The Savage War

by Esther Wallace

  The next few days passed and still Miro only sent out other troops. Arnacin paced. On the evening of the second day, Cornyo pulled the islander to a room with the rest of their company. There a small table sat in the midst of the men, a game board atop its polished surface.

  “The basic rules to Molshunting are fairly straightforward,” Cornyo explained after convincing his restless commander to learn the game. “The object is to move all forty of your mols”—he held up the wooden playing piece—“around the board and into their home. The opponent moves in the opposite direction to his home. Your strategy is to block your opponent from moving and hopefully send him back to the start when you can. If you can land on him when he only has one mol in that spot, you send him home.”

  Pulling out an eight-sided cube engraved on each side with what looked like a different animal, the knight proceeded to explain the game. After he finished the basic rules, saying that there were complications best learned while doing, they started.

  Very quickly, however, Arnacin began to suspect that either no complications actually existed or they were being added to, since those watching would try to hide smiles or break out laughing as “complications” were encountered.

  Cornyo proceeded to keep Arnacin completely trapped with detailed rules like, “Only six mols can fit in a space at a time. If I can fill in the rest of a space, I can knock all of yours sitting there back to start. I can choose to move backwards if I wish to land on you.”

  Raising his eyebrows at one point, Arnacin moved one of his pieces backwards to where Cornyo had one lonesome mol. Yet as he picked the knight’s piece off the board, Cornyo exclaimed, “That’s only a move that can be done as the last ray of sun shines in a day.”

  Laughter erupted around them and, sliding down in his seat, Arnacin kicked his opponent’s chair over. In the following crash, he proceeded to move all forty of his own pieces. By the time Cornyo looked again, Arnacin’s pieces resided contentedly at home.

  “Hey,” the knight interjected. “That’s not in the rules.”

  “It is.”

  “How?”

  “Because I said so.” Ignoring the new eruption of mirth, the islander stated, “And there’s this convenient law that says troops listen to their commanders without question.”

  As the laughter only grew in strength, Cornyo grinned. “All right, all right… I’ll stop inventing rules and show you the right way to play. So…” His smile turned impish. “The basic rules to Molshunting are fairly straightforward. The object of the game…”

  Groans echoed around them as he proceeded to replay the beginning, his eyes glinting in acknowledgment of the implication. Implication aside, however, he stopped taking advantage of Arnacin’s lack of knowledge of the game and only barely scratched out a win in the end.

  “All right,” Arnacin sighed after they cleaned up. “To bed with the lot of you. We don’t know when we’ll be moved back to the field and if we make a habit of staying up ‘til midnight, it won’t go well.” With muttered “good nights,” they all split up, more or less retiring for the night.

  Although Arnacin refused to feel concerned about his lack of field orders, he found himself closely listening to the rumors regarding the king’s councils—knowing he was frequently mentioned. He also impatiently awaited word from the troops engaging the enemy.

  Finally, they began trickling in, with the terrified whispers that “the eagles have been released.” To Arnacin’s inquiry, they would only shudder, or some would shrug, and the islander gleaned nothing more until Carpason’s troop returned from the field.

  Carpason had barely entered the city with his men when he noticed Gagandep watching them with the air of a man waiting for a private word. As their gazes met, the lord also saw the adopted native’s eyes were rimmed with terror.

  “Continue to the castle,” Carpason ordered his men. “I will be there shortly.”

  With that, he turned his steed onto the street that would take him to Gagandep’s. The midst of the city was no place to talk.

  As Carpason looped his horse’s reins about a lower tree limb, the native met him there, rubbing his head as if wearied or stressed.

  “What is it, Gagandep?”

  “Are the natives actually using eagles?” The native’s voice was shaky.

  Taking his friend’s arm, Carpason seated him on the garden well. “Yes, an eagle killed one of my men.” As the adopted native swayed, the lord caught him from falling into the well. “Gagandep, what is it?”

  Had he not feared letting go, he would have drawn some water for himself, but he continued to hold on and, after a moment, Gagandep shook his head. “They’ve cursed everyone. Who knows how long we have before this entire continent bursts into flame.” The adopted native must have taken leave of his senses. Kneeling in front of him to make eye contact, Carpason shook him slightly. “What are you talking about?”

  Gagandep gulped, yet finally looking at the lord, he whispered, “The eagles…”

  Miro’s reply to the news was to ask Carpason to inform the other field commanders of his information. It took impressively little time for all of them to assemble in their council chamber.

  “They train their eagles to hunt man—not track and kill, mind you, hunt,” the lord informed those gathered.

  “You mean they…?” Yet no one seemed to be able to say it. Most of the nobles had paled, their eyes widening. Others, like Cestmir, crossed their arms, their disgust written across their glowering faces.

  “Whatever the birds kill is the enemy’s dinner. In a war, this feeds their men. As of yet, we’ve been fortunately exempt from that attack, since they consider it a lack of honor to eat a worthy opponent. Yet we’re beginning to see the return of eagles on the field. Something’s changed. We don’t know what, but they no longer honor us as worthy opponents. For this reason, it is particularly imperative now that no one strays from their assigned position.”

