The Savage War

by Esther Wallace

  Arnacin made no comment and Carpason wrapped an arm around the islander’s shoulder in wordless comfort.

  Heart racing, Arnacin responded alone to the king’s summons the next afternoon. His worry deepened when he realized that the king was also alone. It was just the two of them in the room.

  “Arnacin of Enchantress Island.” Miro inclined his head as the islander entered.

  Arnacin nodded nervously, and, looking down, the king confessed, “I cannot allow such treason to go unpunished. However,” he paused, studying the foreigner before saying, “I admit that you are partially right. Mira cannot act as her enemies expect or this war will never end. In light of that, I have decided to allow you to live, on the understanding that your actions will not be repeated. That decision aside, your actions must still be punished. Since your return home means the most to you, I demand that you do not touch anything to do with your ship for a week’s time. In its place, you will spend that time as a drudge in the kitchens.”

  Arnacin’s eyes closed in relief, yet he said nothing and Miro finished, “Everyone present for that occurrence has been ordered to keep silent and, should word spread, the wagging tongue shall be found and executed. This will be kept between us. Yet, Arnacin, I expect in turn that should you ever find that you have a moral problem with anything, you will come to me with it, instead of acting on your own. Understood?”

  Forcing a smile, Arnacin nodded and the king dismissed him.

  Evening was settling over the city. The market was clearing on the wharf, yet the sun still shone. It was proof that summer was on the way and, standing on the battlements of the inner bailey, Lord Carpason sighed. Summer’s heavier air meant Melmoor stank of death, and even the light armor the Mirans always wore to battle, enabling them freer movement, was too heavy beneath the heat of the day.

  The natives themselves stripped for battle during the hotter months and, perhaps because they felt fiercer without their clothes, or because they sensed that the heat tired their enemy, their attacks often increased.

  Somehow, every summer passed, however, and Tarmlin’s army remained.

  “Lord Carpason,” someone called. The lord turned to see Gagandep throwing his sack over his shoulder as he strode forward.

  “Gagandep,” Carpason inclined with a smile. “How fare your patients?”

  “Sick, sick and sick,” the native stated, an impish grin curling the corners of his lips. “Nothing life-threatening, yet some are sick from boredom and others from all your diseases. If you Mirans would learn to stay healthy…”

  He left the rest hanging and Carpason nodded. “I’m sure your kin are always in perfect health, friend.”

  “Hardly,” Gagandep muttered. Self-consciously rubbing the back of his finger along the side of his nose, the native inquired, “How is Arnacin?”

  “Have you not seen him lately?”

  “Not since you returned, and I heard he’s facing death charges after rescuing a savage.”

  Giving the native a look of wide-eyed surprise, Carpason inquired, “Really?”

  “Your lack of knowledge is unconvincing, my lord,” the native stated. “I wish to know if he has been harmed or not.”

  Sighing, the lord admitted, “That news is supposed to be secret, Gagandep, but since I know you will not aid the gossip, that rumor is old. Four days ago, Miro conceded our foreigner’s view and ordered a minor punishment only. Currently, Arnacin is swamped with kitchen chores, which is why you have not seen him. He is ordered to continue practicing his swordsmanship, but other than that, I don’t know if he has emerged from the kitchen at all in the last three days.”

  “You know, I thought from the start that there was something…” Gagandep shrugged, before restarting, “I would almost assume Arnacin is native himself, only…” He frowned in concentration and finished, “different.”

  “Don’t encourage his actions,” the lord warned.

  “Encourage, my lord? I love him for them, yet for you, I won’t dare.” When Carpason made no reply, the native commented, “When you’re all through trying to pervert him with Miran garbage, I’ll simply have to kidnap him and show him what really matters in the world.” Smiling, he ended, “I intend to.”

  Returning the grin, Carpason sighed, “Unfortunately, I don’t think he’ll be here long enough. As soon as temporary peace comes, he’ll set sail for home. He waits only for the tide of life to change.”

