Looking up at him, Arnacin questioned, “It looks like any village. Even if the pillagers are taking refuge there, wouldn’t it be better to—” He stopped as Carpason turned to him.
“To warn them of an attack so the women and children can flee?” At the islander’s slight nod, the lord sighed, “This is war, Arnacin. Some morals cannot be upheld. Yes, we don’t like it, and they know it. We often wonder if they take their villages with them into war to see if we will hesitate, to force us to make that grave mistake.”
Pale now, Arnacin breathed, “But you can’t.”
“Arnacin, listen. They are not the innocents you would imagine. Their excuse for taking their village with them is that the women are their squires, of a type. The women take care of the weapons, make the bows, shine and paint the shields, sharpen blades and tips, and even brew their deadly poisons and coat the blades with them. Only after, are they their cooks, mothers and wives. Should we announce our attack, they would not run. No, they would take up their poisoned arrows and help shoot us down.”
Arnacin made no answer, staring horror-stricken at where the little energetic dots of children ran about in the village below, so like home. It was only after a pause that he realized those nearby were all watching him, as if waiting for some type of response. Finally, he shook his head, croaking, “I can’t… I can’t help you in this.”
“That’s treas—” one knight started, yet as Carpason held up his hand, he fell silent.
“You are not Miran, Arnacin. No one will push you into this.” Nodding gratefully, the islander quickly departed.
Blindly, he returned to the Mirans’ hidden encampment and his tent. It did not matter what they said, he could not remove the image of his own village, of William playing with dogs in the street, and his mother carding wool with the village weaver. He envisioned Raymond and Charlotte sharpening stone for arrow tips, and then some army rushing at them from the woods with flaming brands.
With a gasp, he pulled his knees to him and tightly shut his eyes as if that could remove the terrible thoughts. If his mother was right and love was the only thing that stopped wars and ended killing, what was he doing?
It was some time later that Arnacin heard the tent flap open and felt Charlin slide down next to him against the canvas. He said nothing though, his forehead pressed into the heel of his palm. There was nothing to say.
After a moment, however, Charlin gently touched his knee. “Arnacin—” He sighed, falling silent.
Distantly, the islander breathed, “I’m already a murderer for the sake of your war, Charlin. Does Mira expect me to yield any more without breaking or going insane?”
“Is defending innocents with your life murder, Arnacin?”
Closing his eyes, the islander rested the back of his head against the tent. “What else do you call looking a living, breathing wonder in the eyes, and causing them to drop at your feet, motionless, eyes glassed over in pained horror, forever?”
“It’s not forever—”
“No!” Arnacin snapped, finally turning to the squire. “It’s worse than that. That look of horror is only what they leave behind! It’s an echo of what they’re feeling somewhere else.”
Staring at his feet, the squire whispered, “So you believe in an afterworld? In truth, Arnacin, I can’t understand why you would believe in something so disturbing.”
With just the slightest ghost of a smile, Arnacin studied his companion’s blue eyes. “Don’t change the subject. I don’t believe because I want to, and you know it.”
“Arnacin, we’ve all felt this way. We all start by feeling sick when the first body falls before us, breathing one second and dead the next. As with Gagandep in the previous war, we have long rescued as many natives as we can, but we fight for a cause that can’t be surrendered. We fight for the lives and freedom of hundreds who our enemy would simply cut through without thought, and should we just evacuate, others would murder our people. We can’t just lie down and hope for peace and an end to the killing. No, we know what we must do and so we stand. The sickness and the trauma vanish after awhile. We grow used to it, I promise.”
“What if I don’t want to grow used to it?” Arnacin persisted. “What if I’d sooner die myself than become that cold?”
