The Savage War

by Esther Wallace

  After a glance of shock, the princess answered, “For protection. No one can target a person they have no knowledge of. There can be no hostages taken as bribes if the nobility have no family and, under cover, we can grow closer to each other without fear of politics interfering. Protection was what started it years ago, but we have found that it trains wisdom in our nobility as well.”

  “But you’re not hidden.”

  “No,” the princess whispered. For a minute, she remained silent before explaining, “It has always been a defect of our secrecy that heirs are considered by many kingdoms to be simply adopted from the lower classes. I’ve even heard some say that is the real reason our school for training peasant councilors exists—to train politics and warfare into peasantry for the nobles to pick successors. As long as it is a man that is adopted, Mira can hold its own regardless, but if a princess were adopted and there was no actual blood-right, that would give the kingdoms just another reason to think little of my reign.”

  “So Sara is…?” Arnacin prompted.

  “I’d have to kill you if I told you,” Valoretta teased.

  Grinning back, the islander muttered, “I think I know anyway. If you even think to look for it, she shares a certain sisterly resemblance to the king.”

  “Arnacin, I think you know too much to ever be allowed to leave.”

  The islander continued to practice his Miran archery. He also continued spending much of his afternoons with Gagandep. In the early evenings, the master swordsman was carried into the courtyard to sit beneath a tree and oversee Arnacin’s training against one of Mira’s more skilled knights. The knights changed daily, however. Some of them, Arnacin caught off guard, while others backed him into walls, despite the master swordsman’s snapped hints to regain the offensive.

  Carpason had both returned from the field and left again before the master swordsman finally barked when Arnacin appeared, “You’re done, boy. I’ve taught you all I can. The rest is up to your experience and use. So, go! Leave an old man to his miseries.”

  Studying the swordmaster, the islander whispered, “You’ll grow tired of being left to your miseries, but as you think best, sir.”

  He bowed before turning away, yet the man halted him. “Arnacin.”

  The swordmaster’s first use of his name whirled the islander back around. As the master’s pale eyes again flicked over him, the man finished, “I thought our king had finally cracked when he asked me to train a boy on the actual field, but you have something, boy. That and your strange ways might make you great someday. Someday, mind you. Then I suspect they’ll all want you as commander…”

  Smiling in denial, the islander recited, “Never promise the garments before the sheep are sheared.”

  Grunting, the swordmaster huffed, “Now there’s a shepherd’s proverb for you.”

  “Actually, it’s a weaver’s.”

  “Whatever. Just remember this: never grow old, never let yourself slow down. It betrays you in the worst of positions.”

  Nodding, Arnacin confessed, “My father never did.” More to himself, he added, “I almost wish he had.”

  Again, the islander turned to leave, pausing as the man finished softly, “And thank you. I’m too old to feel particularly grateful, but I’m forced to feel at least a little. Most of us are too well-trained to do as you did.”

  Only between periods of training did the islander return to his ship, finally ripping up his deck and extracting the old remains of his mast. Once he had that accomplished, a carpenter approached him, informing him that the king had already paid the estimated amount for the mast. It was only while meeting Valoretta later that Arnacin figured out how the king had known when he needed it.

  Within another four days of almost constant work from sun up to sun down, the new mast rose into the air, firmly secured in the place that would faithfully balance his ship. That finished, Arnacin began replacing the deck boards.

  Busy filling the cracks between the boards of his main deck with decayed rope, Arnacin looked up as a shadow fell across him. “Are you Arnacin of Enchantress Island?” a young man inquired.

  Peering up at him, the islander responded, “Would you believe me if I said no?”

  Glancing around, the newcomer said, “I see no one else with dark hair.”

  “I thought as much.” Arnacin nodded, returning to his work. “Why do you ask?”

  “The king has decided to send you out with Duke Cestmir, who should be passing Lord Carpason’s troop at some point. Before you rejoin the Tarmlin troops, you may help somewhere else.”

