Rise of Dachwald by Daniel Lawlis
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
“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 st
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.