“Our armies are returning in pitiful numbers, Lord Carpason,” the king warned, still watching the lines of soldiers pouring through the gates.
Sighing, the lord confessed, “The savages’ ambushes are picking us off with absurd ease. Unless we find some exceptional new soldiers or many new reinforcements, we’re going to run out of men before next summer.”
“There are no more men to spare,” Miro sighed resignedly. “All the other nobles’ estates have been deserted and their men sent out. Now, only this city’s guards remain exempt from being sent onto the battlefield.”
“No,” Carpason sadly agreed. “We would not want to see this citadel razed as all the rest.” His gaze went to the harbor as his thoughts traveled there. “It may be time to evacuate, Sire.”
“We cannot, and you know it.” Miro’s reply was a low growl. “Should we lose face to other kingdoms, they will rip us apart as quickly—and more effectively—than any savage.”
The lord slowly exhaled, refusing to say the words of defeat on his tongue. They were dead without a miracle. It was as this thought took him that the small, broken ship in the harbor caught his attention and he thought again of the dark-haired stranger.
“There is someone I think could help, at least,” he mused aloud and the king turned to him in surprise. “Have you met Arnacin, son of Bozzic, yet?”
“Who?”
“The boy you gave permission to stay until his ship is fit again.”
“Ah, the one my daughter likes to talk to in the library. Yes, Sara has complained that he encourages her bad habits and that I should evict him.” He was quiet a moment, a slight smile on his face. Looking up, he demanded, “What help could he be, a boy so innocent he would seem younger than three-quarters of the squires and knowing not a tenth of what they do. To send him out would be slaughter and would serve nothing.”
“We may be surprised, Sire. I have not spoken of this, but he rescued me in an ambush single-handedly, and he possesses all the raw, undeveloped skill of a mythical hero.”
“He’s a foreigner,” Miro insisted obstinately.
“Then ask him if he will. I remember him as fairly obliging.”
“Very well,” the king snapped. “Bring your sailor here and I will ask him.” Bowing, Carpason went to find Arnacin of Enchantress Island.
When Carpason stepped aboard Arnacin’s vessel, the islander lay on his stomach with several diagrams spread out before him, a piece of blank vellum under his elbows. Not a scratch marked the hide, however.
For a moment, the noble simply took in the calm sight, with the healthy-looking boy in the midst of the wrecked ship, a gentle breeze rippling through cloth, hair and the parchment held down by rocks.
“Well, is this the same boy from a month ago?” Carpason teased, causing Arnacin to jump. “Except for your black, unruly curls, which no one else I know could possibly own, I would doubt it.”
Grinning, Arnacin said, “I thought you were still away in the war zone.”
“We return once a week for supplies, rest and to report, unless hindered. There is no communication while we are out there, so our comings and goings are very necessary. At this point, we would be annihilated if we stayed out longer.” Nodding to the parchment, he changed topics, “I see you are already at work.”
“Not really,” the islander admitted. “I’ve cleaned a little bit and emptied all the ruined supplies. Other than that, I’ve just been reading—what I could anyway. I can’t read much of your alphabet.”
“We do have several languages in that library and more variations on our alphabet besides. I see you mostly picked diagrams for your research.”
“For now,” Arnacin admitted. “Someone’s been helping me work through the rest.”
Carpason quickly hid his knowing smile, imagining the uproar that tidbit about the princess would create if it became known. Apparently, the boy also had some idea of the unseemliness of it since he had simply brushed over names. Instead, the lord sincerely apologized, “I’m sorry I can’t help. As I said, I know nothing of this skill.”
The islander laughed. “Until a year ago, neither did I. Even now, I’m still learning.” He nodded to the diagrams. “That’s where the research comes in. Something went wrong when we built it at first, and I think it’s the balance. I need to figure out where before I can even begin to start rebuilding.”
Shaking his head, the lord replied, “I see you are more reckless than I realized. Most men don’t become captains of their own ships within a year of plying their trade.” Arnacin did not reply, simply dropping his gaze back to his work, and Carpason informed the boy, “The king has requested to see you.”
At the look of concern that passed over the islander’s face, the lord hastened to soothe him, “It’s nothing you’ve done, I assure you.”
Sighing, Arnacin rolled up his work and deposited it in his cabin before following the noble back into the castle. Moments later, king and islander met for the first time.
As the lord and boy entered the splendid hall where the king awaited them, they bowed. Straightening, Arnacin met the king’s assessing gaze and withdrew his own. Slowly, Miro circled him. It was with a nervous pulse that the boy stood there, unmoving, mentally ticking off the firm, purposeful footsteps.
Finally, the king stopped in front of Arnacin, stating briskly, “We have no more men to rely on. I would not make such a request of a foreigner if there were any other choice, yet even if you aided inside the castle to free another man from his binding duties, there are no able-bodied men to send onto the field, other than you, apparently, and our guards.
“Arnacin, son of Bozzic from Enchantress Island, Mira makes the request of you to aid its side until the war ends, foreigner though you are. In repayment for your aid, it will provide the gold for repairs and supplies for your ship. Will you do so?”