  Sarcastically, the islander sighed, “Because working on my ship is not productive. Alright, I’ll clean up and meet this duke in the bailey. I assume he’s already preparing.”

  “He is,” the man nodded, before turning away. “Good luck. He’s not as forgiving of insolence as our lord.”

  “And how would you know that would mean anything to me?”

  “Rumors spread like wildfire.”

  On that note, the man departed with a respectful half-bow. Closing his eyes, the islander shook his head.

  Arnacin entered the inner ward a short time later to the hustle and bustle of war preparations. On the keep’s steps, three dirty blond-headed boys, obviously of the nobility by their fine attire, stood by their father while he cinched a sword belt around his waist. The oldest of the boys, no older than nine, was in the process of passing his father a cloak.

  With a sad smile, Arnacin looked back toward the troop. Yet he did not see the preparations.

  Instead, he saw a distant shore and a village. Had William cried when Arnacin was not there that first morning after he left? Was his mother enraged? And now, a year later, would William still remember he had an older brother?

  Those thoughts hurt too much to consider.

  Charlotte was the only one he could picture for certain. He could see her at their favorite lookout on the mountain staring off to sea, still as the trees around her with her green dress and hair, darker than the shadows beneath the trees, blowing in the wind rising off the ocean.

  “Arnacin of Enchantress Island.”

  The islander jumped as those words shattered his distant thoughts and returned his attention to his surroundings.

  The boys had disappeared and the nobleman had stopped beside the islander. Hesitantly, Arnacin nodded in respect. “Duke Cestmir.”

  “In person,” the duke commented off-handedly while he studied the islander. “I had pictured a man…” As Arnacin’s chin rose a few inches, the noble finished, “…from all the things I’ve heard about you.”

  Arnacin remained silent.

  Turning to the troops, the duke stated, “We shall see how much is made up.”

  “In other words, you doubt what has been said now that you see… a boy,” the islander coolly voiced.

  Simply nodding in parting, the duke called for his men to start out, and so began their relationship. During the marches, Arnacin remained vigilant at the duke’s side, since his tactical layout of marching remained too consistent. Yet, by evening, Arnacin spent more of his time with the men and the chefs, naturally.

  With a sack of dried herbs Gagandep had given him, he helped the camp’s cooks the first night. The reception the food received was a delight, and the duke acknowledged Arnacin with a nod. The islander simply returned that nod with kingly pride.

  From the men, Arnacin learned that another village had been spotted by Lord Carpason, who had sent a messenger ahead to inform a larger, fresher troop of its existence. Therefore, Duke Cestmir’s men were off to destroy it before the natives could realize their danger.

  The islander’s response to that information was, “Had you told me that before we started off, I would have begged leave to stay behind for this one.” Regardless, his support did not waver.

  Then came the horrible battle itself. Arnacin had not been privy to any of Duke Cestmir's plans, but he assumed a more tactical plan had been made. Yet the natives were packing t
o leave when the Mirans arrived. Therefore, acting with urgency, the duke ordered the charge and the Mirans instantly swooped upon the savages. Refusing the task of shooting those taking flight, Arnacin joined the swordsmen.

  When the battle ended in the evening, the duke sent men to scour the remains of the camp and take anything useful. The islander joined them. “If there are any weapons that are still intact, we better be careful,” one knight warned. “They could very well be poisoned.”

  “None of their remaining weapons are poisoned, this time,” Arnacin murmured beside the men. As they turned to him in surprise and suspicion, he informed them, “When they have poison on hand, they renew it after every battle, as long as they are intending to stay, but they were packing to leave. All their ladies would be busy with those preparations and the poison would be mostly forgotten, save by the men guarding the encampment.”

  “How do you know?” another of the knights pressed.

  Unabashedly, Arnacin retorted, “You should know it yourself. If you know as much about your enemy as you can, then you can think how to gain the upper hand. Mira has been letting its opponents keep the high ground since the war began. Perhaps you should work to end that.”

