of steel, and they all rested on top of a large steel block over a hundred feet long.

Once the tree was inside, the rings were tightened snugly against it. At the end of each side of the long contraption were lids that came down onto each end of the tree. The lids had sharp blades protruding from them and were hammered into the ends of the tree. On the outer surface of the lids were large grooves into which an enormous screw was inserted, and the screw was attached to a gigantic wheel. Three of the strongest Moscorians went to each wheel and begin turning the tree. As they did this the bark was peeled off the tree neatly and evenly, just like an orange, by a series of razor-sharp blades attached to the steel poles covering the length of the tree. Once the bar was removed, the steel rings towards one of the ends of the tree were made tighter and tighter causing the diameter of the tree to become smaller and smaller, eventually coming to a point and looking like a sharpened spear.

At this point, Istung and nine other Moscorians carrying a long steel spike approached the pointed end of the tree and held the spike towards it. Kihlgun, the strongest of the Moscorians, approached the end of the spike and began pounding away at it with all of his might. The end he pounded on had a flat surface shaped like the end of a nail, about four feet in diameter. The length of the spike was doused with Plethor, a powerful lubricant. After about thirty minutes of pounding, cursing, and sweating, Kihlgun succeeded in driving the sixty-foot spike almost all the way into the tree. Now came the hardest part—although it was made easier by the Plethor—and that was pulling the spike out. Kihlgun stopped to rest for a moment. Once rejuvenated, he began pounding the opposite way on the end of the spike, thus taking it out of the tree one swing at a time. About twenty minutes later it had been removed. What was left was a six-inch-wide, sixty-foot-long, hollow shaft piercing the tree's interior.

Kihlgun brought forward a large barrel of pheorite, a highly explosive substance, and Istung picked up the tool he was going to use to insert the pheorite. It was a long steel rod, much like the one that had been used to create the hollow shaft, but its diameter was less than half that of the hollow shaft. They poured the pheorite inside the shaft and then inserted the shaft inside the tree. The rod's exterior was solid, but upon being violently shaken, small steel flaps moved aside across its entire length creating small openings through which the pheorite poured out inside the tree. Next, Istung proceeded to take small rocks and shove them inside the tree.

Next they hollowed out a portion near the base of the tree, leaving a large opening into which a heavy weight could be place. The Moscorians then spent several hours sanding the tree until it was smooth all the way around. The missile was now ready. All the Moscorians needed now was to make hundreds more of these and create the mechanism to launch them.

The first thing the Moscorians and Vechengschaft did was dig large shafts in the ground. These shafts were completely circular, and their diameter was nearly the same as that of the missiles themselves, but were just enough larger that the missiles could fit inside easily. Since the shafts were completely stationary and couldn't be adjusted, Tristan knew they had to be careful to make the correct number of shafts at the correct angles. Tristan wanted three angles so that he could make the missiles land behind the enemy, onto the enemy, and in front of the enemy.

The mechanical principle behind generating the force to launch these wooden, pheorite-stuffed missiles into the air involved elasticity, the introduction of a very heavy weight, and then the sudden removal thereof. Across the opening of these deep shafts that had been dug into the earth was stretched a strip of Achenpulp. It covered the entire surface of the opening of the hollowed-out shaft, which was fitted with smooth steel. Prior to being inserted, the tree would be rubbed with the lubricant Plethor. As a result, its descent into, and subsequent ejection from, the smooth steel shaft would be nearly frictionless. Protruding from each steel shaft was a half circle of smooth steel onto which each missile would await being launched. The Achenpulp below the tree was thick enough that the weight of the tree itself was insufficient to cause the Achenpulp to bend.

This was where the temporary introduction of an extremely heavy weight came into play. The bottom of the tree was hollowed out for a specific purpose, holding a very large weight. Into this open, hollowed-out pocket at the base of the tree, five soldiers would push a two-thousand-pound, solid-steel ball. This sudden, unbearable increase in weight would cause the Achenpulp to stretch, and as it did so, the tree would then quickly descend down into the shaft, which was hundreds of feet deep.

