If honest with himself, however, he never considered defeat an option. With that reminder, he lifted his head. He had barely begun to lurch to his feet, though, before he looked again at his ship and reality washed away his renewed determination.
Even if he found some form of food and water, he had no way to rebuild his ship. By himself, he could never replace the mast. Furthermore, he did not know if he had even built it correctly and, if he had not, another storm might completely sink the thing if he rebuilt it.
With that thought, he dropped back onto the sand.
For hours, Arnacin sat there, trembling and coughing, beyond all care for his own well-being. As the sun set, to be replaced by night’s full moon, the only difference was that he lay on his back in the sand, his eyes closed and his tongue pressed between dried lips. The only sound came from the pounding of the surf and the wind in the trees.
A scream shattered the night. Arnacin jerked up, his face pale. More screams followed, or perhaps shouts. It made little difference to Arnacin. To his sheltered ears, those sounds were the most blood-curdling, horrible noises he had ever heard or even imagined in his sixteen years of life. As if only to add to his terror, the din, now from tens of voices, drew closer. Then, almost as quickly as they had arisen, the sounds ended, leaving only the hiss of the waves in their wake.
Momentarily distracted from his cold, starvation and thirst, Arnacin slowly climbed to his feet. Heart and blood pounding, his gaze never left the dark of the redwoods where the screams still seemed to echo.
Like a coyote that prowls noiselessly through the forest, he set off in the direction from which he’d last heard the sounds, led by that morbid desperation to know all dangers. Before long, he saw a spark of light in the distance and he angled toward it. Almost as if mocking his hearing, crickets chirped in the underbrush and, somewhere, an owl hooted.
It was as if nothing had happened, and yet—the normal noises were almost a façade. Somewhere, un-pinpointed, the woods still retained a deadened sound, as if the crickets were simply putting on a brave front, while the owl—
As a hoot came again, Arnacin stiffened, realizing that it did not quite sound authentic. Only a few feet away, the light flickered like many torches.
Just as he realized that the hoots could be a signal of some kind, a dark shadow rose from the base of a nearby tree. Before he could move, the shadow grabbed him around the neck. The arm tightened, forcing him forward. In his weakened state, that was all it took. Blackness descended. He could remember no more than the feeling of his attacker’s grip slackening.
Lord Carpason of the ruined city of Tarmlin looked up as a commotion erupted along the edge of his troop’s encampment in the Melmoor forest. The sounds of shock and exclamation, even slight exasperation, piqued his curiosity, prompting him to investigate. Several of his cloaked men stood around a sickly-looking boy in his mid-teens, with the deepest dark hair. It was that hair that caused Carpason’s eyes to widen as his gaze shot to his men for explanation. All the men around him possessed golden to light-auburn hair—he had never even imagined hair could be brown, much less black.
Meeting his lord’s gaze, one man, Sir Hadwin, shrugged. “He was sneaking through the woods by our camp. I almost didn’t see him.”
“But—where did he come from?” Only the same confused hum of speculation met his question. “Could it be dyed?” Carpason asked, looking again at the dark hair.
“If you’re asking if it could be a savage ploy, my lord, it no longer matters. This boy’s as good as dead.”
“You’re not supposed to attack without cause.”
“I didn’t do anything. He just fainted.”
Ignoring his lookout’s defense, Carpason knelt, taking the boy’s wrist between his fingers. A fast beat pounded under them, easily felt beneath the meatless skin covering sinew and bone. Thoughtfully, the lord looked again over those pale, flushed cheeks and parched, swollen lips.
Sighing, he ordered, “Give him some water, but don’t jostle him. In his state, he needs the rest. We’ll take him with us back to Mira. The king can decide what to do with him once we have time to interrogate him. At the moment, I’m not going to disregard the fact that he might be one of our enemy’s cleverer ploys. Death might lie in such an assumption.”
“Should we bind him?” Hadwin inquired, causing the lord to pause before turning away.