  “I thought he was here to stay,” Gagandep whispered with a sudden sadness. “That he had landed for the same reasons that had formed Mira.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Well then,” the native replied, brightening slightly. “We’ll simply have to kidnap him as soon as he tries, you and I.”

  The lord sadly breathed, “I love him too much to forcibly withhold his greatest desire from him should he live through the war itself. All the same, I hope I never see the day.”

  Gagandep said nothing beside him.

  Summer’s heat struck the very next week and, although it did nothing to slow the battles or war, the heat often discouraged sleep. On one rare, exceptionally humid night, Arnacin joined Gagandep’s family for dinner in the adopted native’s garden. Even after the family had drifted away and the food had been removed, the islander stayed at the table, his chin on his folded arms, while he and Gagandep chatted.

  “Gagandep,” Arnacin asked, as night settled around them. “Do the natives’ have their own name? What were they called before Carta arrived?”

  “There isn’t one name. The natives are broken into tribes, connected only by the gods we all share. My tribe was called the Ragoosh, then there was the Titiles—they are our horse masters, if they still exist.”

  “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “It’s possible that even if Mira didn’t wipe them out, the other natives did, as traitors.”

  “Why?” Arnacin asked, straightening on the bench in indignation.

  “The Titiles loved the plains for their horses. This land all the way to the mountains was once considered especially theirs. They were the main tribe responsible for aiding Mira. It was through them we learned Mira’s tongue, and they have always believed in peace, that the gods are pleased by their attempts to keep it.

  “On the other side, many of the natives think the gods desire Mira’s elimination for their continued disregard of the natives and gods. They think that anyone who doesn’t join them in vouching for the gods’ justice betrays the gods.”

  “How can they think both?”

  “The chieftains don’t commune with the gods on their own, Arnacin. Only the mediums are allowed—” He stopped abruptly, shrugging.

  “What do you think?”

  “As adopted natives, we’re left in blackness. We have no communion with the gods at all and can only go with the rules they gave us, which can be very conditional. Some of us have tried to commune with the gods on our own, but those the gods destroy very quickly.”

  “How are they destroyed?”

  For a moment, Gagandep was silent, then he leaned closer, whispering, “To hear the gods, one must go through a certain ceremony. No matter how secret it is kept, Mira always seems to know about it. They come in to arrest and hang those involved, but even when they don’t miraculously know about the ceremonies, those who just performed it die in their sleep, without a mark or a sign of assassination on them—healthy and strong one second, dead the next. The gods alone pick their mediums and so we are left in blackness.”

  “Why not just switch gods?” Arnacin cheekily inquired.

  Laughing slightly, Gagandep answered, “We would die trying.” They were silent a moment. Then, punching the islander lightly in the shoulder, the adopted native sighed. “You should go back to the castle. You told me Carpason leaves early tomorrow.”

  Carpason was given the task of the search that time, to Arnacin’s relief. He also noticed that everyone else seemed more relaxed as well, at least while they traversed Mira’s plains along th
e western side of the Guardian Hills. In fact, Hadwin rode by the group of infantry Arnacin walked beside to heckle him about not learning to ride.

  “Until everyone of your troop rides, I will continue to walk, thank you,” Arnacin remarked and, laughing, Hadwin urged his steed farther up the line.

  Although he wanted to talk to Carpason about the natives’ mediums, the islander waited until darkness covered the camp to lightly knock on the front support of the lord’s tent. A moment of silence followed before he heard the usual, “Enter.”

  The lord sat on the low cot pulling his boots on when Arnacin ducked inside. A sense of painful nostalgia seemed to fill the space and it took a moment for the islander to consider the oddness of Carpason’s action.

  “Were you going to rest?” he asked, settling on the grass by the side of the cot.

