The Savage War

by Esther Wallace

  “My lord, this seems like a most dangerous game. What if he does speak to the king and Miro still, despite the winning passion and eloquence, refuses? Arnacin is not the type to sit by or submit.”

  “Then it will be one of those times I wish I believed in Arnacin’s god. Nevertheless, it must be tried, for Mira.”

  Two days after receiving the command, Arnacin was personally requested by the king to gather his troop and scout for enemy camps. Slowly inhaling in preparation, the islander bowed out of the king’s presence, knowing that in seconds, his command would end in uproar. No one would like his ideas for the troop, yet the king and Carpason had ordered him to command.

  True to his expectations, a stunned silence followed when he directed his men to leave all their tents behind. If they could not carry something themselves, they could not bring it. Extra food, water and blankets would be packed on the warhorses’ backs during marches, and every man would carry their own quiver, arrows, blades, a pack of food, blankets and a canteen of water.

  When someone finally found their voice enough to ask about armor, Arnacin answered, “Pack only the most needed pieces on the horses.”

  They were too well-trained to question an order from someone the king had placed in control, but not long after the march had begun, taking up the rear in the cluster of men and horses, Arnacin felt their discontent flavoring the air like a burning pot over an open fire. “We’ll all be frozen dead by tonight,” someone close by muttered and Arnacin bit his tongue.

  A few hours into their march, he halted the troop and, standing before them, began, “I did not explain things this morning, and I’m sorry. Being that you don’t trust me yet and most of you have no reason to…” He glanced at Cestmir’s troops. “I will explain myself. Should any of you disagree, now is the time to say why—after I’ve made my case.

  “I’m a shepherd by birth and know much about moving in the woods. The less we bring, the less noticeable we are and the more quickly we can move. In addition, by using the woods’ natural resources for shelter at night, we will lessen the attacks against us by dark. I am not that concerned about lacking food, since I both know how to use ours sparingly and replace it when we do run out, and I intend for each of you to learn yourselves, for your own sakes. Does any of that seem unwise to you?”

  “What natural shelters do the woods offer?” one man inquired.

  Before Arnacin could respond, another man, still young compared to many of the others there, answered, “Underbrush, piled leaves, things of that nature. By night, someone could walk right through us and never notice. Combined with blankets and each other’s body heat, we’ll be quite warm. The enemy does similar things with their patrols.”

  Regarding the man, Arnacin inquired, “How are you so learned?”

  Grinning, the man repeated, “I mean no impudence when I ask, how are you? I’m Firth, son of Gagandep—and you, a foreign citizen of a land without wars. Father has not said anything of strategy, I know, yet I doubt you ever slept outside of a bed before coming here.”

  “Perhaps we do not make beds,” the islander stated teasingly. “What do you know of shepherding?”

  “I confess, nothing.”

  “Very well then. We will leave it at that. Any other doubts?”

  “The enemies don’t bring horses down their mountains. Do you expect them to hide as well?”

  “I pray they are as well-trained as I’ve been told and will sleep beside you on the ground during the night. Is that possible?”

  Several nods followed and, after waiting another few seconds for a complaint that did not come, the islander gently ordered, “Let’s resume the march.”

  With that, he turned about, leading the way this time, and he felt the thoughtful silence with which the men followed.

  As evening arrived after that first day of the march, Arnacin went around speaking to the men individually. His aim, outside of just establishing some knowledge of the men and their names, was to discover which ones considered themselves capable archers. He saved Firth for last.

  Finally, stopping by Gagandep’s son, the islander started with the usual question about skills, told Firth he was on first watch that night and, after a second’s pause, asked, “If you don’t mind my asking, how is it that Gagandep’s son is in Mira’s army?”

  Glancing askance at Arnacin, Firth shrugged, “How is a foreigner?”

  “I’m not killing ancestors and relations.”