At the very bottom of the shaft there was an opening to a tunnel the ball would roll roll into. It would roll through the tunnel and then exit at the bottom of the hill. This instantaneous loss of thousands of pounds of weight would allow the Achenpulp to stretch back to its original shape and position. As it did so, it would bring the wooden missile with it, and when the tree exited the Plethor-lubricated shaft, it would be traveling at several hundred miles per hour. It could also be coated with naphtha so that when the pheorite exploded upon impact, not only would the shrapnel go flying everywhere, the naphtha would ignite and spread fire.

Tristan demanded the Moscorians and Vechengschaft work quickly to construct the launch pads.

He knew time was not on their side.

## Chapter 30

"I want to find out what happened here!" General Fuhdor shouted to his men as soon as the Dachwaldian emissary and his bodyguards turned around and left.

"I see a tree, and I see a knot attached to a piece of steel pounded into a tree, but how in Uchinvweld did this measly piece of wood smash and destroy hundreds of Sodorfian soldiers?!! Start figuring it out!!" he shouted.

He himself couldn't figure out exactly what had happened. One thing he suspected rather quickly, however, was that both ends of the tree had had some sort of contraption hammered into them that was removed after the ambush. As he looked more carefully, he noticed many of the dead Sodorfians had holes through their bodies but no arrows.

(they must have drilled spikes into it)

"This will likely mean war," he said to one of his officers standing next to him, surveying the carnage. "Eight hundred and thirty years of peace, and now Dachwald thinks she will rise again. It won't be she who rises. It'll be us. And when we rise this time, we'll crush the Dachwaldians so thoroughly and so utterly they'll never even consider attacking us again. I'm going to go and speak with the nobles. Clean up this carnage and give these men a proper burial. They've earned it. I also want you to continue trying to figure out just how in the world they rigged this lethal device. I want scouting parties scouring not only this area, but also the border itself. If there are any other Dachwaldians in Sodorf, I want to know about it. If you encounter any, slaughter them."

"Yes, General," the officer responded.

General Fuhdor got on his horse and headed straight back to the City of Sodorf. Despite the fact the journey took forty-eight hours, he didn't stop to rest.

When he finally arrived in the city it was early morning. He considered stopping for a brief nap, but decided against it. This was too important. He walked into the temple and began ringing the huge bell. About a half hour later the nobles began pouring into the temple sleepy-eyed and exhausted. But he could tell by their lack of complaining they weren't really surprised to be having an emergency meeting. It wasn't every day that 524 soldiers were turned into mincemeat.

He waited until all four hundred nobles were in the room. It was obvious to all he didn't bear good tidings.

"It's true," he said soberly. "All of it. Ruksin wasn't lying about a thing. He does indeed seem to have been the sole survivor. By the time I left that scene of utter carnage and destruction, my men had already accounted for most of the bodies, but there were so many scattered throughout the forest it'll be difficult to find all of them. Some were even flung into the trees. It also didn't make counting the dead any easier that so few of them were still in one piece. Many of our countrymen were sawed in half or bashed into pieces. The Dachwaldians used some kind of booby trap . . . a tree . . . it must have been covered with spikes and blades . . . that came swinging down from above. The expertise behind this attack is what frightens me the most. They picked excellent ground. A sunken, muddy road. There just wasn't time to get the hell out of that damn trap's way.

"What's particularly unsettling is how they seemed to know exactly where we were going to march. Exactly where. After all, there are other paths that go to the northern border. How did they know we wouldn't use one of those? Were they just guessing? If I had that kind of luck, I'd play cards for a living. No, it wasn't luck. It wasn't chance. It was a well-planned, well-organized ambush. Face it, gentlemen. We're already at war, like it or not. A war that will determine the future of this nation and the survival of our race.

