The Savage War

by Esther Wallace

  Exhaling sharply in frustration, the islander started, “According to her—” Dropping quickly off, he shrugged. “I heard that she intended to rule alone, and that it is actually her father’s wish that she do so. I mean, he trained her personally in both politics and Miran lore.”

  Piercing the islander with his stare, Charlin commented, “You’re well informed, Arnacin, yet your informant forgot one thing: all of Mira will fall should she not marry. Should she produce no heir, this country will be fed to the dogs. Now, it might be the plan to trick our neighbors and have her only pretend she is interested in marriage until she can produce a forgery of a rightful heir, but that is playing on a dangerous edge.”

  “Would it matter if she just married a Miran?”

  “There are very few noble men left.”

  “I meant a… ‘Miran’ Miran. Just a plain Miran without titles.”

  “Well, I suppose it would be no worse than if she ruled alone. But that depends, because if that Miran was not trained for politics, she would either have to create a puppet or his lack of knowledge would itself flatten us.”

  Sighing, Arnacin huffed, “The way you politically trained people talk, you might as well declare war on each other and stop the charades.”

  “Our mission is to remain free, alive and out of war. That takes a game,” the squire said, nevertheless smiling without looking up from his work. “But I’m sure you can guess why someone like you is a breath of fresh air. We’re actually lucky on Mira. Other lands’ nobles plot against their siblings, yet every single noble under Miro’s command is extremely devoted to each other and especially to him.”

  It seemed forever that Lord Carpason’s troop continued pushing forward, despite the growing opposition. Killing was becoming an act of complete desperation.

  Meanwhile, after the enemies’ attacks had subsided into the darkness and the patrols had been posted, Arnacin’s training rivaled the battle in its intensity. The swordmaster had somehow taken it into his head that the islander could now defend himself enough to increase the speed of attack to a natural pace. Or perhaps he simply decided they had no more time. His reasoning really did not matter, as Arnacin would spend every night feeling like he was simply replaying that day, narrowly avoiding death time and again.

  Arnacin was always surprised that, when he failed to block the attack, the blow would halt an inch from striking. Then, before he could even draw another breath, the swordmaster would step back and start again. So it would continue until Arnacin could no longer stand. His legs would simply collapse under him and his trainer would haul him up and nearly carry him to bed. Too weak to protest, the islander would be given water and a complete massage before he was tucked beneath his covers for the rest of the night. Truth be told, if there were any attacks afterward, he would not likely have woken.

  Finally, the troop succeeded in forcing through to the enemy encampment only to find that, although the marks of a camp remained, the natives had vanished. Uttering a few curses, Carpason turned his disheartened, famished and exhausted troop homeward. They all knew they had walked into a trap and the way out would be worse than the path there. As Arnacin was coming to expect, however, the noble’s will seemed to inject energy back into the soldiers’ bones and, as the next wave of furious attacks swept over them, no one would ever know the despair with which they had turned about only moments before.

  Arnacin was not yet a soldier at heart, however, and he found himself moving slower than before—a pronouncement of doom. The time soon came when, engaged with one savage, he saw a shape lumbering toward him out of the corner of his eye. Hastily dispatching his current opponent, Arnacin whirled, just blocking the axe swinging for his head. With a vibration that shot up his arm, his sword went flying. The islander dared not even look to see which direction it went, instead dropping to the earth and rolling out of the way. Something ground into his thigh, trapping him. Twisting, he looked up to see the native—one foot pushing down on the islander’s leg—swinging his axe back for the killing blow.

  A slight ray of light glinted off the blade as it plummeted downward. Using his free leg, Arnacin kicked blindly upward causing the native to sink to the ground when his foot connected. The axe sank into the dirt at his shoulder.

  Before he could regain his feet, however, he was seized by the throat. Fingers clawing into Arnacin’s neck, the savage jerked his axe out of the ground and then promptly dropped on top of his victim, dead.