  “I see. That’s why you’re asking.” Firth sighed. “Three years ago, when Mira first started feeling the need for more troops, each troop sent men around the kingdom to find all able-bodied volunteers. Forced enlistment came only last year. Anyway, I was sixteen at the time, so I volunteered.

  “Originally, they told me they couldn’t take me, but I demanded to know why not when they needed men so much. I am Miran, I want to support the kingdom as much as they, and I view the savages not only as savages, but traitors also, who will murder their own kind without thought. I wanted—and still want—nothing more than to strike a blow for my father, my family, and my homeland. Would they not allow that?”

  Firth shrugged, continuing, “I was allowed, but in many ways, they still don’t accept me. No one will talk to me. I’m given marching orders and those are all the words I hear from commander or troops.”

  Sighing, Arnacin settled on the ground, wrapping his arms around his knees. “It must make you wonder if Mira is worth supporting.”

  “Actually, as much as it’s lonely, I understand, most of the time. I mean, you know father’s devotion to his gods, despite the fact that if the savages win, they’ll slaughter him without a care for his loyalty. Some adopted natives don’t even have his love for us. They see the whole war as our greed.” The Miran was quiet a moment before saying, “When I told Father that I had been moved, he was pleased. He said I would not need to dishonor myself under you.”

  Slowly, Arnacin turned his head and looked at Firth standing above him. A question seemed to simmer in the air. Finally, dropping his gaze, the islander whispered, “Let’s hope so.”

  “Are you afraid?” Firth asked in response to Arnacin’s tone.

  Laughing, the islander confessed, “Fear isn’t something I readily confess to. Sometimes I feel that by confessing it, you allow yourself to fear—and that’s something no one can afford, particularly not someone who is supposed to lead. However, I don’t know that I can lead. Not that I don’t possess the capability to invent, give instructions, and sound like I know what I’m talking about even when I don’t.” His smile met Firth’s and he looked away. “No, I can’t kill, Firth. I didn’t realize what war would mean until I had already agreed. I knew it would be hard, but not what it is. I’ve never blinked once while killing an animal, not that I can remember anyway, and when I am protecting someone… when killing someone is the only hope in the moment, I can do that without thinking twice. But this? This is slaughter, and now I’m supposed to command it.”

  With an ironic smile, Arnacin lay back to look at the sky, lacing his fingers beneath his head. “I used to think I could lead in everything. If it had to be done, I was the boy for the job. If someone didn’t do what was best for them, it was I who told them, who always knew what was best—as if I really knew anything.”

  As his thoughts traveled from the individuals of Enchantress Island, most of them leaders in their own right, to monarchs like Miro who spent the whole day worrying over reputation and how that affected their standing, Arnacin heard his voice drop to a growl as he added, “Leaders are only for those too stupid not to lead themselves, and those they choose as leaders should concentrate instead on teaching thinking skills and self-defense.”

  Realizing that he had just spoken in bitter exaggeration, he looked over at the Miran, who was studying him incredulously. As their gazes met, however, Firth joked, “Well, I have no problem killing savages, so if ever you want to step down, I’ll be happy to fill in.” When Arnacin laughed sardonically, he
continued, “Savages are the same as animals. They’re brutes, drunk on human blood. They’re beyond mercy and compassion. No one in the world could think of them in any other light, unless they grew up with them.”

  Arnacin did not need to ask about such hatred. Had Gagandep been his father, whose very family threatened to murder him despite his undying love, the islander would likely feel the same. Yet, he knew better. “Thanks,” he whispered, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll keep my command.”

  “Um…” Firth halted him as he started to leave. “What do we call you? We never call commanders by name.”

  “All your commanders possess titles before they become commanders,” Arnacin reminded him. “I’m just Arnacin.”

  Within the following week, Arnacin had completely retrained his men on how to comb the woods. He kept them moving from before light even filtered through the trees until darkness enveloped them. They ate from their own sacks only before and after their long marches, never stopping between. When they ran out, they would refill their personal supplies with what was stored on the horses. Water was sipped while walking.