Looking again at the boy, however, Carpason shook his head. “Should he be a spy, he is still no threat physically. Do watch him, but should he truly be innocent, I don’t wish our caution to create instant enmity.”
As soon as the first rays of sun splattered through the canopy of trees, Lord Carpason commanded his men to break camp. Only the perimeter patrol and the mysterious boy, unconscious in the middle of the encampment, did nothing to help.
Sudden shouts of alarm from the patrollers caused Carpason to whip out his sword. Around him, the hiss of swords leaving scabbards echoed. Yet the men of Tarmlin had no time to organize before they were rushed by savages.
Carpason had one glance of their bright yellow hair, vengeful faces, and pillaged spears, swords and axes before his need to defend himself cut off his peripheral vision.
Freeing himself, he leapt onto a horse, calling to his sub-commanders, “Hadwin, Alten, Lindan! Gather your divisions! We mus—”
Above his enemies, he had an advantage, but he was forced to wheel his steed toward an attack. Atop one of Tarmlin’s horses, a savage rammed the beast into Carpason’s own, lunging at the lord. Carpason instantly sidestepped his mount, but proving their reputed horsemanship, the savage moved with him.
Still, there was a second’s respite and in it the lord dropped to the ground, fleeing to a weapons cart. There, he yanked out a spear and flung it into his attacker’s throat.
A glow on the edge of the camp caught his attention as the savage fell off the steed. Carpason barely registered that it was a large fire before a blazing arrow whooshed overhead. Crackling, it embedded itself into the weapons cart next to the lord, the first of many.
“Water!” Carpason cried while more arrows found other supply carts. Men rushed to fight the fire, yet smoke soon filled the air, blinding and choking everyone. Coughs and terrified shouts sounded around the lord. His own lungs clenched in pain.
Suddenly, the attack ebbed.
Taking advantage of the lull, Carpason renewed his assault while one of the knights nearby ordered, “See to the wagons! Shovel dirt over the fire!”
Wordlessly thanking the man, Carpason also gathered a group, found the remaining savages still fighting, and cut them down. Only when the sound of battle no longer echoed through the smoke and the lone shouts were of those trying to save the supplies did the lord call his men together. As one, the men attacked the fire that roared over their supplies and filled both lungs and air with its stench.
Afternoon sun shone through the last of the smoke as Carpason helped his blackened troops load the surviving supplies onto the salvageable wagons.
“Don’t worry about the rest,” he rasped. “Our water’s gone along with half our supplies, if not more. Line up.”
His order, although hardly heard, was spread through camp and, little by little, men began assuming their traveling formation.
It was not until the lord hauled himself back onto his horse that one knight questioned, “We must leave the dead behind, of course, but what of the boy?”
“B…?”
Carpason turned sharply back toward what remained of the camp. The dead cluttered the bases of trees and blood soaked the leaves, but there, buried under a savage corpse, Carpason spotted the stranger’s black hair. Huffing, the lord snapped, “Retrieve him.”
Finally, with troop readied and motionless boy safely in one of the mounted men’s arms, Carpason started them back toward the capital in the long-rehearsed practice of infantry, followed by knights, then the remaining carts of armor, weapons, tools and tents, more knights, and then Carpason, followed by the
same pattern in reverse order.
They stopped once by a small trickle of water to clear their throats of smoke. There, the lord approached the dark-haired stranger, whose unconscious form rested on the ground. It seemed almost ominous that the natives had not attacked him as well, yet that chest continued to rise and fall. Perhaps the enemy simply had not paid attention to unmoving lumps on the ground.
Stirring as the noble watched, the boy opened his dark blue eyes to stare at the trees overhead. Carpason stepped nearer, crouching beside the weak newcomer. “Our attackers do not wait for a proper introduction. We must be on the move before the hour. Can you ride?”
A sharp, indiscernible croak answered him, while the boy attempted to sit up. Every muscle quivered, yet he somehow managed. Watching for only a moment, the lord hailed one of his men, asking softly, “Are there any canteens remaining that can be filled?”
