The Savage War

by Esther Wallace

  There were times, he wondered if the swordmaster suspected what he was really doing, but if so, it was still allowed to a small extent, watched and guided, forced only when most necessary. For that, Arnacin was grateful.

  Naturally, Arnacin was not called for meetings, although Miro himself slipped in that evening to discuss the natives and how they appeared to have no goal in mind. Neither the islander nor the king believed that. What Arnacin suspected, however, he kept to himself, lacking evidence to support it. He also knew his silence looked like a result of his fever and, thankfully, Miro left without pressing him for his thoughts.

  It was Gagandep who noticed the islander standing by the terrace’s balustrade two days later, his thumbnail between his front teeth while he stared northward. Inhaling sadly, the adopted native put down his medic sack to join the young war councilor. “What brings you out here on such a day?” Gagandep wondered.

  Looking over at the native, Arnacin merely nodded politely.

  Sighing, Gagandep said, “I heard that the king and the swordmaster had a large disagreement about how to re-train your shoulder. The swordmaster won apparently.” When he still received no reply, he said, “You haven’t been to see me since you asked if I thought of a way to satisfy the natives. Did I say something wrong?”

  Folding his arms, the islander shrugged. “After Firth… I couldn’t…”

  Slowly, the adopted native nodded. “I miss seeing you, Arnacin. As for Firth…” For a long time, he was quiet. Then, sadly, he shrugged. “I can’t hold you accountable. When he was a boy, I worried about his hatred. After he came to know you, it seemed to settle somewhat. He no longer hated my kind. Little did I realize he had just changed the direction of his hatred.

  “I know you were only trying to keep him safe when you told him to leave. Now, at least, he is free of the fate of Mira. Should we fall, he can still live.”

  “If his hatred doesn’t kill him somewhere else,” Arnacin muttered and Gagandep pushed his shoulder.

  “Have faith, Arnacin. It will ease your stress. Now, what troubles bring you out here on a day like this?”

  Slowly, the islander asked, “Is it a trait among your kind to… lead everyone by the nose?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re attacking all but the northwest towns and villages. In fact, their attacks have led constantly more eastward. Miro— or his councilors—assume they are running out of border homes to attack and are simply trying to scare us without endangering themselves by penetrating Mira more than they need. I’m not sure I agree.”

  Turning fully toward Gagandep, the islander continued, “What’s in the west that they would want? The maps end over there.”

  “Nothing’s over there.” The native shrugged.

  “Nothing?”

  “Marshes, muddy waterways… in short, nothing.”

  Giving him a look of exasperation, Arnacin repeated, “In short, nothing. I read that marshes are disastrous.”

  “They are to any wandering travelers, yet there is no way to use them for a weapon. Marshes can’t be picked up and thrown.”

  Laughing slightly at the image, the islander surmised, “So, unless they are planning on surrendering their land to Mira in order to make sure they have a holding that can never be crossed, you don’t think they could have any use for the west.”

  “To my knowledge, Arnacin,” Gagandep affirmed, turning back to the interior. “They know no more of those lands than Mira does. I grew up fearing them. My whole tribe considered them holy land—‘the Sacred Way,’ we called it. Only one with a god’s supreme favor could enter and live, or the land would open at his feet and fire would burst into the sky from the fissure while it ate the intruder alive. Smoke does wisp in tendrils from those lands, and the natives watch from the mountain posts.”

  He whirled back as an impish voice replied, “Then I could, of course, enter without fear.” Seeing the wicked amusement in Arnacin’s deep blue eyes, the native laughed before he left, shaking his head.

  No sooner had the adopted native departed than feet stopped in the archway and a voice shuddering with fear called, “Arnacin, the king requests your presence.”

  Closing his eyes, the islander collected his patience before promising, “I will be there in a minute.”