  The lord’s gaze flicked briefly to Arnacin before he finished, “They have grown in ferocity and, should no one know where to reach you, you are beyond our aid and at their mercy. Are we agreed?” A low murmur of scared consent followed, except from the islander against the wall, whose dark eyes simply hardened unyieldingly. “Arnacin?” Carpason pressed.

  For a long moment, the islander made no reply. Then, dipping his chin in acknowledgment, he stated, “I understand.” Another second of silence passed while the lord looked at him reprovingly, but then Carpason dismissed the field-commanders, until only Arnacin remained.

  Together, they exited the room. Only then did the lord comment, “So, you only understand, do you?”

  “I can’t agree,” Arnacin admitted.

  Carpason sighed, adding to his earlier warning, “Those birds can see at least sixty miles away, and we’ll receive no allowance from them, whether because we crossed some line or…” He glanced once again at the islander walking beside him.

  “We’re simply badgering them too much.” Arnacin shrugged. “This is not a war they’re willing to lose, with or without other influences. It’s for their home. If we take away their hope of winning, they’ll throw all they can at us and end allowances in the light of the cause. Under their circumstances, I’d do the same.” Meeting the lord’s half-exasperated look, he shrugged, “I didn’t mean the cannibalism part.”

  “Then why are you on our side?” Carpason joked.

  “Their actions are far from upright, and only slaughter will come of their winning.”

  After a pause, the lord pressed again, “Arnacin, what has made us harm their hope lately? What’s changed to make them react so? Only at great peril would they risk the honor of their god of war, for it is his rules they follow at such times.” When the islander did not answer, he finished, “I didn’t say this in front of the others, but I think they’re after you personally—that their eagles are meant to bring you down, one way or another. You have forced them to retreat once too often, and they’re scared. Should you contin
ue to pursue your current activities, I am afraid they shall succeed in their mission.”

  “And they will have succeeded in their mission if I don’t continue,” Arnacin flatly remarked. “It is only through my ‘current activities’ that they have been forced back.”

  “Arnacin, the war strategies are not ours to plan. It creates discord—”

  “And harmony creates a standstill, at best,” the islander snapped back.

  “An entire council should be trusted to plan wisely—”

  “A council of fools,” the islander scoffed.

  “Arnacin,” Lord Carpason groaned. “You are not in a place to change that, even if it is true—particularly when you have men under you. Moreover, you’re an alien, a young alien to add to that. We have no right to allow you to put yourself at such risk—”

  “You have no right to force me to do otherwise.”

  “We do have every right to take command from you.”

  For just a minute, lord and islander faced each other, opposition and challenge simmering in the air between them. Then, Carpason slowly exhaled, “Should they kill you, your help will have ended, and what good will that have done?”

  “They’ll have already won—”

  “You gave your word to aid the king—”

  “Therefore, I will keep it to the death if need be, and retreating would do the opposite. My aid was not my allegiance to his every command, but to Mira.”

  Rubbing his forehead with a sigh, Carpason surrendered. “I have said all I can, Arnacin. If reason will not bring submission from you, I know you too well to continue.”

  “I can’t,” Arnacin softly repeated.

  “Well then, for friendship’s sake, I won’t tell the king, as perhaps I should.” The reply was a small heartfelt smile.

  Arnacin was still not sent on the field, but he began taking his troop into the open, outside the city, to practice their archery in a new way. Some passing by looked on in bewilderment as men would fire an arrow into the sky and another archer would attempt to shoot it down. Others more familiar with the islander simply shook their heads.

  Even Arnacin failed miserably at it at first, whether he aimed with his left or right, but as his troop sagged with despair, the islander persisted. When the sun set without anyone’s success, the troop slept outside on their commander’s orders so they could resume with the first rays of light. Firth scored the first shot, to Arnacin’s frustrated glare as he lowered his own bow.

  “I’ll best you later,” the islander promised.

  The Miran grinned in reply.

  All the same, it took the whole afternoon for the promise to be fulfilled, with few breaks except for a meal. With that victory finally won, Arnacin allowed the troop rest, and they gratefully returned to the city.

  “You better keep practicing, Arnacin,” Firth commented before they went their separate ways, “or I’ll beat you again.”

  The islander was too exhausted to rise to the bait, though, and he disappeared with a weary smile.

  Since his dance and conversation with Valoretta that winter about the future king, Carpason frequently found himself contemplating the destined leadership of their kingdom. The fact that bothered him the most was that Miro pretended he had no one in mind, nor was he announcing any weddings.

  As that thought again fixed itself in the lord’s mind, his gaze wandered to the night sky out his window.

  There were several solutions of course. Miro might have picked a foreign husband for his daughter and wanted to protect the other kingdom’s noble from jealous assassination. But, no… Even if both kingdoms had agreed to keep it secret for a time, there was no reason to hold off such a wedding, and every reason to bind two strong kingdoms together, even if just to give the Mirans a home to which they could retreat.

  Was it pride? Was Miro so intent on holding his throne that he would not make his announcement until he was on his deathbed?