  Carpason yanked his sword out of the native’s back and, his breath returning, Arnacin wilted in weak relief. “Now, we’re even,” the islander gasped, trying to shove the body off himself.

  Kneeling, Carpason asked, “He didn’t nick you, did he?”

  “I’m fine,” Arnacin panted, stilling as the lord put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Stay down, Arnacin. They’ll miss you and, exhausted as you are, you can help no longer.” Carpason did not wait for the reply, returning to the fray. It was all too easy for the islander to obey.

  Pressing the heel of his hand over his eye, Carpason finally turned away from the Miran map and met Charlin’s concerned gaze with a sigh. “They did it purposefully.”

  Smiling slightly, his squire shrugged. “They had to catch on to our plan sooner or later. It hasn’t changed for ages. We wouldn’t be giving them enough credit if we assumed they wouldn’t eventually use it to their advantage.”

  Returning the smile, Carpason joked, “They’re savages. They’re not capable of such thought.”

  “And there lies the strategists’ prob—” Charlin broke off as someone knocked on the wooden supports outside.

  “Enter,” the lord commanded, smiling when a thin dark form slipped through the tent flap.

  “Arnacin, I’d expect you to still be training or asleep by now. You’ve been far too busy for us.”

  With a slight smile, the islander pulled his cloak closer, shrugging. “He told me it was sapping too much energy out of me and that we would resume once we reached relative safety.”

  “Let’s hope we reach that,” Charlin muttered.

  Arnacin’s gaze went to the open map. “Why not turn around?”

  “Toward what?” Carpason wondered. “The only thing to turn toward is more enemy lines. If we’re being cut down here, rest assured they’ll cut us down should we turn back.”

  “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but you said yourself that they laid a trap for you. It may not be the truth, but that could imply that they left their strongest opposition in front and that, should you turn around, you will take them by surprise. If you gain enough ground without strong opposition, you might be able to slip out of their trap and turn around somewhere else.”

  Studying him, Carpason nodded thoughtfully. “You have it well thought-out. Whether it will work outside of theory is another matter, and that decision is the ‘commander’s dilemma.’”

  “What could happen should you try it?”

  “We may not have enough supplies, for starters.”

  Nodding, the islander stated, “That’s actually what I wanted to ask you.”

  Passing Arnacin a knowing look, Charlin smiled as his lord inquired, “What did you wish to ask?”

  Grinning back at the squire, Arnacin commented, “I was wondering who hires the horrible chefs.”

  As Charlin choked in the background, Carpason said, “Did I not warn you before we began?”

  “You did, but I was wondering why.”

  “Mostly because it has to be food that can last for some time. I’m surprised you ask, since shipboard food is said to be enough to cause vomiting.”

  “I’ll ignore the slander,” Arnacin joked. “But you’re not at sea. Plants grow all around us. Doesn’t anyone know anything about native botany?”

  Carpason sighed. “When our original colonists arrived, a savage tribe helped them settle. Although they kept the ingredients secret, they made the meals until we had our own crops and trade was in place. Those days are over and some Mir
ans have dared to find the edible plants, but when so many died without the slightest bit of success, the research was banned, unless a native shared their secrets. Therefore, only the natives know anything about it and… You should understand how that goes.”

  “Yet, such knowledge could take care of the shortage of supplies and possibly lead to new field strategies. The natives obviously live off the trail.”

  “Are you volunteering your time? I don’t know that they would tell a Miran.”

  Wearily, Arnacin nodded. “I’d be willing.”

  “Then I will contact Gagandep when we return. He is savage by birth, yet has lived in Mira almost all his life. More importantly, I trust him enough to ask him to teach you. He helps with the sick back home when all our surgeons are in the field. You may learn something yet, even if he won’t teach me.”

  Even after the islander left, Carpason and his squire remained awake, contemplating the map and the lord’s options. As the noble continued to stare at the parchment motionlessly, Charlin glanced at his master. Looking back at the map, he asked, “May I offer my thoughts?”