  With one last sweep of the view, Arnacin turned away and headed to the great hall where the king and Memphis met with Duke Cestmir, who had just returned from the field. While his men and others like them kept Gagandep busy with the rampant annoyance of frostbite, as well as various sicknesses arising from the constant cold and dampness, the duke had taken Cornyo with him to report.

  As Arnacin slipped to the side of the throne’s dais without notice, Cestmir was saying, “We continued the pursuit to Norton, occasionally rescuing the towns, sometimes arriving too late. In every place, however, the savages made off with some of the women and children. At first, we thought we would free them when we caught up to the monsters, but they weren’t ever present. I can only think that they were swapping their raiding parties after every attack, but…” Glancing at Arnacin, the duke finished, “No one in my army knew how to look for proof of that.”

  Doubtless, no one missed the duke’s envy of the islander’s ability to track in that glance. Arnacin could spend all day insisting his skill was actually very small indeed, but none of the Mirans believed him. Charlotte bested him by far, although he never mentioned her to anyone but Valoretta anymore. Regardless, the Mirans considered the islander’s skill at least equal to that of the natives.

  Noticing Memphis’s glare fixed on him, Arnacin looked away.

  “What we do know,” Cestmir continued, “is that no bodies were ever left on the trail, and the captured victims were never left with a village’s dead either—at least, so one of my men tells me, since he knows one of the captured families.

  “When the natives finally turned back toward the mountains, we retreated for home ourselves. What do you wish to do about the hostages, Sire?”

  His fingers tapping on the throne’s arm, the king sighed. A moment later, he whispered, “Nothing. Regard them as dead.”

  Behind the duke, Cornyo gasped, exclaiming, “Sire, they’re your own people. As long as they draw breath, should you not—?” A glance from his lord cut off the rest of his words.

  With a fleeting look between Arnacin—who stood staring at his feet—and the knight, Miro replied, “Yes, they are my people but so are all the rest. If we can assume anything, it is that they have taken them over the mountains. It is beyond our lands, and the trespass shall only bring a greater intensity of war. Although some have succeeded without causing more wrath,” he again glanced at Arnacin, “a full-scale search in their lands, and then an attack on a likely peaceful village to regain our people will not be overlooked. In fact, it may be exactly why they were taken if some of the savages are playing at their own politics.”

  “They’re not smart enough,” Arnacin muttered. Naturally, no one heard him but Memphis, whose glare sharpened.

  “Sire,” Cestmir inquired, “may I point out one thing?” Miro nodded resignedly and the duke stated, “Not only, therefore, are we condemning the women to either physical abuse or forced marriage, regardless of previous husbands, and the young men likely to torture and death, but the children who are young enough might even be turned against us as spies and more in later years. Given that, do you still wish for no action?”

  Defeat resounded in the king’s tone as he announced, “I cannot change my answer, but let us hope the war ends before our own kin starts betraying us to the enemy.”

  As the duke and his knight bowed out, the latter with a last pleading look toward the islander, the king sighed, dismissing them, “I’m sorry, Memphis, Arnacin. There is indeed nothing to discuss.”

  The look the high councilor passed Arnacin dared him to disagree, yet the islander only glared right back. Both gazes vanished as the king turned to them. With their own inclinations to the king
, they left, swiftly separating once out of the great hall.

  Not more than five steps away from the hall, though, Arnacin halted, spotting Cornyo standing by the wall, obviously awaiting the islander. Reading the knight’s thoughts in the desperate lines of his face, Arnacin sighed. “Cornyo, I have no more say in there than a fly to a mule. It constantly swarms around biting, and the only response is a twitch of skin. Besides, this is not something I could disagree with if I held any sway.”

  “Arnacin,” Cornyo sighed. “Please, talk to him—without the presence of His High Puppet Master, if you must.”

  Slowly exhaling, the islander asked, “Why, Cornyo? Under the circumstances, ‘His High Puppet Master’ said nothing. Miro made the choice himself.” Dropping his gaze, Arnacin admitted, “And I’m forced to admit he’s right… this time.”

