The Savage War

by Esther Wallace

  With one quick glance up at the stars peeking through the leaves overhead, Charlin heeled the mare back into action.

  After another close encounter, thankfully in the daylight, the mare broke through the woods onto a dirt road by the darkness of the next night. Both riders exhaled in relief at the dim sight of the open low hills they still had to cross. As Charlin pushed the horse forward, Arnacin asked, “How long is it from here to Mira?”

  “At a desperate pace, two more days. I don’t think she’ll make it, though. We’ll have no choice but to stop somewhere to switch mounts.”

  “And if she collapses before then?” the islander wondered, noticing the choking sound the mare already made with each breath.

  “Then there’s nothing to do but to run on foot until we find a replacement.”

  That pronouncement in place, they pressed on in silence.

  Once over the last hill, they increased their pace across the plains and, at an inn where another troop was staying for the night before returning to the capital, they procured a knight’s mount. Providentially, the knight’s charger was faster than many and they beat Charlin’s assessment by half a day. Cantering into the city where the shops and inns grew along the docks, Charlin brought the steed to a halt, panting, “Go find a captain.”

  “Are you not going to come?” Arnacin asked, shakily sliding off the horse’s back, weary and sore.

  “It’s not safe for anyone closely connected to the nobility to enter these places without a group.”

  Wickedly grinning, Arnacin said, “These men aren’t that bad. You just need to speak their language—no political nonsense.”

  As Charlin snorted in sarcastic amusement, the islander slipped into the smoky main room of the nearest tavern.

  The search was far from easy. Three different Miran captains told him sadly that the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. Another told him, after his question about the possibility of rowing, that the only ships with that potential were Ursan, and that the islander would not want to ask them if there were any in harbor—which there were not.

  Finally, Arnacin found a merchant in another tavern who did own four ships capable of rowing. That merchant reluctantly agreed to instruct the captain of his only ship currently in harbor. Trailing the man, the islander met the captain, who at last agreed to set sail in order to rescue the assailed lord.

  Smiling in relief and gratitude, Arnacin returned to Charlin while the captain assembled his crew.

  Within another hour, they were aboard the ship, heading laboriously northward. “Can they not row faster?” Arnacin inquired, biting his lip.

  “It’s a heavy ship, Arnacin,” Charlin commented from beside him at the starboard rail, where they stood watching the coast.

  “And even the waves fight us,” the islander admitted. “Without Supreme aid, your master and his men will all be dead when we arrive.”

  Inhaling slowly, the squire whispered, “My lord has always been a superb tactician…”

  He trailed off, seemingly able to find no words for what he hoped to say. He finished instead by shaking his companion’s shoulder slightly in wordless comfort.

  All the same, Arnacin knew that the squire’s heart, like his own, was beating a desperate tempo—faster than the swish of oars through water, pounding out the speed he wished they would move and counting every extra second.

  Footsteps made them both turn to meet Captain Wilham, the vessel’s master. “We should arrive by morning. We won’t get there any faster by staring. Come, rest a little, and eat some. We have time—use it. My guess is that you could benefit from it.”

  Laughing, Charlin gently pulled his companion away from the rail. “Yes, come, Arnacin, let’s be good commanders and not allow any agitation or concern to show. If we can eat and rest, let’s do so in order to make sure we don’t collapse in the time of need.”

  “I have no intention of being a commander, and the thought of food currently only makes my stomach heave with nausea.”

  “Time to retrain your system then,” the squire said as the captain turned them toward the cabin. “You might pass your agitation onto everyone else, should you not, and then we may never arrive.”

  Motioning slightly in exasperated surrender, Arnacin made no comment.

  Arnacin did drift off to sleep that night as Charlin sat with the captain discussing their plans for the morning, should they encounter any resistance from the shore. The islander was awakened by the squire, what seemed like only seconds later.

  “We’re nearing the shoreline where Lord Carpason intended to emerge,” Charlin whispered. “Should there be anyone there, your archery skills will be needed. These sailors are only decent at best.”

  Unwrapping himself from his cloak, the islander rushed up to the deck behind the squire, where he was placed along the forecastle line of archers.

  “You’re in charge up here, Arnacin,” Charlin said, patting his companion on the shoulder. “Our helpful captain has the main deck, I have the poop deck, and the first mate has the masts’ nests.”

  Without waiting for a reply, the squire dashed off to his own post on the far side of the ship.

  For a handful of heartbeats, everyone stood there, silent, immobile, watching the empty shoreline as they floated by. With a shout of victory, Miran men started pouring out of the woods.