“None of us want to, Arnacin. Just like you say, you do not believe in an afterworld because you want to, so we don’t choose to grow cold. But for those who need us, we simply must acknowledge that will be the outcome. We can’t surrender, Arnacin. We can’t betray Mira. I’ve seen what they’ll do. I saw it when they tore down and burned Tarmlin… killing my mother and three sisters along with everyone who didn’t escape in the fight. I can’t let the whole of Mira become like that city. ”
An unvoiced question hung in the air, but it was Charlin’s words about his family that reached the islander’s heart. The natives would slaughter all villages and families even after winning. Mira would not. Sadly, Arnacin exhaled, “No, neither can I. I’ll be there tonight when you burn the village.”
“From you, Arnacin… those words mean everything to us.”
It was as black as possible when Lord Carpason gathered his troops. When the lord knew his men stood ready, he lit the first torch, tossing it into the dell before them. Carpason’s men echoed his action and a torrent of fire flew into the camp. Within the sudden roaring light, the troops tightened their circle. Instantly, natives leapt from those flames, hacking into the siege’s living walls.
Once again, the sounds of battle and death rose about Arnacin where he stood as archer—a cacophony so common lately, he was coming to disregard it.
As something slipped beneath one of the Miran horses, he drew back and then froze, recognizing the shape of a child silhouetted against the blaze. Beside him, someone fired. With a twang, the arrow flew forward and Arnacin saw the slight figure drop.
Only the sight of a native lumbering toward him kept him from freezing, aghast at such action. The next few moments—or hours—were filled with nothing but senseless firing. Arnacin’s mind was numb, frozen on the image of the dead child, yet his honed reflexes kept him moving, attacking each aggressor that escaped the soldiers’ ruthless blades.
A horse suddenly screamed in pain, dropping only feet from the islander. Its rider, trapped beneath its body, strove as best he could to block his attacker’s aim. It was no use, however. The knight screamed as the native’s spear landed in his unpinned leg, and Arnacin loosed another arrow.
Leaving the rest of the killing to the other archers, the islander sprang to the aid of the knight, shoving the dead weight of the horse off enough to pull the man to his feet. Then, snapping the spear shaft in half and jerking the man’s arm over his shoulder, he half-ran back toward the camp, where the surgeons’ tents stood ready.
“Ignore me, boy,” a familiar voice growled through gritted teeth and Arnacin noticed only then that it was the swordmaster he hauled beside him. “You can’t be spared.”
“I can for a few minutes,” the islander stated flatly, “because if one man makes that much of a difference, you can’t be spared to die, either.”
Passing the swordmaster off to the surgeon who immediately hurried forward, the islander whirled to go, only to find that the injured man’s hand had clamped tightly around his forearm.
“You might as well stay,” the surgeon said briskly as he pulled a blade from a boiling pot of water. “We can use the extra hands for a few minutes. Amputation is the only chance to save a man after they’ve been poisoned.”
Paling, Arnacin wondered, “What do I do?”
“Help hold him still,” came the short answer, and the islander turned away as they prepared to remove the injured leg.
There was a scream and the muted crack of bone. Arnacin hissed in sympathetic pain as the master swordsman’s hand tightened around his arm.
“Open that wine,” one of the surgeons snapped at his companion.
Slowly, Arnacin turned back to the grisly sight as the sword
master’s fingers started trembling on his arm, and quickly glanced away again as the surgeon tossed the amputated leg into one of the fires.
While the surgeons worked on stopping the blood that soaked the blankets underneath him, the invalid breathed between gasps, “Never… Never…”
“Don’t push yourself,” one surgeon advised, as he plucked the cautery from the fire. Grimly, he soothed, “You won’t need to worry about this hurting. With the amount of pain you’re feeling right now, you won’t feel it at all.”
Yanking up what remained of the swordmaster’s pant leg, they wrapped it with a soaked cloth and then set the cautery to the end of the stub of leg. Averting his gaze from their ministrations, Arnacin watched the man’s eyes roll up into his head and turned to the surgeons in concern.