“There are spare canteens on the saddles, my lord,” the soldier replied. “Would you like me to fetch some?”
Carpason nodded and a minute later he was gently supporting the boy to prevent him from choking while he sipped the reviving water.
“We’re ready, my lord,” someone informed Carpason from behind, receiving a nod.
“Line up, then.” As the man turned to relay the order, another brought the lord’s steed forward. Helping the boy to his feet, Carpason eased his support away only when he felt his charge steady beneath his hand.
“Come, you may ride,” the lord began to offer, halting in surprise as the boy shook his head.
“I don’t know how to ride.” Although still hoarse, the words came across clearly. Those words were contrary to the savages’ horsemanship, but it was the boy’s foreign accent that convinced the lord that his fears of a trap were unfounded.
“You don’t need to,” Carpason said. “I don’t think you are capable of walking beside the footmen, however.”
The boy’s eyes flashed and, with a slight flick of his head, he corrected the lord, “I walked here from the shore, and I prefer to be in full control of my direction.”
A minute passed in which the lord considered the boy. Carpason’s command had never been refuted before, however politely. Could the boy be that ignorant of authority, or that obstinate?
“Very well,” the lord finally decided. “We shall see if you can keep up with the pace. If not, the choice shall be taken from you. Is that fair?”
Once again, while his words were stated partly as a question, they were anything but. The boy’s dark blue eyes fully registered that with a challenging reply, but he simply inclined his head. Seconds later, they were again on the march.
The world seemed to tilt around Arnacin. He had counted on walking with difficulty, yet it proved even harder than he imagined. Concentrating solely on each laborious step, he noticed little else.
A horse’s piercing whinny was his only warning before something rammed into him. His knees gave way and he landed with a gasp in the leaves. The world turned black and he was only aware of what felt like hundreds of feet rushing around him.
As consciousness returned to him, he heard shouts, screams and whinnies amid the crunching of disturbed leaves. Slowly raising his head, the islander noticed a swarm of hide-bundled, thickset opponents all hurrying directly toward the army’s commander, ignoring everyone else in their path. His horse lay dying a few feet away, an arrow in her neck, while her rider fought for his life. The rest of the army engaged a wall of attackers both behind and in front of the commander and Arnacin, who remained unnoticed where he fell.
Despite the horrific skirmish writhing about him, unreality seemed to pass over the boy. He felt like one watching reflections in water. The daze broke as, with a scream that seemed to echo directly in his ear, a body thumped to the ground beside him. Blank eyes stared into Arnacin’s and, with a gasp, he jerked away, wincing as something bit into his side. A blade lay beside him, blood trickling down its edges and running into the leaves.
Closing his eyes to the hideous sight, Arnacin turned back to the commander’s struggle. The attackers were forcing their victim into the depths of the woods. Without backup against the mass pressing upon him, he could do nothing to gainsay their attempts at swift and easy murder. With a hasty glance at the rest of the troop still struggling futilely to break through their enemies, the islander knew he was the only one in any position to aid the commander.
With that in mind, Arnacin heaved himself to his feet and, lifting the cumbersome sword as best he could, he stepped toward the nearest ambusher.
Realizing that he was stepping farther away from the center of the fray, Carpason dropped to the ground and rolled toward the rest of his army, locked in battle with their opponents. This threw his own assailants off fleetingly, hardly allowing him to regain his feet, let alone free some of his men as he had intended. Now, trapped between the savages attacking him and those mutilating his men, Carpason used his position to the best of his advantage, sidestepping in order to force his enemies’ thrusts upon each other.
In the confusion that ensued when his attackers accidentally collided with their own men, Carpason dispatched a few more of his attackers, leaving him with only two. Yet it did not free his men.
His glance toward them betrayed him, as his feet were knocked out from under him. Swiftly, he blocked the sword flashing downward. The blades clashed inches from his neck. No room existed for parrying the next attack, which struck for his stomach. Death had arrived.