  “Where did you learn it?”

  “A few natives in the capital.”

  “Careful, Arnacin,” another knight cautioned, “Those who have probed the adopted natives’ knowledge die through their resear—”

  He broke off as a clump of bushes shook. “Spread out,” he commanded those around him, “See if it’s just an animal in the bush.”

  As the men stepped forward, Arnacin dropped down, having spotted something else in the leaves. A small figurine lay there, made of white wood and oddly formed—oddly enough that it took the islander a second to realize that it was supposed to be a squirrel with its paws curled up to its chin. Odd as it was, however, it bore the signs of a child’s love, worn and dirt-stained in places, chipped and only slightly painted. Yet it lay deserted.

  Slowly exhaling, he brushed a leaf over it before turning back to the men. After whacking the brush a few times with no response and carefully pushing aside a few branches, one of the men sighed, “It had to have been an animal after all.”

  “It didn’t sound like an animal,” Arnacin commented, looking upward nervously. As he did, he noticed the slight figure in the tree above them and quickly looked away.

  “No one is here. It had to be an animal,” came the response.

  “I guess so,” the islander shrugged, although he thought otherwise.

  “Wait,” a knight called, grabbing the arm of the man closest to him. As the knight looked upward, Arnacin closed his eyes. “Someone’s up there!”

  Moving as one, the men surrounded the tree and one of them ordered, “Arnacin, your bow.”

  “You’re not thinking of shooting him?” the islander protested, nevertheless sliding his bow off his shoulder.

  As Arnacin strung an arrow to the weapon, the knight called, “Come down or we’ll shoot!” No reply came and the knight nodded, “Shoot, Arnacin.”

  “He can’t understand you. They speak another language.”

  “Listen, foreigner, for all your studying, you fail to realize that they only pretend not to understand. When they want to understand, they do, and our gestures should make it clear regardless.”

  “He’s only a boy,” Arnacin exclaimed.

  “Is he, now?”

  “Yes, can’t you see him? Regardless of whether you can or can’t, he doesn’t necessarily know everything the adults understand.” “Arnacin,” the knight sighed, “shoot. We have our orders and so do you.”

  Exhaling in frustration, the islander quickly switched the bow back to his left hand and released the tension. Its projectile skimmed only half an inch over the boy’s head and, with a yelp, the native half-climbed, half-tumbled down the tree. As a knight seized the boy’s arm, Arnacin stepped back, fairly sure he would have preferred to stay behind.

  “Is any other savage hiding?” the knight asked the boy, who looked to be no more than ten, at most. When he received no reply, he shook the boy, demanding, “Well?”

  “If there were, we would probably know about it by now,” another knight sighed, earning Arnacin’s nod of approval. “Where are your other camps?” Still, they received no response from the boy, aside from trembling. Suddenly backhanding the captive, the knight tried again, “Answer!”

  “If I did know, I wouldn’t tell,” the boy hysterically cried through a thick accent, “You’re all dogs and the gods are enraged. You’ll see! They’ll rip your hair from your scalps and twist your gizzards into necklaces! You’ll see!”

  Only Arnacin started at this reaction. The rest simply nodded knowingly. “We’ll take him to the duke,” the knight holding the captive said with a sigh. “I don’t think we alone can make any use of him.”

  Much of the troop watched that evening as Cestmir tried to glean information from the captive. When no promise, threat, or reasoning worked, the duke gave up, stating, “We’ll take him back to the capitol.”

  “To hang?” one knight asked.

  “That is the king’s sentence,” Cestmir nodded. “Those are the laws.”

  “You have laws to hang children?” Arnacin repeated in disbelief.

  “We have laws for any and every situation. It is how order is kept. All captives go to the king. The king passes sentence and the sentence is carried out.”

  “So hanging innocents is part of those laws?”

  “Never,” the duke snapped, flushing red. “What type of barbarians do you think we are?”