  “I can’t let it rest, Arnacin. Could he not even allow one person to try, just to try, for the country… for its people? If only one man went, for personal reasons, whatever ‘politics’ they intend would be disregarded.”

  “What personal reasons? We don’t know any of them more than in passing.”

  Smiling slightly, the knight corrected, “You mean, you don’t know any of them in more than passing. I’m often surprised you even know them that much, as foreign as you are, yet you have a way with low folk.

  “There was a time, however, when a few of Cestmir’s troops had to stay behind due to injury. The duke forced us as far as the nearest town and then found people to take care of us until we could return home.” Looking down, he whispered, “I came to know a lady while I was there. She was wonderful, Arnacin. I had hoped…” He dropped off. Then, clearing his throat, he shrugged. “They took her, and there is my personal excuse.”

  Sadly, Arnacin whispered, “Also the reason you’re letting your heart rule your senses. You couldn’t track them, Cornyo. You admitted as much. No one knows the entire land beyond those mountains, and they could have taken them anywhere. Lastly, how are you supposed to raid a whole village for its captives single-handedly, and retrace your steps—with escapees in tow—without men to protect them?”

  His gaze darkening, the knight stated, “I bet you could think of something, if you actually tried.”

  Looking away in frustration, the islander admitted, “Maybe, if I were going…” Dropping his own gaze, he admitted, “But I am incapable of returning to the field. The natives made sure of it.”

  Pity mixed with temper in the knight’s eyes. Exhaling, the knight whispered, “I’m sorry, Arnacin. I hope you will find a way to rise again, our hero.”

  With that verbal slap, he whirled away, while the light in the islander’s gaze continued to darken as those words ignited his own frustrations.

  “Arnacin!” The urgent call echoing down the corridor leading to the library the next morning made the islander turn to see Duke Cestmir striding toward him with the urgency of someone trying to retain a royal demeanor.

  “Duke Cestmir.” Arnacin inclined his head. “I figured you would be preparing to leave again.”

  “The men are doing so.” Lowering his voice as he neared enough to do so, the duke whispered, “Cornyo is absent.”

  Shifting his eyes away from the duke, Arnacin sadly breathed, “Is he?”

  “Arnacin, if you persuaded him…” Cestmir did not finish the horrifying ending.

  “Your Grace,” the islander sighed. “W hat do you suspect Cornyo’s done?”

  “I think you know. I had hoped that Miro’s wisdom would sway him, which is why I brought him yesterday, yet it apparently has not. Please tell me what you know about it.”

  “No more than you, and perhaps less, Your Grace,” Arnacin admitted, meeting the noble’s gaze in earnestness. “He did ask me to… convince the king for him and, when I refused, he left.”

  “When was that? Would there be time to catch him before it’s too late?”

  “I don’t know. He would likely expect pursuit though. So, even if he left Mira late, there is not much chance of catching him—even were he on foot, which I doubt he is.”

  “Arnacin, this is serious. If word of what he’s attempting makes its way to the king, you know what I’ll be forced to do if he returns, whether victorious or not.”

  Sighing, the islander nodded. “As does he. He went despite the fact that it means his death one way or the other, not heedless of that fact. They, and Mira, I suppose, mean that much to him.”

  Studying the islander, the noble shook his head. “You have an almost nasty way of making others think like you. My question is, what will you do if he returns?”

  “He will never return, I suspect. He certainly won’t return without the captives, and it is too much to expect him to succeed.”

  “Stop avoiding the question,” the duke growled. “As impossible as it is that he will return, what will you do should he?”

  “Why is it so important to you that I answer?”

  Taking a step closer to the islander, the duke softly breathed, “I love my men, Arnacin of Enchantress Island. That is why, and you have just destroyed one of them. I want some sort of satisfaction, at least the knowledge that you are horrified by your actions.”