"Our ancestors were far too easy on them at the end of the Seven Years War. They should have knocked their castle to the ground and publicly executed all their leaders. We can't go into this war with the idea of accepting a conditional surrender. There are only two options: annihilate or be annihilated!"

Applause broke out. There had been a drastic change in the nobles over the last several days. Reality had come and bitten them right on the nose. There wasn't a pacifist among them. The utter reality of these events made it impossible for them to retain any illusions about this conflict. Their minds had been on the horrors of the Seven Years War. Thousands of Sodorfians being executed in cold blood by the Dachwaldians. The only people taken as prisoners, Sodorfian males strong enough to work as slaves in mines looking for pheorite and other substances to make weapons. When the Knights of Sodorf had crushed the Moscorians and the Vechengschaft at the battle of Dachwaldendomel and proceeded farther north into Dachwald, they were appalled at what they found. Entire camps that had been set up for the extermination of Sodorfians.

The few survivors told the grisly tale. They had been led in small groups into a room surrounded by thick stone walls. Soundproof walls. Once inside, they found out, all too late, what the real purpose of the room was. The floor of the room was moveable, and in an adjacent room several Moscorians would turn a wheel that caused the floor to roll backwards. As it did so, it revealed a blazing, fiery pit below, into which the Sodorfians fell. To attempt to describe the horror the Sodorfian men, women, and children went through in those last final moments would be in vain. As the floor slowly started opening up like the jaws of some horrible monster, everyone in the room began rushing away from the edge of the receding floor. Quickly, however, they ran out of space. As they ran out of room, there was nothing to stop them from falling. As they fell, many of them desperately grabbed onto the other people that were farther away from the opening pit to try to prevent themselves from falling.

Unfortunately, not only did this not save them, it simply dragged other people into the pit with them. Furthermore, any attempt to survive at best delayed the inevitable, as the entire floor itself eventually receded leaving no escape from the hungry flames below. The pit itself was about sixty feet deep, and the flames were about forty feet tall. There was a passage from an adjacent building that led underneath this house of death, and below, enslaved Sodorfians worked there, shoveling fresh coal into the furnace from which came the flames. They were told if they assisted in shoveling the coal into the furnace, their lives would be spared. Hence, they assisted in stoking the flames to which their fellow countrymen were fed in exchange for their own safety.

The Knights of Sodorf had ordered a very thorough investigation of all these atrocities. After discovering the undeniable culpability of hundreds of Sodorfians in assisting the Moscorians in liquidating Sodorfians, all such Sodorfians were executed. To their credit, they accepted their execution bravely and honorably. Before being hanged, they gave tearful apologies to their fellow Sodorfians and explained that they were simply frightened to death and were extremely sorry for what they had done. Only a few objected to being executed. In fact, most were happy at having the opportunity to vindicate themselves as far as was possible under such circumstances. Nonetheless, the complicity of Sodorfians in the wholesale murder of their fellow countrymen left a black mark so foul upon the legacy of Sodorf that it was rarely discussed in polite company and history books gave it terse treatment.

One might indeed wonder why the Sodorfians so blindly walked into this house of death. The sanitary conditions in these extermination camps were deplorable. Outbreaks of lice were common, as were many diseases. The pretext for them going inside the fateful room was to have a special powder put on them that would kill the lice and other undesirable creatures.

This troubling imagery was vividly present in the minds of the Sodorfian nobles today.

