“Be my guest,” the young man replied as his footsteps approached the islander. As Arnacin turned to his jaunty challenger, the young man held out his hand. “Squire Charlin. I was home, sick with the winter curse, the day you arrived in Lord Carpason’s camp, but I’ve wanted an excuse to meet you.”
“Why is that?” Arnacin questioned as he shifted the bow to his left to accept the squire’s hand.
“Keep practicing.” The swordmaster’s warning growl forced Arnacin back to the target.
Charlin was not perturbed, however. “My lord often speaks of you, and your stubbornness concerning your ungainly ship is the talk of the town.”
“I know. Any logical sailor would either purchase another or take passage on someone else’s ship,” Arnacin flatly parroted. “Why has your lord talked about me, though?”
“My lord is the Lord Carpason of Tarmlin—or what once was Tarmlin.” A note of bitterness crept into the last words. Feeling it was not the time to ask, the islander simply nodded in understanding while he notched another arrow onto the string.
Looking toward the cart himself, Charlin offered, “Well, Arnacin of Enchantress Island, since the men here either lack the courage to appear stupid, or they just fear the bully training you—”
“Huh,” came the comment from the swordmaster.
Both young men grinned. Looking back at Arnacin, the squire finished, “I will challenge you, your left to my right, and the reverse when we grow tired.”
“Or the sun beats us,” Arnacin laughed, releasing his arrow.
Indeed, the sun quit first, as it gave way to the moon and stars. After a brief acknowledgment of how terrible he and the islander both were, and how neither could pick a winner because of that, Charlin drifted back into the camp.
Despite the hour, however, the swordmaster simply pulled his charge under the light of the camp’s fires and began showing him the basic attacks and defenses in sword fighting.
One thing the master swordsman pressed. “Always watch the eyes, boy. Only amateurs watch the blade itself. Eyes convey intent and, while something as large as the blade cannot be missed with peripheral vision, you will never see the eyes if you watch the weapon. Never forget that.” So the night passed in training until the islander was ready to drop from the harshness of it.
“Why did you even suggest him?” the swordmaster snapped at Carpason. Secluded in the lord’s tent, the two bickered over the swordmaster’s insistence that they spend a week in the plains for training time before reaching the battlegrounds.
Sighing, Carpason admitted, “Because we need him. Therefore, he needs to learn and he needs to learn now, while we still hold something of the high ground. That said, we can’t be out here an entire month. The village will move.”
Folding his arms, the swordmaster growled, “You want the moon, my lord, and it’s not possible. Allow me to say when you enter the battlefield, or send me and the boy back to the capital. It—”
He broke off as Charlin entered. As the squire made a hasty apology and began backing out, the lord waved him inside.
“Sir,” Carpason continued without further ado. “I fear I must be frank. I gave the king the impression that Arnacin knows more than he does. Should you have trained Arnacin at the capital, no matter how hard you pushed, Miro would not believe the islander capable and he would wonder why I feel the way I do.”
“For that matter, why do you?” There was a suspicious warning in that tone.
Glancing at Charlin, who watched the older men with quiet curiosity, Carpason tapped his thumb against his lips. “Feelings, sir, are not always explainable, yet I have learned to trust mine.”
Raising an eyebrow, the swordmaster pressed, “Yet it is illogical enough that you endanger a boy’s life to hide the stupidity of your feelings from your king.”
“I have every confidence in your ability and his.” Yet the swordmaster continued to stand there with his arms folded, his chin jutting out and, sighing, the lord surrendered, “As you wish, you may command our progress. Just let me know when we can abandon this crawl.”
Chapter 4
War and Training
ARNACIN GASPED SHARPLY AS THE sword bit into his flesh. The army was camped that day, still a mile from Melmoor, and the master swordsman used the relative safety to the best of his pupil’s advantage.
“You forgot to watch the eyes, boy,” the master swordsman growled, stepping back. “If I had not stopped, you would have lost your arm.”