  A brief smile passed the lord’s face, edged with furtiveness. “No, I was considering the best place to enter Melmoor.” He paused and then said, “And on the field, I keep my boots on.”

  Smirking, Arnacin stated, “You were cleaning them. You know you could use any squire you wanted. Your Sir Lindan has six squires.”

  Carpason laughed. “He can keep them. I don’t want a squire. For things I can’t do, I can borrow one, but I don’t want an official one. Yet, I’ve found unless I have someone near, I think better while doing something.” His gaze was distant and, after a moment, he whispered, “It didn’t used to be a problem. I always had someone to keep my thoughts engaged.” He shook his head. “But, what do you need?”

  Holding out his hand for the boot, the islander nodded. “It so happens that I think better while doing something as well, and a half-done task is worse than a task not started at all.”

  Smiling, the lord pulled out the cloths he had quickly stuffed between the cot and its supports. Then, pulling off his boots, he handed one to Arnacin and resumed cleaning the one he had started.

  Turning his own attention to cleaning, the islander bent to his task and asked, “I was wondering what you know about the native’s ceremonies to become mediums.”

  Carpason stilled and Arnacin could feel the questioning gaze boring through the top of his head. “Why do you wish to know about such evil, Arnacin?”

  The islander shrugged. Somehow, he felt it better to leave it as idle puzzlement for the time being.

  “Gagandep said Mira would hang those performing the ceremonies. I thought that odd, considering that Mira doesn’t believe in the supernatural. Why would you kill someone for something that will make no difference, unless they actually mean to use it against you? If it’s just superstition…”

  When Arnacin trailed off, the lord slowly exhaled. “Miro considers such ceremonies as a sign that they are aligning themselves with the enemy, that they no longer wish to be Mirans. Believe me, though, they are given a Miran’s respect in their burial.”

  Considering that, a word made Arnacin pause. “Why did you call them evil?”

  Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Carpason asked, “Can’t you ask something else?”

  When he received no reply, he surrendered. “Our spies tell us that the natives start their ceremonies by chanting. Then, those desiring to hear their gods walk across hot coals. Those that manage not to burn their feet, at least not terribly, have a mark of an eye burned into their foreheads. It’s an eye I have seen many a time on foreheads of the dead, and I shudder every time I do. There’s something about them. I think it’s supposed to look insightful, but I see flames in them.”

  He shrugged. “I have no idea how they think they could hide those marks from us, but it doesn’t matter, because I’ve never seen anyone in the city with such a mark, though I have been told that some are buried while the burn is fresh.”

  “Gagandep thinks his gods kill them for daring to communicate with them on their own,” Arnacin whispered, shuddering.

  “Well, he would.”

  Distantly, the islander admitted, “If anything, I think you do see flames. I think they’re selling themselves.”

  “To whom?” Carpason’s tone was quizzical, his brow furrowed when Arnacin looked up.

  Shaking his head, Arnacin said no more. Just the thought turned the tent icy cold despite the heat, and his stomach twisted.

  “You know, Arnacin. Sometimes I forget you believe in the supernatural yourself. You act so sane, and then you say the strangest things.”

  His eyes dancing, Arnacin smiled grimly, “You forget. I’m incapable of believing otherwise. I’m from Enchantress Island.”

  For a long moment, the lord studied him without reply. Then, he nodded. “Were they anything like the natives’ mediums?”

  Slowly, the islander shook his head. “If you’re asking if they were as twisted as the mediums, then yes, dragon and enchanter alike, but there the similarities end.”

  “Why did you name your island after something evil?”

  “Again, you forget. My island’s not Enchanter Island. It’s Enchantress Island—named after the enchantress, the only survivor of her kind, as well as named because of our history. There is no memory before the enchanters’ reign, and the islanders’ love for the enchantress made it desirable for them to name their home after her. She’s gone now—I think I told you that—but the stories will last, I’m sure.”