  “Any time, Charlin,” Carpason sighed, turning to the young man.

  “I’ve been considering Arnacin’s suggestion.”

  He shrugged, and his lord supplied, “And you’ve come to the same conclusion I have. We would be forced to travel too close to the mountain chain, which means that whether we lose our current attackers or not, our struggle would not decrease by any means. Only worse, we would be headed the wrong way.”

  “What if we didn’t turn around,” Charlin mused, “but slowly steered our course toward the sea? That wouldn’t be as expected as our straight drive, and the natives grow less sure in the open.”

  “We would trap ourselves against the ocean unless a ship awaited us. For that, I would need to send a messenger, and the likelihood that one alone would slip through the mass swarming around us is extremely small.”

  “In other words, you think all our escapes are cut off. We either bully our way through or we die.”

  “I’m still thinking.”

  Quickly, the squire covered his mouth with his fist as a laugh escaped him, but at his master’s glance, he spoke. “It’s a good thing, then, that the savages are so confused about our alternating lineups and simply charge the group at large, or you’d be dead by weariness alone. Perhaps you should do the rest of your thinking tomorrow.”

  “In the thick of the fray?” Carpason nodded, sarcastically. “Yes, I’ll be able to think so clearly then.”

  “It’s so late, and I think we’ve beaten our choices enough for one night. No more are going to show themselves yet.”

  Studying his squire, the lord finally surrendered, “There are no more options. We’ll angle toward the shore, there,” he added pointing toward a spot on the map along the eastern shoreline of Mira. “And if there is no ship lying in wait, we will simply continue pushing ourselves through.”

  “Who do you wish to send as messenger?”

  “Ride bareback and use a rope bit on your steed,” Carpason said in reply. “Take one of the unshod ones. Silence is a necessity. Also, take Arnacin. At least you will have each other for protection, and he knows both woods and sea, not to mention quite a few of our captains and sailors.”

  “Will you have the backup you need?”

  “I have the troop. If anyone is safe in these woods, it’s those in large groups.”

  Nodding, Charlin bowed out and Carpason dropped his gaze to the floor.

  Chapter 5

  Sailors Assemble

  “ARNACIN,” CHARLIN WHISPERED, GENTLY SHAKING the islander’s shoulder. “We have to leave at once.”

  Moaning in tired protest, Arnacin pushed himself up. “Just us?”

  “Just us. We have to reach Mira and find a captain who will take us around to the shore where Lord Carpason plans on leaving the woods.”

  Sighing, Arnacin kicked off his blankets and, grabbing his cloak, he followed the squire out to the horses. As Charlin adjusted the bridle, the islander softly inquired, “Why us?”

  “I never ask, Arnacin. Remember, though, you are a sailor yourself and you know many of Mira’s own sailors.”

  Hauling himself onto his mare’s back, he helped pull Arnacin up behind him, asking, “Do you hear any movement?”

  “From the woods? Everything before us is only too quiet.”

  “Then I guess we are forced to go around.”

  So saying, Charlin wheeled his steed around, causing his companion to swiftly renew his hold. Then the squire kicked the horse into a gallop, heading briefly toward the enemy’s mountains.

  To avoid as many of the natives as possible, they steered toward the coast before turning south once again. Dawn came. As they pounded through the tide-swept sands, a vengeful cry echoed through the woods running parallel to them and an arrow flashed through the sunlight toward them.

  That projectile started a barrage and, as Charlin kicked the steed to greater speed, Arnacin reached forward, yanking the squire’s arm to the left.

  “Into the ocean!” the islander cried.

  Charlin did not resist, nor did the horse. Swerving, it crashed into the waves, where Arnacin jumped off. The squire, however, hesitated until his companion insisted, “Into the water! You’re still a target up there!”

  “I can’t swim!”

  “Your horse can. Just hang onto it.”