Licking his suddenly dry lips, Arnacin could not think of an answer. A small part of him whispered that not only did he owe it to them, it was likely that if they fell, he would also perish, but… “I know nothing of war, Your Majesty,” he finally forced out.
“Yet you would say you possess skill in such areas?” the king inquired.
“If I did, it could not be trusted as anything but pride speaking.”
With a slight quirk of his lips, the king replied, “I am told that you do by authorities I trust in this matter. You will pick it up swiftly enough.”
“My skills are not enough to end your war for you, Your Majesty.”
“My Lord Carpason appears to think you will change something, heaven knows what. I have learned to trust his feelings.”
The king said no more, seeming to await the answer. Only one response could come, the boy knew. In spite of himself, he knew that he feared the answer—that the horrors he had witnessed in battle would only be repeated should he agree—the sight of blood dripping from blades and pouring from figures on the ground, of hate-filled faces, and of the sightless eyes of the dead.
Finally, he asked, “May I ponder my answer for another day?”
Tapping his fingers together, the king contemplated Arnacin for another second. Then he waved his consent, and the islander departed.
“You know what that says,” Valoretta groaned in exasperation. “You read it at the top of the page.”
“Sorry,” Arnacin whispered.
Running her tongue over her teeth, the princess studied him, yet she did not probe, allowing him to struggle through his lack of concentration. A moment later, however, he met her eyes, asking, “Why is Mira at war?”
Laughter colored her cheeks, as if the answer could not be more obvious. Recognizing his sincerity, however, she closed her book and her gaze drifted far away. “Well… It’s just…” She shrugged. “I guess the natives are sick of Mira claiming their land, growing ever larger. They want us off Mira—or our lives. I’ve heard some say we should just leave, but there is nowhere else to go. On neighboring continents, the land is claimed by other kingdoms
and they would never give land to us without a fight.”
“What caused the sudden distrust?”
“I don’t know. No one does. Perhaps one of their mediums is motivating the entire thing to gain power. I do know there was an uprising when my grandfather had the throne. He thought a larger population would make Mira more defensible. So, he parceled out farmland and built new villages to encourage larger families. But… when he ran out of land to give, he just ran right over our border into savage lands—practically claiming the whole continent as Mira’s. Prior to him, whenever Mira’s population outgrew its boundaries, if the king did not wish to send some away, he sent generals to talk to the natives, and they chose whether to grant more land or refuse. A few battles arose when they refused, but they always resolved things fairly peaceably. Not so after my grandfather’s action.
“The uprising did die down once Father ascended the throne, but because the many hundreds that Grandfather had allowed to stay were all Mirans, he felt he could not ask them to leave. If I were to pick something that truly sparked this war, it would be that. It stirred the natives’ resentment and, for years, it has long grown under the surface. But why ask?”
“The king asked me to fight for Mira,” Arnacin softly admitted. At her disbelieving stare, he shrugged, “Apparently, Lord Carpason believes I will make a difference.”
“Father does take his thoughts very seriously—more seriously, in fact, than he takes his councilors’ thoughts. In the first place, I believe Lord Carpason respects his authority, while the councilors simply try to persuade him to their own thinking. In the second, Lord Carpason is father’s closest friend and is said to possess a large amount of foresight.” When Arnacin only continued to run the nearby inkwell between his fingers, Valoretta stated, “Even so, no one would blame you if you refused. This is not your war, after all.”
Sighing, the islander finally voiced, “What choice do I have? Mira has supported me with shelter, food, knowledge…” He helplessly shook his head. “I possess nothing to give in return, other than what the king has asked.”
Opening her palm on the table, Valoretta suggested, “Wool. You’re a shepherd. You could help open trade with Mira. If it’s good enough, it would benefit both lands.”
“I couldn’t promise that. It would not be my choice, but the entire island’s. To add to that fact, we are not a seafaring people by nature. It would likely never happen even if I strove with my very being to keep my word.”
“Then tell them it is not your war. We’d all understand.”
“I wouldn’t,” the islander confessed. “I cannot remain here and give nothing even when asked unless I know your side’s not worth supporting. I would simply be using Mira, and that would be the same as stealing. Right now, I still don’t know my answer.”
A sad smile brushed Valoretta’s lips and she breathed, “For your consideration, Arnacin, thank you. May you not suffer the fate of many.”
Finally accepting that he could no longer concentrate, Arnacin slipped off to his ship. The parchments from earlier that day still lay curled up on his bed. Unfolding the diagram of the ship, the islander exhaled slowly. Not thirty seconds passed before he allowed it to roll itself up again. Tossing it on the bed, he stepped back outside to watch the sky turn purple from the setting sun. Soon, a commotion on the shore caught his attention.
A long procession of horses and men wound toward the castle—a war party returning home. The knights did not ride the horses, however. Blackened, human forms slouched over the steeds’ necks, and those who would typically be riding were all carrying smaller bundles than the ones adorning the mounts.
“The last forest town was burned to the ground!” one man cried and his words sparked similar pronouncements of doom all around.
“The savages slaughtered them all!”
“They would have, except for the king’s army coming at the last minute.”
“It won’t make any difference! Those poor wretches are as good as dead!”