  “Right,” Carpason muttered, and that was the end of their conversation that night. Shortly after, Arnacin handed the boot he had finished back to its owner and returned to his own tent.

  Carpason decided to cross the Guardian Hills, travel up the east coast, and enter Melmoor at the foot of the natives’ mountains. There was a good chance that the enemy would not think to watch that entrance as carefully, and the troop could perhaps make more of their search. Taking this indirect route could potentially extend their time away from Mira, but it was worth a try.

  Every night, the lord heard the light knock that he came to expect as Arnacin and after two nights he found himself listening for it hopefully. The conversations that followed where not always strategically helpful in Carpason’s opinion and would often range from Mira’s history with the natives to the supernatural, yet the islander seemed to consistently return to the natives’ mediums.

  On the fourth night, the first in Melmoor, the lord asked again about the interest as they leaned over a map of the woods. Trailing his finger over a river on the map, which flowed down from the mountains, Arnacin asked, “Does it not make sense to eliminate the leaders of an enemy as soon as possible—to charge as straight a line as possible to where a leader stands?”

  “You know it does.”

  Arnacin’s dark eyes fixed on the lord then, and he whispered, “I think the mediums are the leaders.”

  “Why? We know for a fact the chiefs make the plans, order the tribes’ movements. They only ask a medium’s presence to curse their enemies or bless their endeavors. They never do anything else.”

  “Who told you so? Do you know their language to hear what they say?”

  “Mannerisms inform us.”

  For a long moment, Arnacin stared at the map, silent. Softly, he whispered, “Gagandep believes that they are blind without their gods, that their gods are calling them to war. I don’t doubt that their hatred would carry on without that fact, but it would weaken their strength, and the war might fall apart in weakness.”

  Not considering the fact that he thought the mediums made the god nonsense up, it was logical, yet it posed a different problem. “Under those circumstances, we can’t win by logic, Arnacin. We can’t win by proving our strength and we can’t win by mercy, as we’ve been trying both for years. Our strength we show by destroying their war camps here, and our mercy we show by leaving their home alone, but if these tactics can’t reach them…”

  Leaning over until his elbow reached the table, he buried his face in his hands. “Unfortunately, such thoughts are mere speculation, which means Miro will not make plans to incorporate such ideas. It’s too risky to act on just a hunch.”

>   “How would the plan change if he did?”

  “If we knew there was real risk, we’d make some kind of evacuation plans. As it is, I don’t know and, honestly, I can’t answer any more of your questions about the mediums. I never gave them much thought, and even if I had, I’m not sure even the natives would know.”

  “What sort of thing in particular would you need to know?”

  Rubbing his sweaty palms together in contemplation, the lord replied, “How many of them are there? Could they instantly regenerate? Do they have a code of what their gods want so that all mediums say the same things? And if they are goading on the war, how much do the chiefs rely on them? Would the chiefs continue on their own or not?”

  Arnacin’s gaze flicked from the map to Carpason and back. Then he shrugged, “Capture a medium, alive.”

  “Even should that work, I’m afraid that would end the adopted natives’ loyalty to Mira. Their loyalty to their gods would make it impossible to force one of their prophets into giving information away. We would become the enemy even to those who only acknowledge their native heritage now.”

  After a pause in which Carpason knew they were both thinking of Gagandep, Arnacin sighed, “You have to try. You need those answers before it’s too late.”

  Slowly, the lord nodded. “If we come across one in this search, we’ll try. We may need to stay in Melmoor while we question him, which is in itself a risk, but the betrayal that would appear throughout Mira would be far worse.”

  They found nothing in their search, although they were attacked several times and, during one attack, the natives stole their supplies—food, water and extra weapons. Carpason forced them five miles to the south, closer to Mira, and then made them pitch camp as evening came on. Yet the lack of water after their struggle with the natives left them weaker and the lord called Hadwin to his tent. Although he noticed Arnacin following, he said nothing to stop the islander.