Rise of Dachwald



  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 tugge
d 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.