Mid-swing, the savage turned sharply, whirling his slashing blade with him. In a flash of green and black, the savage dropped to the ground, his turn unfinished. A blade protruded at an odd angle through his stomach. Scrambling to his feet to attack, Carpason paused. There stood the strange foreigner. Using the killing sword’s hilt as a crutch, he was striving to keep himself on his feet.
“It’s idiocy to keep routines—tells them exactly where to attack,” the boy breathed, just before collapsing over his fallen opponent.
Ripping his gaze away from his unconscious rescuer, Carpason searched for the second attacker. That savage also lay dead with a jagged, faltering slice across his throat.
Glancing only once more in disbelief at the still boy at his feet, Carpason sought out the rest of the battle. His questions had to wait.
Night had fallen once again and the army had been forced to quit their hard march, light fires, and set guards. The attacks had not abated throughout the day. There, by a stream, they finally had the opportunity to look after their injured, although nothing could be done about the many bodies left where they fell during the day. Canteens were refilled at least, and the troop’s thirst quenched.
“It’s a treacherous business, my lord,” one knight sighed, wincing as their field surgeon prodded his slashed shoulder. “I wish the savages would find a less effective method, but every time, they create a ruckus simply to entangle us and then launch their real attack. At least it’s likely safe to say that they had not prepared their normal poison today.”
“I think they have lost their supply for the time being, during this manhunt for our group,” Carpason said in weary agreement. “Once we return to the city, that respite shall be at an end. We can count on it. They will regrind whatever it is they use, mix it with whatever else—I don’t even wish to know… But today…” He puffed in slight amusement. “Today, someone protected us.”
Smiling himself, the knight joked, “After we lost about ten Lord Carpason’s this afternoon…” He received a guilty glance from his lord but plowed on anyway. “I dare say, someone protected us. You say it wasn’t your idea to switch the order and put other men in your place?”
“Not entirely,” Carpason whispered, glancing over his shoulder to where the surgeon was now bending over the still, darkhaired boy. “I wonder where he came from and how he wound up on our shores.”
His musing was not really meant to be answered, but, following his gaze, the knight shrugged. “Why does it matter, my lord?”
“Idle curiosity. Yet if not for him, I would lie dead. Some may call it ‘luck,’ but I wonder. He has no skill at swordplay and seemingly no knowledge of… politics or warfare. Yet he can sense a weakness in a plan without thought, so it appears, and possesses all the lightness of foot and keenness of eye that most of us lack without training. How so, I ask myself. How so? What distant land, homeland of the black hair, breeds such natural skill into its men, and why do they know nothing of the world?”
“I’m afraid he’s the only one who could possibly answer and, somehow, I doubt he will,” the knight supplied.
Noncommittal, Carpason groaned as he pushed himself to his battle-aching feet and joined the surgeon beside the motionless boy. “Is he all right?”
“I think so, my lord. He’s starved and extremely dehydrated, but under careful and patient ministrations, I think he will be as good as new within a month or so.”
“Will it be safe trying to feed him?”
“We’ll work up to it, I expect.” That said, the surgeon moved on to help other injured men.
Carpason watched him go and, when he turned back, found two dark blue eyes coming into focus on him from the haze of unconsciousness. Pain crossed those foreign features as the boy tried to push himself up.
“No, don’t,” the lord whispered, gently pushing the boy back down.
Too weak to protest, the boy submitted to the light force, closing his eyes again. Regarding him, Carpason attempted, “I realize I don’t have a name for you, or know anything of who or what you are…” He left the sentence invitingly open, waiting.
Almost contrary to his expectations, the boy breathed, his voice clearer although just as soft as before, “Arnacin. I’m a shepherd boy.”
Carpason could feel his eyebrows rise in surprise as he replied, “Really?” With a teasing smile, he added, “I suppose your flock was stolen and so you hired the first ship in hopes of finding them. You must own good wool.”
The Savage War Page 2