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

  “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.