“He should be all right,” the surgeon comforted him, “We’ve done this countless times and, for the most part, they live. I wish we were not forced to practically mutilate them first, but the pigs of savages give us no choice in order to prevent their poison from spreading too far.” Arnacin made no comment and the surgeon added, “You should return to the battle now.”
Nodding remotely, the islander exited in relief. Outside, he noticed the sunlight rising over the mountains ahead and the returning troops walking slowly over the ridge of the dell. Behind them, the black smoke of an extinguished fire rose into the air. The islander only watched them, all thoughts somehow deserting him. He just stood there, motionless, until one of the knights passed him, clapping him once on the back.
That touch only gradually sunk into the islander’s consciousness. As it woke him, he asked, “Where’s Lord Carpason?”
Nodding toward one of the medical tents, a knight answered, “He’s likely in there. His squire was poisoned. It was only a scratch, but he was already rather feverish by the time I saw him.”
The islander did not wait for another word before dashing toward the indicated tent.
Lord Carpason already stood beside his feverish, quivering squire when, white-faced, Arnacin stepped into the tent. As the islander drew near, the field-surgeon began preparing his blade for the intended amputation. “Don’t,” the squire’s weak plea made them all pause. “It’s too late,” he panted. “I want to die with all my limbs, please.”
Tightly squeezing Charlin’s arm, Carpason licked his lips, yet he nodded his permission anyway. His squire said no more, closing his eyes, but as those gathered around him watched over the following minutes, his labored breathing cut off with a ragged sigh as the shivering halted, Arnacin knew, forever.
No one moved, although most gazes turned to their lord. Carpason was the first to stir, lightly pressing those limp fingers to his lips and then simply turning around and striding out of the tent. Slowly, those gathered also returned to the other things that called them. Arnacin, however, remained rooted in place, his gaze fixed on the body even after the surgeon covered it with a blanket.
It was a dispirited group that marched beneath the castle’s portcullis almost a week later. No battles on the return trip had woken them. They had simply killed without thought, by pure reflex. Only Lord Carpason appeared unaffected, yet most there knew him enough to read his silence and emotionless commands. Although no one could describe his actions or words as harsh, his heart, which before had always been present for people to feel, had vanished overnight.
It was no less missing when the king ordered a ceremony to honor the fallen, although most of the bodies lay far away. Too numb to feel, Arnacin watched as mounds were raised over nothing, as was the custom there. On Mira, those mounds were the only markers for those who had passed. In what was once respect to the natives and now was simply tradition, no stones ever marred the ground.
Having watched Lord Carpason leave the castle alone the next morning, Arnacin followed on foot, guessing where he would find the noble. True to his expectation, the islander found Carpason standing on the rock that was the only marker of Mira’s burial field, beside the newer clumps of dirt that grass had not yet covered.
Although the lord did not look over when Arnacin joined him, he apparently knew who had trailed him, as he softly exhaled, “There are occasions, Arnacin of Enchantress Island, when I could forget the fact that the savages are also humans, fighting for their own causes—times I could forget everything but that they are the enemy, the enemy of Mira, of…”
Finally turning his head toward his companion, he said, “But you have no need to hear grievances. You have enough of your own, I know.”
“On the contrary, milord,” Arnacin replied, still staring over the field himself, “I came for that purpose alone.”
“You came to Mira for that purpose alone,” Carpason sighed with a slight touch of humor. At the islander’s sideways glance, he explained, “You keep many of us going, Arnacin. You listen to everyone’s woes, throw yourself into a fight that is not yours… Did you just land here by accident? Some accident.”
“You’d like more of them, I’m sure,” Arnacin lightly joked. “I didn’t come here to discuss me, however.”
Finally turning to Arnacin, the lord inquired, “What do you want to hear?”
Dropping his gaze to the rock, the islander muttered, “Someone told me everyone needs a pillar. You lost yours, and its loss isn’t easy.”
Regarding the islander for a moment, Carpason asked, “And who is your pillar, Arnacin of Enchantress Island?”