  Yet that hardly sounded like Miro. Under those circumstances, Mirans would at least still retain their standing, even if it merged into another. The nobility might become lesser nobles, but they would avoid becoming mere peasantry.

  In short, Mira would be preserved by such a choice. So Miro’s reluctance must mean he saw some other solution. Therefore, Miro’s successor could not be part of another kingdom. But if he was Miran, what reason could the king have for keeping it secret…

  Carpason’s quandary was fathomless, so he forced his attention back to the map he was determined to learn by heart. As he looked down, however, the answer came… The secret must be because of the intended king’s reaction as much as everyone else’s. Miro had to keep it secret until he could force it on the man he had chosen.

  Gasping, Carpason shoved the map of the mountains back into the chest, locked it and asked the first passing servant if anyone knew whether the king had already retired for the night and if he was alone. The answer was that he was alone in the council chamber. Thanking his good fortune, Carpason turned toward the indicated room.

  “You intend for Arnacin to be king,” Carpason gasped as soon as the king’s guards had announced him and shut the door. Miro practically ignored him, busy with the many parchments before him. “I’m asking, Sire, don’t go through with this.”

  “Why do you think I wished him to be commander?” Miro asked, finally looking up. “Lord Carpason, you already know I do not intend to allow him to leave. How is this so much worse?”

  “He’s a shepherd, not a noble!” When the king only raised his eyebrows knowingly, Carpason insisted, “This will imprison him for life! He’ll never even have time to visit his home and let them know why he cannot stay. I had hoped that the natives would see something different in Valoretta, and Arnacin would at least be able to return home then.”

  If Miro noticed the unintended insult, he did not take offense. Sighing, he nodded to the chair next to him. “Come, sit.”

  Once the lord had joined him, he lowered his voice. “You seem to forget that there are hundreds of kingdoms all straining for this throne—that until someone claims the title of king, they will continue trying to force Valoretta into marriage, through war if they must, once she is queen. Peace between Mira and her natives may come, but the war will not end until her right to rule is secure.

  “Furthermore, it is her right to rule. She alone must sit on that throne. Mira has only ever had one ruler with their consort, who is in the best of circumstances their right hand. Valoretta will be Queen Mira, not Queen Valoretta. Therefore, her king must be someone who will allow her to rule, a partner and not a master, someone who can lead in the battles, but not take over.

  “And lastly,” he paused, his gaze growing distant, “Arnacin has the unyielding virtue Mira needs for peace between her people and her neighbors. He is someone who will not surrender what he views as right for what many label as the greater good. This was my queen’s one wish for the next king.” Only thoughts of Valoretta’s mother could cause such sadness in Miro’s voice. “I think she was and is right. I am incapable of such, but for Mira’s peace, it is needed.” He smiled slightly, “I expect there to be frequent arguments between Mira’s future monarchs, but I know they will strengthen each other.”

  Carpason nodded in understanding, yet still asked, “But if you break Arnacin in so doing?”

  “He does not appear such a defeatist. Rough as it might be for a little while, I think he will realize how much this continent needs him.”

  The lord simply dipped his chin in submission.

  “Arnacin.” Miro nodded as the islander stepped into the throne room. “The savages have finally been pushed back as far as our borders, yet not back into their mountains. To Mira’s frustration, they have returned to their foxholes in the woods. I must ask you to take your men out to help with the searches, for one week, mind you.”

  “Your Majesty,” the islander inquired, “may I ask why you did not send me out before, if you are willing to send me out now?”

  “
I think you know the answer. You are sent out now, because there is a reason to place trust in you once again. In these searches, no one can be spared.”

  Bowing out, the islander whispered before leaving, “I’m sorry Mira ever caused need to doubt.” Before the king could process those words, Arnacin was gone.

  Four hours later, the troop marched out—on foot, as only Arnacin’s troop went, with horses in tow. “He should not have gone out,” Memphis sighed beside the king while they watched the troop fade into the distance. “He has yet to agree to change, and there are suspicions about what he does on the search.”

  “He has never lied to me,” Miro whispered. “In what manner he searches, no one knows, but he searches and that is what is required.”

  Whatever argument Memphis brought up, the king repeated those words, yet he wondered inwardly if he was wrong.

  Slowly, a week passed. Not one of Arnacin’s troop returned the seventh day, nor a few days after. After two weeks, he made Carpason return to the field to search for the islander or any of his men. When the lord did not return after another three days, Miro sent out more of his armies to join the hunt for the vanished troop.

  By then, he was forced to confess to himself that part of him did not trust Arnacin, as his mind invented all the least likely possibilities as to how an entire troop could vanish.

  A horse’s clarion call made Arnacin glance up from the impaled native just falling at his feet. Through the fray around them, he saw horses swarming into the melee. For just a second, his blood froze at the thought that the natives had finally brought their cavalry in to guarantee their enemy’s demise. That fear quickly died as a cry of alarm rose from the attacking natives and they began a desperate retreat, though not without throwing all they could against Arnacin in their flight.

  Somehow, the islander—and Hadwin beside him—kept time with those attacks until horses surrounded them, preventing the attackers from escaping through them. With no strength left to stand, the islander used the excuse of cleaning his sword to sink to his knees and rest.