Rise of Dachwald (Boxed Set, Books 1 through 2) Page 6

  “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 fi
fteen 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.