Arnacin shuddered as he caught sight of one boy, possibly of two years, his blackened skin blistered, his exposed throat bloated and bubbly, and his lips peeling while his head hung over his bearer’s arm.
None of the other survivors of the savage attack had fared any better, dead-looking indeed, but the sight of that boy in particular caused a strange heat to seep up Arnacin’s back. Valoretta had said the savages would massacre Mira, if allowed. And so they would.
“Will you aid?” the king repeated the question the following morning and, slowly, Arnacin dipped his chin in consent.
“Do you swear?” Miro demanded.
“Swear?” Arnacin repeated in disbelief.
“Yes, swear. It is not broken so easily and, should it be, the least it brings is the death of all honor.”
“Your Majesty,” the boy returned, unable to control the regal lift of his head, “I gave my word. One wordless nod is all it takes, and I will not break it. Is that clear?” Beside him, Carpason placed a hand over his eyes, yet a smile just showed beneath his hand’s shadow.
With a glance at the lord, Miro also grinned, conceding, “Very well, Arnacin of Enchantress Island, I accept your nod as token of your deep commitment and pardon your unfitting tone and unmeant insolence. You may leave with Lord Carpason when his troops move back out this afternoon.”
“War’s not all young men make it sound, Arnacin,” Carpason warned as he led the boy to the outer bailey where men massed in preparation. “You’ll grow tired of the bland food, damp nights, uncompromising ground, insects, hunger, thirst and, most of all, the blood.”
The islander shrugged. “I really don’t have any expectations.”
“Well, I thought I’d warn you, since you sometimes have that youthful gleam of adventure about you. War is no adventure. Try thinking that way now and it will be easier once the grisliness starts.” Arnacin simply nodded in apprehension as they stepped out into the midst of the battle preparations.
Horses hitched to carts bearing all kinds of weaponry, food and tools pawed the ground impatiently while men dashed around them with barked orders. Through the hustle, Carpason took his charge over to one elderly man buckling on his sword.
“Arnacin,” the lord introduced. “This is our master swordsman, Sir Voninath.”
“Don’t dare repeat that name,” the man growled. “Leave it at 'Master Swordsman.'”
Smiling, the lord added, “He will be training you while on the field.”
Politely, the boy nodded, watching the swordmaster’s pale eyes flick sharply over him. That introduction was it, however, as those with horses mounted. Others clambered onto the carts and the rest fell into file on foot. With that, they started on their journey.
Sitting beside the swordmaster on one of the carts, Arnacin looked up when the man finally growled, “And what do you know already, boy?”
“In what field?” the islander asked.
“A boy of your age?” the man harrumphed. “You should at least know the basics to everything.”
“Everything in swordplay or weaponry in general?”
“Warfare, swordplay, archery, spear-throwing and so forth.”
Smiling, Arnacin shook his head slightly. “I am well advanced in archery and nothing else.”
“Ha, you’re a deprived sailor.” He again glanced at the islander, “Strange, though, that you know archery. Nevertheless, we shall see how well you know that. Half these men could use a refresher in that area. We will test your skill tonight before it grows dark. I have already discussed our travel time with his lordship.”
Dipping his chin in acknowledgment of that challenge, Arnacin said no more and neither did the swordmaster.
It was with little patience that Arnacin endured a long description of the bow that evening: its construction, strengths and weaknesses in battle, and possible dangers to the careless user. It was with even less patience that he remained silent as the master swordsman instantly ridiculed him for taking the bow in his
left hand when he was finally handed the weapon.
“I thought you said you knew the basics!” the trainer snapped, shoving the weapon into the islander’s right hand and positioning the boy’s left fingers around arrow-shaft and string. “Now, take careful aim before you release the arrow.”
Although an easy shot for his trained hand and eye, the cart with the target drawn on its side beyond the campsite taunted the islander’s left-handed ability. Biting his tongue, Arnacin pulled back and, aiming, released the arrow. To his frustration, it embedded itself in the ground beneath the cart. He instantly yanked out another arrow, notching it on the string, only to find the master swordsman’s hand on his arm.
“Take longer before you let go,” the man advised.
Slowly exhaling, Arnacin lined his shaft up with the direction it was to go, as near as he could make it. It still did not land on the target’s field, but at least it hit the wood of the cart. Five arrows later, he still had not hit that target, however, and he could hear men beginning to snicker behind him.
“Yes, his sister’s deadly, in comparison to him maybe,” someone whispered jovially.
That was all it took. Whipping another arrow out, Arnacin switched hands, pivoted on his foot and, before anyone could blink, sent an arrow into the center of the target, where it landed with a soft thunk. Dead silence fell all around as every eye except Arnacin’s was glued to that arrow.
Without even a nod of acknowledgment the islander calmly returned to practicing left-handed.
“He just bested you, men.” The light-hearted challenge made the islander turn. “Are you going to let that stand?”
The speaker was a tall young man, around his mid-twenties, with dirty blond hair and an easy, impish grin.
Arnacin responded with his own smile and cheekily returned to his practice. From the crowd, however, he heard the master swordsman growl, “Don’t start anything, Charlin, or I shall need to report you.”
The Savage War Page 6