  With a splash, Charlin landed in the water beside Arnacin and, surfacing, grabbed the horse’s mane. Once they were far enough out, the barrage of arrows halted, although furious shouts followed them.

  “Do you think they’re angry?” Charlin joked through chattering teeth, evoking laughter from his companion.

  Only once Charlin knew they could no longer survive the cold did they crawl up on a large rock protruding from the deep.

  Coaxing the mare to lie down beside them, they waited for the cover of darkness and low tide. Stripping off his layers, Charlin laid his clothes over the rock to dry, whispering, “Good thing it’s practically summer now.”

  Having fewer layers, Arnacin already lay on his back beside the squire. “The swim would have slowed us down,” he mentioned, no louder than his companion.

  Sighing, Charlin stated, “If we arrive too late, we arrive too late. Should we die, no one will ever arrive. I just hope there is no moon tonight or the darkness may not cover us as we expect, considering the water.”

  “Have you not been paying attention to the moon’s cycle?” Arnacin’s tone was muffled with drowsiness.

  “No, I have not had time or thought to look at it.”

  A deeper inhale made Charlin glance over toward his companion. Arnacin lay fast asleep with the horse blocking the wind beside him and the sun-baked rock warming him, light glistening off his bronzed face.

  Shaking his head, the squire lay there, forcing himself to remain awake throughout the hours. A bite of salt-ruined bread helped slightly, but he did not eat much, lest he choke on it.

  Even the mare soon snored beside them, prompting the squire’s glare.

  As the sky turned deep red around them, Charlin nudged the islander awake and pulled his layers back on. Arnacin awoke silently, grabbing his own clothes—wind-stiff, yet dry.

  Waking the mare, the squire passed his companion the remains of the bread, whispering, “Watch out. It’s ruined, but it might return some energy yet.”

  Shrugging, the islander joked, “I should be used to it. Shipboard food is enough to cause vomiting.”

  Grinning, Charlin made no response, instead whispering the steed back to her feet.

  In only those few minutes, the sky had turned dark gray and, using that dimness, they slid onto the mare, walking her back through the shallows to land. Only once on shore did Charlin again kick her into a gallop along the coast, although the light of the moon soon chased them into the cover of the woods.

  Almost instantly, Charlin heard sharp rustles around them, yet the deep darkness of
the trees relatively protected them from attack. Still, the enemies were smarter than Charlin imagined, as he was informed by Arnacin’s sudden cry, “Halt! They’re blocking us ahead.”

  With a jerk of the reins that practically pulled the mare onto her haunches, the squire sharply turned her to the right, but it was too late. The sound of swishing metal warned them of the savages’ closeness, before and behind.

  “Hang on!” Charlin snapped before charging the horse straight toward the shifting shapes before them. Then, reaching the enemy standing before a fallen tree, Charlin gathered the mare for the jump. In one mighty leap, she cleared both tree and savages.

  Gasping, the squire felt the jerk behind him as Arnacin fell. There was no halting however, both because of the steed’s momentum and because of the sound of the savages scrambling over the tree behind them. With nothing else to do, he kicked the mare into a full gallop and raced through the woods once again.

  As the sounds grew slightly distant behind him, he skidded the horse around some ferns and brought her to a sharp stop. Panting, he waited—waited until feet pounded by and complete silence fell. Then he retraced the mare’s steps slowly to the fallen tree, hoping Arnacin—and Arnacin only—remained there, alive.

  Not a sound greeted him though, and he pulled the steed to a stop, listening. Seconds passed while he dared not speak. Then, to his delight, he heard a softly whispered, “Charlin.”

  “Arnacin!” the squire gasped, seeing the shifting of shapes before him as Arnacin moved away from the tree. Hauling the islander back behind him, Charlin asked, “How did they miss you?”

  “I rolled beneath the tree,” Arnacin panted. “Go southwest. They’ll soon realize they’ve lost us.”