“Sorry,” the boy panted, trying to ignore the blood trickling down his arm. After a week of practice, the master swordsman had moved to live blades. Yet the moment he had, Arnacin had found the flashing steel far too distracting to keep his attention on—as his trainer said he must—his opponent’s eyes.
With only a grunt, the man swiped his blade clean, slid it back into its sheath, and grabbed Arnacin’s arm. Deftly, he ripped a strip off a piece of cloth ready nearby, poured some wine over it, and bound it tightly around the slice. “It’s a clean cut. By tomorrow, it will be better. Rest it for today.”
Leaving it at that, he walked away and Arnacin sighed in frustration.
“Some of us don’t agree with the king…” In the camp that evening, Carpason paused, glancing again at the boy across the small fire from him. “Not that I should tell you that.”
Shrugging, Arnacin asked, “In what way don’t you agree? Do you not think he should wage war?”
“No, we simply disagree with his view of the enemy. As to this war, we have no choice but to fight. They attacked and, unless we take a stand, they will wipe us out. I, however, cannot deny they had some reason to attack.” He waved a hand. “Not that I know what we could do about it, considering Mira’s constantly growing population.”
Arnacin did not answer, running his hand down his bandaged arm thoughtfully, while the lord studied him.
“What are you thinking, Arnacin?”
“What am I thinking?”
“Yes, what are you thinking? Your mind works so differently from the rest of ours. Do you disagree with our war?”
“No, but who could think war was such a large trap, a corner impossible to avoid?”
Nodding slightly, the lord allowed, “That’s life, Arnacin. It’s harsh and cruel.” He motioned toward Arnacin’s arm. “Don’t worry about that, by the way. He’s trained most of us the same way. First, he’ll drive the importance of watching the eyes by nicking us. Then he’ll slow down a bit to let us focus on the warning flickers. The only difference with you is that he’s attempting to train you within a fifth of the normal amount of time. Most of us started, as a matter of fact, at nine and ten…” He smiled. “At dances.”
“What?” Arnacin choked.
Carpason nodded with a smile. “When he trains, he trains first in every possible way not involving weapons, turning out the best duelists you could imagine. When foreign visitors arrive, it’s almost always Mira that wins the tournaments. A few kingdoms can still flatten us though. Ursa is our greatest challenger.”
Carpason’s men entered the Melmoor forest the next afternoon. Instantly, tension filled the troop with a waiting readiness. Sticking between Charlin and the lord’s horses, Arnacin asked in a whisper, “Why do you constantly go to find them? If they are a danger to you, why not let them fall into your traps?”
“Behind us are the fields of farmers, the homes of the unprepared,” Carpason replied. “Melmoor was also once completely in Mira’s domains.”
He pointed northeast. “My home, Tarmlin, was once in that direction, yet the savages attacked, beating us back. Should we not take the battle to them, they will indeed take the battle to us and kill many more than just our fighting men in the process. We also guess that they are trying to reclaim Melmoor as theirs and thereby gain access to the Guardian Hills on our east coast. For some reason, they seem to fear the marshes on our west coast.”
“Is there any strategy to where and when you go beyond your safe boundaries?”
“Our plan for quite some time has been to hunt down the temporary encampments they have hidden and force them out of Melmoor. Therefore, we send out scouts to find the areas where their presence is the thickest, which means they’re protecting something. Then, when one group has discovered such an area, they return with the location and another troop goes out to infiltrate those guarded perimeters and remove their battle village, much as we are doing now.
“We—”
A cry resounded from the front lines. “Savages!”
Arnacin heard the alert only a second before arrows started whistling down toward them. Instantly, Carpason kicked his horse forward and, within moments, all his troops stood in a tight, shielded huddle.
On his orders, they pressed forward. Such a move forced the enemy to abandon their perches and meet the Mirans man to man. None of Carpason’s men were unprepared as a rush of natives threw themselves on them.