  Studying the noble, Arnacin noticed the tears in his eyes. After a moment, just as softly as the other, the islander said, “You ask the impossible, Your Grace. I care very much for your knight and I even feel humbled by him, by his loyalty to his country and friends, even without support—but I can never be horrified by those actions. I am far more horrified that I ever agreed to help with this war, that I ever agreed to become the… war-hardened wreck you see before you.”

  Cestmir’s eyes hardened. Whirling away from the islander, he said, his voice ringing, “There are times, Arnacin, I wish the same. I wish I had never lain eyes on such a character as you, a weaseling, snake-tongued, selfish, impudent commoner as yourself.”

  Once again at his maps, pouring over uncharted edges as if he could see through the parchment to the land it knew nothing about, Arnacin finally glanced toward where the princess sat beside him, attempting to please her nurse somewhat by working on her much-neglected embroidery. Of course, that was only after she quit studying the map herself while they discussed alternate ways to convince the king to build a wall of peace.

  If Miro continued to refuse to build a wall and if it was Mira’s only escape outside of evacuation, could the people build it themselves? Would they even consider building it without the king’s consent?

  “Valoretta,” the islander at last asked aloud. “What would happen to someone who forged the king’s command?”

  Yelping as she stabbed herself in the finger in shock, the princess gasped, “Arnacin, you can’t be thinking of doing that, not even for possible peace.”

  Smiling slightly at her reaction, Arnacin admitted, “I’m not, really. I don’t think my honor would allow it, but the wall brought the question to mind. What is the punishment for that?”

  Sighing, Valoretta said, “There are many crimes that result in hanging on Mira. Stealing, after a certain amount, mistreatment of another person, and so forth. Should a man ever be fool enough to pretend Miro ordered what he did not, they would be tarred before their hanging.”

  “Tarred?” the islander repeated.

  “Have you never heard of it?” When Arnacin shook his head, the princess shuddered, explaining, “They’ll boil the pitch and then throw the person into it while it’s still bubbling. Not that I’ve ever burned myself, other than my tongue on a piece of food or drink, but I understand that if you ever have been burned by boiling water, it is nothing to compare with boiling pitch, which is not so easily removed. There… I…”

  Unable to finish whatever image raced through her mind, she concluded, “Undermining the king in such way is considered the highest degree of treason imaginable, and so no one is light with the justice.”

  “The highest? Yet people do it all the time through manipulation.”

  Whacking him with her arm
, Valoretta warned, “Don’t dare suggest such a thing, or you imply that Miro is weak. The king is not brainless, Arnacin, whatever our private frustrations.”

  Arnacin’s sole reply was a long sigh.

  The month passed and then another. Whenever Memphis mentioned Valoretta’s claim on Arnacin, Miro simply said it was nothing and dismissed the high councilor. With that, Memphis turned to watching the islander very closely. Finally, he ran out of patience.

  “This must go nowhere,” Memphis growled, after having secretly assembled all the councilors except Arnacin, of course. As all around him nodded solemnly, he whispered, “I know who the king has chosen as the princess’ consort. He has chosen none other than Arnacin of Enchantress Island as the next king.”

  Gasps of disbelief echoed off the walls. Hushing them, the high councilor explained, “You must have heard it in the streets. Princess Valoretta claimed Arnacin as her lord. When Miro heard about this outrage, he made up excuses as to why it means nothing. Even now, so long after the occurrence, he has done nothing, not even to order their separation to ensure that it never can mean anything.”

  A frozen silence had entered the room. After some of the shock dissipated, one brazen councilor voiced, “Why is that so bad? Arnacin’s annoying, but not horrible.”

  Twenty glares bored into the culprit.

  “He’s a foreigner, dunce,” Darien finally hissed. “Not only does he not care for our way of life, he completely hates councilors. What do you think will happen to us if he acquires the throne? What will happen to Mira?”

  A fearful silence fell, driven by each one’s imaginings of Mira’s end. “How do we convince Miro of the looming disaster?” someone finally asked.