Finally, Bundor spoke up: "General Fuhdor, as many people in this room likely know, I am definitely one of those guilty of causing the decline in the quality and quantity of the Sodorfian army. After all, I have numerous times called for military spending cuts, and, unfortunately, many times I was successful. Also, I called for fewer full-time soldiers, arguing all we really needed was a reserve army. Well, that's all in the past now; I am more than willing to give my full support to the military. But, the problem still remains: how are we going to get an army large enough to go take on the Vechengschaft? After all, over five hundred of our Sodorfians were wiped out in a single battle, and all of the evidence thus far appears to indicate we didn't even inflict a single casualty on the Dachwaldians! This is certainly not the sign of having an army that is ready for war. Right now we'd be doing well to simply survive the next couple of weeks—that is, if the Dachwaldians plan on making any more attacks on us in the near future, especially if they are executed as ingeniously as this last one! We need to be looking towards our defenses. Yes, maybe conquering them eventually can be seriously considered. Right now, offense would be suicide."

"Sir Bundor, I can't deny the veracity of your comments," said General Fuhdor, "and I also want to say I appreciate your willingness to admit your anti-military stance in the past has not been helpful. However, seeing you are willing to move on and correct that position, I'll try to look past that and look towards the future, and to do so with a spirit of unity, not finger-pointing. As to your logistical concerns, I don't deny that attempting to attack now would indeed be insanity. Offensive action is something we won't be able to take for quite some time. For starters, I propose we immediately conscript every Sodorfian between the age of fifteen and forty-nine, the standard age group for conscription in times of national emergency. If we conscript every man between those ages, it should give us an extra one hundred thousand men.

"We currently have about 9,500 Sodorfian regulars and six thousand Hugars. I have many excellent instructors in my army, and I assure you that, within several months, we can make good soldiers out of the greenest recruits. As for money, well we are going to have to immediately begin a special military tax; that is a given. Having an army of this size is going to require sacrifices. While we gather this large army, there are many other things that our country can do to defend itself. First of all, we can start having regular patrols along the northern border to alert us to the first sign of any hostility from Dachwald. Secondly, we can begin building larger walls around the city. We have no castle in this country that can even be remotely compared to Castle Dachwald. The twenty-foot walls that surround this city do offer some refuge, but they offer very little protection against a disciplined army. We will need to begin building booby traps around the city, raising the height of the walls, and building more trebuchets to put inside the city to hurl missiles at any oncoming enemy. Although my engineers don't know how to build anything quite as crafty and deadly as that monstrous instrument of death that destroyed those brave Sodorfian regulars, my engineers are certainly capable of making very high-quality trebuchets and can begin doing so immediately."

The nobles immediately began clapping, expressing their satisfaction.

Fritzer spoke up, "I agree with General Fuhdor, and as emergency leader, I decree we will increase taxes to the extent General Fuhdor sees fit, begin military conscription for all males aged fifteen through forty-nine, and begin increasing the height of our city's walls and adding trebuchets inside. I grant General Fuhdor authority to implement whatever he feels necessary to accomplish these ends."

Every noble immediately voiced his agreement with Fritzer's decision.

# Chapter 31

Work began immediately. Messengers were sent throughout the land, giving gory details of the horrible attack and warning everyone to prepare for war. Over the next several months, thousands of Sodorfians were conscripted. To General Fuhdor's delight, very few resisted. They were excited to defend their country against this horrible enemy. General Fuhdor was also pleased that of the approximately one hundred thousand recruits conscripted, only around ten thousand failed to meet the strict physical requirements. Most of those rejected were healthy enough that if the situation grew even more desperate they could be called upon later. Thus, the army had been increased in a matter of months from 9,500 Sodorfian regulars and six thousand Hugars to 99,500 Sodorfian regulars and six thousand Hugars.

The Hugars were a different breed of warrior, and none of the Sodorfian regulars would be eligible to join their ranks until they had either spent at least a year as a Sodorfian regular or distinguished themselves exceptionally in combat. The traditional weapon for the Sodorfians was the pike, which they had treasured for centuries. Aside from the Knights of Sodorf, which were heavy cavalry and very effective with lances, long swords, and battle axes, the Sodorfian pikemen were one of the few troop types that had been able to withstand the devastating cavalry charges of the Vechengschaft and Moscorian cavalry. But this wasn't their only weapon of choice. They also liked to use the long sword and crossbow. Unlike the Vechengschaft and Moscorians, who favored the longbow, the Sodorfians preferred crossbows, and, if they used bows at all, they preferred smaller ones, since it afforded them greater mobility.