Stuck in the middle, Arnacin drew his own blade, blocking attacks when he had to. Charlin, however, kept most enemies from reaching the boy, likely on his master’s command. The battle was too intense to feel much, even as bodies dropped like flies. All the same, it was to the islander’s horror that arrows once again started raining into their midst, despite their closeness to the enemy. One native engaging Arnacin suddenly dropped with an arrow through his skull.
Ducking, the boy glanced to where he could see the movement of the enemy in the trees. As his glanced upward, he heard the rush of a swift-moving blade over his head and knew he could not move in time. Futilely, he dropped. As he turned to meet the attack, he saw that Charlin had already run the enemy through.
“Never take your eyes off your foe in a thick battle,” Charlin warned with a slight grin as he turned his steed to face more approaching enemies.
Arnacin made no retort.
Giving the tree boughs one quick look, he plunged himself into the fray with one goal in mind. More through dodging and weaving than by direct contact with the natives, the islander slipped through the thick of the melee and flattened himself against the back of a tree. With another upward glance, he sheathed his sword and started climbing.
The sounds of battle raged all around. Still, the islander winced at every branch he snapped on his ascent, certain he would alert the archer perched at the top. Once on the other side of the trunk from his victim, Arnacin slowly leaned around until he saw the savage’s shoulder. Then, pressed against the tree, the islander seized that shoulder, jerking the man into the trunk.
Yelping, the native twisted toward his attacker, only to be shoved off the branch to the ground below as Arnacin yanked the bow out of his enemy’s hand. Turning to the branch where the archer had slung his quiver, the islander paused. One feathered fletching taunted him. Grabbing it, Arnacin took up the archer’s position in the branches.
There, armed with only one arrow, he scanned the nearby trees for movement. Spotting a flash of shifting color from where another arrow shot into the mass below, the islander lined up his own projectile.
Loosing the bowstring, Arnacin was rewarded as his target plunged from the tree with hardly an audible cry—the islander’s arrow through his throat.
His attack did not go unnoticed, however, and he felt the shaft tremble as an arrow narrowly missed scraping his neck. Angrily yanking the arrow out of the trunk, Arnacin shot it back at its owner, rewarded again with the sight of another native falling to the earth.
He ducked the next moment, seeing another arrow flying toward him as more of Mira’s attackers noticed the islander. Now sitting on the branch, using his lower position as extra camouflage, Arnacin reached up, took the arrow out of the trunk behind him and returned it. To his aid, their fair skin and light hair made them a little more visible among the dark trees than he was.
A victory cry sounded above the shouts and screams from below, but Arnacin did not dare give it any of his attention, concentrating instead on the rustles in the other trees—not to mention the projectiles still flying in his direction.
Within seconds, however, the return volleys faltered and the trees’ shaking increased as the natives began fleeing. Lowering his bow, Arnacin made no attempt to take down any stragglers, although it appeared that the natives striving to retreat below had to fight for every breath through the Mirans’ continued attack.
Finally, only Mira’s troop stood below, and Arnacin heard Charlin calling his name in worry.
“I’m up here,” the islander called, soothing the anxious squire before starting down.
“Arnacin,” Charlin sighed as the islander dropped the last few feet back to the ground, “what did you think you were doing?”
“What it looked like,” Arnacin quipped. “I’m first and only an archer. Besides, someone had to draw their attack away, for their sake as much as ours.”
For a minute, the squire simply appraised him, then whispered, “Thank you. They tip their arrows in poison, you know. Death is inevitable after only a scratch… Arnacin, tell me next time you are about to disappear.”
Smiling, the islander promised, “I’ll try.”
Shaking his head, Charlin grinned back.
After the attack, Charlin pulled the islander up to ride behind him on his horse, causing Carpason to smile. That smile convinced Arnacin to ask his burning question despite the tense atmosphere. “Isn’t there any remedy for the natives’ poison?”
“No, there’s no remedy,” Lord Carpason replied. “Some men have lived after poisoning if the wound or scratch is in an arm or leg and we cut it off in time to prevent the spreading…” He halted at the horror-stricken look Arnacin knew had crossed his face.