  Although they were attacked throughout their journey, the islander had not been wrong when he said they would be missed during the night. Once darkness masked their movements, Arnacin would make them spread out within a certain perimeter, some against trees or under thick brush, and others in bushes. Horses vanished like deer into foliage, and the few archers the islander cycled through every night as guards reported that everything remained peaceful. In that way, although often stiff, the troop always woke mostly refreshed in the gray darkness to destroy any trace of their resting places.

  Despite their success at overall protection, stealth and swiftness, they found nothing and eventually returned to the capitol, where Arnacin’s report to the king consisted of a single sentence. They had found no enemy village.

  Arnacin had barely entered the great hall after his third expedition when the monarch loudly exclaimed his name, “Arnacin!”

  The islander jumped in surprise and Miro sighed, calming himself. “I must send you back out, my foreigner. It has been two weeks since Lord Carpason left on his own scouting mission, and there hasn’t even been word from a messenger, nor a returning crippled army.”

  Arnacin paled in concern and the king nodded his understanding.

  “Through your men…” Miro’s lip quirked upward slightly as he said it, “I understand that you are able to traverse Melmoor as well as the enemy does. If Lord Carpason could not escape a trap, perhaps you can. Regardless, I must know what happened. Should you discover that the savages slaughtered every last one of his troop, as well as him…” The king paused before finishing, “You must bring that information to me as well.”

  “What if we also disappear?” Arnacin inquired.

  His gaze hard in deadly seriousness, Miro ordered, “You will return with the conclusion that they are beyond the grave before that happens. Is that understood, son of Bozzic?”

  Meeting that commanding gaze, the islander softly submitted, “I understand, Your Majesty.”

  “Then retrieve your men.”

  For two days, Arnacin attempted to find a way into the area the savages seemed to be circling, without success. However, even if the king had ordered the islander to return in defeat, Arnacin never could have. Yet the mere fact that he rose against such an impassable enemy blockade meant something. He reasoned that Carpason was a nemesis of the natives. If they had him in a corner, they would block off all opportunities for support or escape. This only caused the islander more nervousness with each passing minute.

  “Should we return home, Arnacin?” Sir Hadwin inquired, joining the islander where he stood staring out into the overcast night, arms folded across his chest with his thumbnail resting against his upper lip. When Arnacin did not answer, only dropping his arm onto the other resting across his ribcage, the knight pressed, “What would you like?”

  “Charlotte,” Arnacin muttered.

  Shaking his head, Hadwin asked, “Who?”

  Arnacin finally looked at him and, pushing off the tree he leaned against, he asked, “Is there anyone in this party capable of moving with complete silence?”

  The knight sighed in concentration. “I don’t know if you’ll like my suggestion, but there’s Gagandep’s son.”

  “Firth?”

  “Aye, Firth. He is half-native after all, apparently without an inch of the loyalty or knowledge of their gods themselves. One can never know what type of influence his father had over him, though.”

  “I’ll take him,” Arnacin nodded. Remembering Firth’s disgust of the natives, he smiled slightly. “I wouldn’t take Gagandep with me tonight, but I trust his son’s firmness all the same.”

  “Where do you intend to go?” Hadwin questioned. “And are we to wait for you?”

  “Continue to guard the camp. I should be back long before morning.”

  “Where are you going?” the knight repeated.

  “To do some secret scouting. If the sun rises and you have not seen us, return to the capital with the news that Lord Carpason is likely no more.”

  “And what would I tell them about you?”

  “There will be no answer to that.” Arnacin grinned. “At least not until another month passes without sight or sound of me.” Before Hadwin could offer his concern, the islander ordered, “Send Firth to me. I’ll be here.”

  Stealing through the woods, barefoot—as he had insisted they go—Arnacin found himself searching for Firth’s arm from time to time in order to make sure the Miran was still there. Not a breath from Firth could be heard over the woodland noises, not even a rustle of feet over forest carpet. Whether or not Arnacin maintained the same level of silence, he could not tell with the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears, but it was to his slight assurance that he felt Firth’s own searching hand brush his arm.