General Fuhdor saw to it that discipline was rigorous. All soldiers, including new recruits and those already in the army before the undeclared war broke out, trained from about five in the morning to nine at night. This included classroom training and physical training. Some of the classroom training was dedicated to teaching the military history of the Seven Years War, but most was dedicated to teaching tactics.

Although everyone was expected to know how to fight on foot, not everyone was expected to be able to fight on horseback. After all, the army instructors reasoned, one can always fall off a horse and be forced to fight on foot, but there are very few scenarios in which one would be forced to fight on horseback. That said, all received some training in horseback combat. Although a smaller part of the combat curriculum, they also studied Gicksin: unarmed combat, consisting of locks, throws, strikes, and chokes.

Finally, after about six months of intensive training, General Fuhdor considered all 99,500 Sodorfian regulars trained and ready for combat. He was surprised that during these last six months there had been no attack from Dachwald. After the ambush near the border, he had been nearly certain another attack, probably even larger, was imminent.

(they're probably just biding their time to catch us off guard again)

He wasn't sure what they were up to. His spies and scouts had been unable to obtain any detailed information as to what was going on in Dachwald. He assumed that perhaps they were rearming, just waiting for the right moment to strike.

(maybe they know they lost their one and only chance to catch us off guard and are waiting for us to make a move)

If there was ever a time when they would have had a decent chance of wiping them out and taking over, it was right after that ambush. Their army then had been small, demoralized. Especially those who had seen the carnage firsthand. The Dachwaldians must have known launching such an attack would lead to war . . . .

(all that matters is getting the largest damn army this world's ever seen and sticking a boot so far up their ass the toe comes out their mouth!)

(but what about the lack of Sodorfian refugees? there are several thousand Sodorfians—or were anyway—living in Dachwald; surely SOME of them would have crossed over by now)

Being in a state of war—and likely in a state of racist frenzy and violence as well—many Sodorfians would have wanted to return to Sodorf. The fact that none had crossed the border bothered him. Unless the situation in Dachwald was so peaceful and had changed so little that there hadn't been any need for Sodorfians to emigrate from Dachwald, that could only mean none had been permitted to leave. Perhaps they were already being dealt with. Dealt with the way they were during the Seven Years War. Getting prepped to have lice and other nasty critters removed from their bodies. Come, come, now; don't dally. Time for your cleaning. Yes, just walk right in through here; we'll take good care of those pesky lice. Don't pay any attention to that burning smell.

(the bastards!)

As this imagery crept into his mind he felt a nearly irresistible urge to attack right away. What was he waiting for after all?

(unless you enter with an army that can actually defeat them, you may as well just stay right the hell here)

This undeniable reality kept him from doing anything rash. By Kasani, he needed to obtain some good intelligence on the current state of affairs in Dachwald. Its political stability, the treatment of Sodorfians there, the strength of the Vechengschaft. His patience was wearing thin like an overused glove. There was a sense of imminent danger throughout Sodorf. Everyone knew this was the calm before the storm. The calm didn't fool anybody. Not completely anyway. And definitely not General Fuhdor.

An elaborate warning system had been put in place to warn Sodorfians of attack. Lookout posts had been set up throughout all of Sodorf equipped with large bells. In the event of an invasion, these bells would be rung, and whenever a lookout heard a bell being rung, he would in turn ring the bell at his post. So many of these lookout posts had been set up that if the Dachwaldians were to attack Sodorf, within less than an hour most of Sodorf could be alerted in a domino-type effect of alarms being set off. The walls surrounding the City of Sodorf had also been successfully raised. Once a mere twenty feet in height, they now stood a proud forty feet tall. They bristled with ballista towers, merlons, and crenels. As for some of the smaller towns throughout Sodorf, such as Seihdun and Seisphen, there had not been sufficient time to improve them so drastically, but they had been made more secure. Outside of numerous small towns such as these were placed large wooden walls, as well as twenty-foot-high stone walls. Some trebuchets were placed inside each also.