  “In that case, what is your excuse here?”

  “That savage, if you speak about him, is a captive of war, an enemy, and therefore a threat! More importantly, he is as much a murderer as the rest of his kind. Is that clear?”

  “He’s too young to be a threat.”

  “So says the boy who thinks he’s a man,” Cestmir snapped before whirling away.

  “You wiped out the rest of the camp!” Arnacin shouted after him. “He’s only one, anyway. If you had any decency, you’d release him! You won’t gain anything by killing him!”

  “It would be an act of betrayal to Mira, and therefore punishable by death,” the duke hollered from across the camp, before disappearing inside his own tent. Glaring at the spot where Cestmir had disappeared, Arnacin turned away himself.

  In the following days, no more was said about the argument. Yet in Arnacin a war raged, ironically making his attacks on his assailants unusually brutal.

  Yes, the native boy was savage enough when he did speak in their language, but the islander was sure, beyond doubt, that the captive knew no more of war than Arnacin had only a few months ago—except perhaps in the knowledge of hatred.

  To kill him would be wrong, yet it was apparent that no one agreed with Arnacin or cared. But this time, the death of a child did not fall under the casualties of war, for the battle had been fought and the only survivor was the weaponless boy. Perhaps the Mirans were so cold they had grown blind, but that was the best excuse Arnacin could imagine. Otherwise, they were as bad as their opponents and he was guilty of assisting them.

  After turning the matter over for two days, the islander stared up at the dark tent canvas above him, listening to the soft snores of the men around him. For a couple of hours, he had lain there, contemplating the risk, the consequences, the responsibility, and how much he truly did not wish to proceed with what he felt he must.

  The boy was spiteful, of little worth to anyone—in short, a wretch. Moreover, should Arnacin act on his convictions, he knew, he would betray Carpason’s trust, and then… there was home.

  Home. To toss that away for a wretch of any kind was enough to drive anyone to the grave. Yet Arnacin’s thoughts compelled him toward honor, justice and even his promise to Mira’s king, for he knew—he knew—how they would harm themselves if they followed through with their laws.

  Slowly, the islander pushe
d his blanket off and crept out of the crowded tent. By night, the captive was kept inside one isolated tent with men positioned at the entrance. Arnacin had no intention of trying that way, so he pulled his hood up and crept around the perimeter of the camp.

  Footsteps crunched in the leaves nearby. Each one was punctured by a small clink of metal. A sentry was nearing. Crunch. Clink. Crunch. Clink.

  His breath catching, Arnacin stilled. He reacted too late.

  “Halt!” the sentry barked, his black form emerging from behind some trees as he neared. The islander heard the hiss of a sword being drawn.

  For only a second, the islander’s mind froze and then he sighed, “You always have the stupidity to think you can guard in complete darkness. It might hide your camp from a distance, but someday, you’re going to run into your other patrols and all behead each other.”

  “That’s a very thoughtful thing to say,” the sentry grunted, nevertheless sheathing his blade. “What brings you out here, Arnacin?”

  “Lack of sleep.”

  “Well, you might want to return to camp anyway, before you walk too far in the dark. As you just pointed out, it’s not safe out here.”

  “I’m not Miran, either,” Arnacin muttered, turning back into the camp all the same. He had been planning to do so before the sentry suggested it, yet there was no need to tell him that.

  Approaching the back of the prison tent, Arnacin dropped to its base and, after looking around briefly, pushed himself beneath the canvas. Since the darkness inside was not very different from that outside, the islander could easily see the outline of the boy tied to the tent’s center support.

  A sharp inhale told Arnacin that his scuffling entrance had not gone unnoticed. Quickly, he crossed the space between them.

  Barely speaking, the islander breathed, “We have only minutes. Follow without question and, if grace prevails, you’ll make it to safety.” Beneath the islander’s hand, the boy nodded. Releasing him, Arnacin dropped his hand to his side where his blade hung.