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.”
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“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 tas
k. 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.