Several days later General Fuhdor was still pondering the wisdom of launching an immediate offensive on Dachwald. His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a messenger.

"General Fuhdor, I have very urgent news! Some Sodorfians were found in the northern regions fleeing for their lives. They are badly battered and bruised. They have been branded, whipped, beaten . . . it's horrible! Please, you must come and hear what they have to say!" exclaimed the messenger excitedly.

"I'll kill those responsible—I swear it!!" General Fuhdor shouted angrily, purple veins bulging out of his neck.

(this could be the end of the waiting game!)

He got on his horse and accompanied the messenger to Seihdun, where the Sodorfians were currently resting and trying to recover from their wounds. After about eight hours of hard riding, General Fuhdor and the messenger arrived.

"They're in here, sir," the messenger said. General Fuhdor went into the room expecting the worst. He wasn't disappointed. Emaciated Sodorfians, looking like human skeletons lay on the beds inside the room. Scars from whip marks were visible on their bodies. Large S's were branded onto their neck. They looked like escapees from a shipwrecked slave ship. Most of them were deeply asleep or staring blankly into space.

"Things have gone insane in Dachwald," an old Sodorfian said, looking directly into General Fuhdor's eyes. "They're butchering all Sodorfian men, women, and children. We were lucky—we escaped." He began coughing violently.

"How did this happen?!" General Fuhdor asked. "Why didn't you all flee as soon as the slaughter started so you could alert us?! We would have worked even harder to get an army ready to invade Dachwald had we known for certain that these atrocities were being committed—we would have invaded Dachwald immediately!!"

"Sir, this happened gradually, not overnight. You must understand that many of us have always felt like Dachwaldians first, Sodorfians second. You see, for centuries there have been large numbers of Sodorfians living in Dachwald, and we were often looked down upon because we didn't have Dachwaldian blood. I know, for example, that as a child, I often had to show excessive patriotism simply not to be looked at as some kind of outsider or enemy. When all the political changes started happening in Dachwald about six months ago, we Sodorfians wanted to do everything we could to not become the targets of Dachwaldian violence, so we tried our best to comply with all of the new changes—"

"Wait a second," General Fuhdor said, interrupting him; "just what kinds of political changes are you talking about? I mean, King Duchenwald and the senators still rule the country, right?"

The old man chuckled. "Oh no, there have been many changes. The senators and the king were brutally murdered many months ago. General Sivingdon took over. There was a large meeting outside Castle Dachwald, and General Sivingdon explained to the massive crowd present that the reason we were all suffering was because the king and the senators had been too passive to wage war on the Sodorfians after they destroyed all our crops—"

"Wait a minute," General Fuhdor said, interrupting yet again; "do you mean to tell me that there really was great agricultural destruction in Dachwald?! I thought that was all a complete lie. A vicious, perfidious pretense to go to war with us!"