Looking over his shoulder, Charlin grinned wryly. “It’s war, Arnacin. Everyone here knows the loss of a limb is actually a gift in comparison. They no longer face death since they can no longer serve, and they live through the impossible.”
Shaking his head, the islander insisted, “I’d sooner die.”
“The day may come, if and when you are rescued from certain death, that you won’t feel the same,” Carpason stated. “Although we hope that day will never come.”
“If you hope, I beg.” Arnacin laughed. “I’m returning home as soon as I am able. I gave my word.”
“Where is your home, Arnacin?” Charlin wondered, yet at his master’s instant look, he dropped it. “Never mind.”
“It was a perfectly innocent question.” Arnacin shrugged. “I come from the west.”
They were attacked once more that day. Still on horseback, Arnacin helped keep the enemy away from Charlin this time, as the squire kept many natives away from his master. Although a bloodier battle than the last, they escaped in the end, despite the many deaths.
As the troop continued their march, Arnacin sat behind Charlin, trembling as the extent of the slaughter became apparent. It was some time before he felt capable of supporting himself, and he was glad for once that he shared the squire’s steed, for he knew he never would have been able to continue the march on his own legs.
After pitching tents when it became too dangerous to continue traveling in the dark, Charlin repaired such necessities as his master’s shield and armor in Arnacin’s tent. There, he sat opposite the silent boy. For some time neither spoke, staring out into the darkened woods and at the light of their campfires.
“So,” Charlin finally ventured, dropping the tent flap. “After your second battle, what are your thoughts?”
“Your lord wasn’t exaggerating,” Arnacin joked to ignore his honest feelings. “Your food alone is enough to poison us. I haven’t figured out what to do about it yet.”
When the squire only smiled slightly in reply, the islander tried again with a sigh, “It seems to me, you’re losing.”
“That’s the general opinion,” the squire confessed. “We must fight anyway, and those real commanders among us, such as my lord, somehow lift their troops’ spirits to continue without deceiving them.”
“I’m not sure I know how that
works,” the islander muttered, pulling his blanket closer about him.
Laughing, Charlin stated, “Neither do I, and I’m Lord Carpason’s squire. I should know, but I don’t. It’s a hope he gives just by standing—just by touching someone’s arm or exchanging a few words, or even giving them a slight nod in passing. Somehow… Well, the best sense I can come to is that if he still stands, it means there is chance of survival, and his devotion to them creates a reciprocal devotion, thereby driving their wills even when they lack hope themselves.”
Smiling slightly, Arnacin wondered, “How long have you served under him?”
An impishly secret look passed over the young man’s face as he answered, “You could say, since the day I was born. I’ve never lived a day without him and, perhaps I’m partial, but I think he’s the greatest man on these shores—not that he’s without his own flaws.”
“Strangely,” the islander admitted, “I have yet to see any of those.”
“And you’re not likely to, either,” Charlin chuckled, finally picking up the dented shield he had been working on. “He’s a noble, and a good one. He knows his strengths and weaknesses. Part of commanding is that you remain a constant example. He buries all his flaws, except occasionally in private, where I’m his pillar.”
Arnacin did not answer, glancing away as he slowly exhaled. Glancing back up, the squire asked, “You don’t have a pillar, do you?”
“I was under the opinion I didn’t need one,” the islander half-joked.
“Youth tend to assume so,” Charlin conceded. “And everyone else pretends they don’t in public. It’s all a lie, though.”
Avoiding the subject, Arnacin returned to the prior topic, asking, “Would there not be hope if you simply allied yourself with your neighboring countries?”
“In a perfect world, perhaps. Yet it doesn’t work that way. Those who allied would wait until the war was over, declare it as a debt we had to pay, and bleed us dry. The more aid we gained, the faster we would be ripped to shreds. Unless King Miro is extremely crafty in his politics, such as through marrying the princess off and thereby sharing this land’s responsibility, we are forced to fight this alone. On the other hand, should he do that, he would basically sell Mira to whomever the princess wed once he died. I’m sure that’s why she’s not yet engaged.”
The Savage War Page 7