“According to a certain lord, I came to be everyone else’s. Perhaps I was crafted differently.” At Arnacin’s jest, the lord turned away.
For a brief moment, the only sound was the wind hissing by. After a few seconds, Carpason started, distantly, “It is Mira’s custom, Arnacin, that the first-born son in any noble house takes the place of his father’s servant until he inherits the family title himself. For a lesser noble family, they are the squires. For the higher ranks, they might be more. The princes move from squires to generals to high councilors, until such time as they ascend the throne.”
He said no more, yet as his gaze moved back over the field, Arnacin whispered, “Charlin was your son.”
“I’m almost surprised you missed the resemblance, except that almost everyone agreed he looked more like his mother. ‘Son’ is a small word, though, with little to no meaning. I never saw the deaths inside Tarmlin, but he did. I was on the outside with Tarmlin’s troops when the attack came, but we were cut off. We tried everything to regain the castle when it went up in flames, but we never made it. Charlin broke through with those who had guarded the walls from the inside with the news that the savages had infiltrated, that everyone was dead. With no choice remaining except to face slaughter, we turned away. I would have given anything to remain and die, Arnacin, anything—but not my men’s lives and trust.
“Despite all that, despite the fact that he had been the one to see… them cut down, it was Charlin who found his laughter again, in a way I have never felt since—who could still pick on all the men in an attempt to teasingly stir them to near frustration. He chose to live one day at a time, and to live that day fully. There was a time when I could tell that it was only a choice, but as he continued, that choice became part of him, and he little realized it, but I know who really kept hearts beating.”
The howl of the wind was the only reply.
Chapter 7
Blood and Compassion
ARNACIN REMAINED BEHIND THE NEXT time Carpason left, this time to scout. Standing beside the lord’s dappled charger as the noble mounted, the islander asked, “Who will guard your back now?”
Carpason smiled fondly. “I’ve made it before with only these men. Train hard, Arnacin. Perhaps you will be ready when next I leave.”
Nodding, the islander stepped back as the troops marched out the gate. When the great doors had closed behind the last man, he turned back toward the library and the remaining calculations for his ship that awaited him.
Valoretta already stood there, leaning against one shelf, holding a thin book entitled
Sea Poetry before her. Grinning slightly as his gaze took in the title, Arnacin wearily cleared the table they had been cluttering for the past two days with drawings, books and weights.
Straightening, the princess commented without lifting her head from the book. “This ending’s for you, Arnacin.” Then, the princess translated the ancient language, her voice rising and falling as if she lived to recite verse:
Black blow the waves, the crashing waves,
Yet faster than the storm,
Faster and darker than mortal ship be,
The Black Captain’s Immortal.
Black blow the waves, the crashing waves,
Whenever is seen the Immortal,
For it rides on air, of its flat-bottomed hull.
Long and sleek, terrible and ruthless,
The Black Captain has stolen its secrets from gods.
Now, no justice can track it, no defender live.
For black grow the waves, the crashing waves,
Whenever is seen the Immortal,
Flat-bottomed, long and sleek, terrible and ruthless,
The Immortal.
Meeting her glance, Arnacin said, “Let’s hope not.”
“The Black Captain has stolen its secrets from gods,” Valoretta repeated with a smile, “and our islander comes from the mists of the sea.”
Fixing his gaze on one of the drawings, Arnacin mumbled, “Don’t make that into poetry.”
“Why not?” the princess teased, dropping into the chair opposite him. “You wrap yourself in so much mystery. It’s perfect, but we should change it slightly, ‘White foam of waves, those whispering waves. ’”
“With that type of aid, you should leave me to work on this mess alone.”
Laughing outright, Valoretta left her book on the edge of the table and they returned to the scales.
As his thoughts drifted in the following silence, however, Arnacin finally asked, “Valoretta? Why do Miran nobles hide their families as servants?”
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