  Progressing mostly by feel in that thorough blackness, the islander feared that the thick black shapes of the trees that sprang up suddenly before him would knock them off course. Yet there was nothing to do but pray and still wish for Charlotte, whose senses would have known where to head, in light or dark, in order to reach water.

  A sudden scuffle in the trees above, followed by the soft whisper of the native tongue, caused the islander to freeze, grabbing Firth’s arm to make sure he also stopped. Seconds ticked past while Arnacin’s traitorous heart pounded in his ribs. Yet, as the fear of the hunted grew until he found it bearable no longer, the islander prodded Firth forward. Carefully, they inched beyond the trees.

  Somehow, the arrows Arnacin expected never came and he breathed more easily as they left that spot behind. Not long afterward, however, the soft tramp of feet crossing their path not three yards before them drew the islander to an abrupt stop. Many other footsteps followed, and even a few whispers in the natives’ language, while it seemed an entire army passed before the islander and the Miran. Finally, the sounds disappeared and the islander hurried them on as fast as silence permitted.

  That pitch-black, stealthy journey through the woods seemed to last forever before Arnacin halted yet again, pointing to the large, flickering lights not too far to their left.

  “Their current encampment,” Arnacin whispered into his companion’s ear. “We’re not going any closer than this. It’s too dangerous as it is.”

  Apparently too afraid to reply, the Miran turned in the direction the islander gently pushed him and they skirted the natives’ perimeter. The sound of flowing water finally led them to a stream, where, setting his own sack in the mud, Arnacin slunk along the bank, searching for the objects of his mission. Finally locating a cluster of the precious brackweed, the islander retrieved his sack and pulled out a small spade, with the soft order for his companion to stand guard. Returning to the brackweed, he dug a small hole. Dipping his spade into the sack, he filled the hole he had created with what appeared to be moist dirt, yet smelled fouler. Once done, he carefully leveled the spot
he had tampered with and then brushed leaves over it.

  Seventeen times, he repeated this, under different clumps of the plant, and then, feeling his nervousness strengthening with each passing moment, he pulled his companion into the stream, where they covered any possible tracks.

  Before returning to camp, however, Arnacin intended to discover if he could the exact predicament of the Tarmlin troops. Not much farther, sounds of clashing metal led them away from the stream. On a small rise, where one of Mira’s old boundary markers lay smashed, Arnacin spotted fires burning. Drawing slightly nearer, he could see the camp, its figures locked together in combat, while cries of death filled the air. Above the skirmish, Tarmlin’s emblem shone in the firelight.

  It was Firth who broke the spell that had turned the islander into stone as he searched for any sign of Carpason himself. “Arnacin,” the Miran whispered. “We can’t help until you bring your own troop through. If we try, we’ll likely also become stuck here.”

  Dropping his gaze, Arnacin led them stealthily back without a word. Tarmlin would need to wait for the islander’s troop.

  Arnacin kept camp for four days after he and Firth returned at dawn. Then, without a word of explanation, he ordered the attack—a straight drive toward the location of the native’s encampment. No one questioned it until they arrived safely at the edge of the camp’s perimeter without a single arrow shot in their direction. The islander only allowed the stunned gazes to turn in his direction for a moment as he took in the condition of the enemy.

  None of the few natives the troop saw had noticed their presence yet, seeming to rave at the heavens or tear about without purpose. With one guilty glance downward, the islander ordered the mounted men to move in, reach safety on the other side of the camp, and burn all the tents on their way. No one was prepared for that attack. Some native men whipped out short blades only to be run through, but there was little struggle. The roar of flames and the screams of fear and pain, however, filled the air and ripped a hole through Arnacin’s heart. Forcibly, he ignored it as the riders looped back to him and the other men who lacked steeds.