"No, it indeed was true! We suffered horribly—Dachwaldians and Sodorfians alike. You'd think that we Sodorfians would have left as soon as things started going badly, but we didn't. The reason we didn't was because we all thought, 'this is the chance to show our loyalty. This is the opportunity to show that we really are patriotic towards Dachwald.' For that reason we all stayed; not a single one of us left. A horrible famine broke out; many starved, and many abominable things happened. There were cases of parents, insane with hunger, killing their own children and cooking them. Even those who did not go to those extremes almost always ate all of their pets. Many people were eating sawdust just to try to alleviate the hunger pains. There were many rumors circulating in Dachwald about the cause. However, the main rumor was that Sodorf wanted to attack Dachwald. We didn't want to believe it, but the facts appeared to suggest it. For example, there were many Dachwaldians that saw with their own eyes the tracks leading from Sodorf into Dachwald. Now, you speak about an ambush and a massacre near the border. What we were told was that the Sodorfians were so hell-bent on going to war with Dachwald that they had attacked and killed many of their own so that they could frame the Dachwaldians and make it look like a Dachwaldian attack. That way, the Sodorfian government could self-righteously refuse to help the Dachwaldians, refuse to let Dachwaldian trackers into Sodorf to see where the tracks ultimately led to, and refuse to allow Sodorfians into Dachwald to investigate the alleged crop damage—under the pretense that there clearly had been none and that it was too dangerous for Sodorfians to enter Dachwald. It's important to remember that before all these occurrences Dachwald, just like Sodorf, had been a pacifistic place. The military was neither thought of as being entirely necessary nor extremely important. However, when General Sivingdon made that patriotic speech in front of Castle Dachwald; presented the heads of the incompetent king and his senators, who had been completely unable to do anything about the horrible famine; and then provided us with a lavish feast, patriotic fervor reached a frenzy, and it was made clear the army was going to be greatly increased in size.

"Shortly thereafter, new regulations were passed for all Sodorfians. We had to sew a large S onto all of our clothes. The penalty for a Sodorfian being caught without the patch was typically death. Sometimes there were exceptions if the person had a particularly convincing excuse for not wearing it, but usually the person was publicly hanged. Several months later, we were told that the Sodorfians were needed for a special work project. I know it sounds silly now, but we actually trusted the Dachwaldians. We thought that this was our chance to show them we weren't enemies of the state, that we weren't trying to undermine the country and bring defeat and ruin, but that in fact we were also patriots and just wanted equal treatment like everyone else. Many Sodorfians even tried to enlist in the army, but they weren't allowed. The bastards refused our offer. They told us that we could not be trusted to bear arms for Dachwald but would be allowed to prove our loyalty by working hard in special camps that had been set up for us. Sure enough, these work project camps were actually death camps. Many of our number were roasted alive."

"Do you happen to know where any of these death camps are located?!" General Fuhdor inquired, entirely unable to conceal his fury. "Their locations would be of intense personal interest to me!"

"No, unfortunately not. My geography is mediocre at best, and besides that we escaped in the middle of the night. There were a small number of people with us, but the main person that guided us all the way out of that hellhole and to the Sodorfian border didn't make it. He died under a hail of arrows, and the rest of us just barely escaped death. Funny that he should die. Out of all of us, he was the healthiest and had the sharpest wits. Sometimes the gods have a sick sense of humor, I guess."

"Did anyone else help guide you? If so, I must speak to them so that I can find out where these hellish extermination camps are located!"

"Unfortunately not. Some of the others who escaped might know geography better than I, but right now most of them are in shock and couldn't even tell you their names. As I said, there was one person in particular who was our leader, who led us out of that horrible camp. His name was—"

"Sir," General Fuhdor said, interrupting yet again, "you just lie there and try to rest. I know you must be extremely exhausted, and I'm extremely sorry to hear about the trouble that you have gone through. I'll do my best to avenge your unfortunate friend."

Having said this, he stormed out of the room like a man with an appointment he didn't want to miss. He immediately consulted with Achentung, his colonel, and told him to instruct all of his officers to order their subordinates to get moving—they were all heading north! He scribbled out a short note quickly like a doctor writing a prescription and handed it to the messenger to deliver to the nobles: "Dachwald already in the process of exterminating Sodorfians; under military dictatorship; military quickly growing; must attack now."

That was all that he had the patience to write down. His colonel was already notifying his subordinates, and the message was quickly traveling down the chain of command like loose snow falling quicker and quicker down the side of a mountain forming a thunderous avalanche.

They were going to war.

The End of Rise of Dachwald.

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The second part to this series, The War With Dachwald, is now available online!