  Arnacin tensed however and true to his reckoning, a cry of furious understanding followed before there came the clash of metal ringing through the woods and the sharp hiss of arrows streaking after their fleeing targets.

  The ship rocked as the rowers jerked them to a halt, and Arnacin commanded the sailors about him, “Fire into the treetops!”

  True to Charlin’s description of merely “decent” bowmen, a quarter of the volleys did not even make it to the shoreline—yet some vanished into the trees. Whether or not any arrow hit a mark could not be seen amid the flashing shapes beneath the edge of the woods and new screams would not have made any difference in the general cries of the dying.

  Below them, jollyboats were lowered and Arnacin kept half his attention on their progress.

  “Keep their archers occupied.” The islander knew nothing more could be done to protect those boats.

  As men started filling the gigs, the islander saw firelight blaze in the woods. Knowing the natives’ plans, he drew in his breath and sent his own arrows toward its light, yet he knew it was too far a distance for any bow.

  To the islander’s amazement, the light disappeared within seconds, yet another one flared in a different location. Nothing altered in the ship’s attack, for the land assault remained out of their hands, yet as each gig returned to the ship with the rescued men, the sailors would hand their tasks of archery over.

  Against that tactic, the enemy’s barrage on the fleeing men lessened as they turned to engage the attacking ship. Only the fire arrows continued to plague the escapers, as a jolly boat would suddenly light up from an arrow sinking into its side.

  Somewhere inside the woods, someone was battling those fires with minimal success. But as the numbers of Mirans rushing the shoreline lessened, horses burst from the woods and Arnacin heard himself cheer as he recognized Lord Carpason’s dappled charger in the lead. Alongside the last gigs pushing off from land, the steeds plunged into the water. Instantly, their riders dropped off, using their horses to stay afloat.

  Despite the torrent of burning arrows still raining on them, the occasional man standing at the rail of the ship falling dead, and their continued attack on the woods’ line, an eruption of whoops echoed along the ranks of Mirans as the horses swam for the other side of the ship. There, the vessel protected them while the riders climbed out of the water and hauled their steeds aboard.

  With a voice capable of being heard above any fray, the captain shouted, “Drop sails! Keep those swine busy for another few minutes, men!”

  Hooves pounded across the deck and the captain finally ordered, “Give it all you’ve got, boys. Now row!�
�

  Keeping his own barrage up until he felt the ship dip freely beneath him, Arnacin heard laughter among the men and saw hats fly into the air. He turned just as Carpason and his squire embraced wholeheartedly in the center of the main deck.

  Smiling, the islander threw the empty quiver he had been using over his shoulder and followed the sailors returning to the armory.

  This was the Mirans’ victory.

  “We didn’t think you would make it in time,” Lord Carpason admitted as he, his squire and Arnacin sat at the captain’s table over dinner.

  “We didn’t think we would make it in time,” Charlin laughed. “Did you wait for us?”

  “We didn’t intend to, no,” Carpason admitted. “When we arrived at the shore and no ship sat there, we once again attempted to break through by land. I had found it surprising after a day that the attacks had lessened somewhat, but I discounted it. I decided our battles were cutting them down as much as they were taking their toll on us. When we tried to turn around, I found out how wrong I was. We met an unbreakable wall of savages, striving to trap us against the sea. All those lesser attacks were only because they were regrouping. Somehow, we managed to hold our defense on the edge of the woods, with the aid of the trees. We wouldn’t have lasted much longer, though.

  “When the ship came into view, what I thought might be our last stand began, and I only kept men back to decrease the attack against us and yourself, Captain.” The lord nodded his gratitude to Wilham, adding, “Thank you for endangering your ship and sailors at Charlin’s request.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Wilham said. “My ship is owned by a merchant and I did it on his wishes. As far as I know, however, it was your dark-haired foreigner who did the requesting or… demanding.” His lip quirked upward.

  “I didn’t demand,” Arnacin protested. “I told your merchant that his heavy pockets might exist no longer if Mira fell and—short as she is of men and commanders—she could not afford to lose another.” As laughter burst among the men, the islander muttered, “I don’t see the humor in that.”

  Their hilarity increased and he purposefully exhaled slowly.

  “I thought you said not to use political nonsense,” Charlin commented. “I suppose arm-twisting is not part of politics?”

  Pulling out a kerchief, the captain dabbed his eyes of their laughter-induced tears. “You’re quite manipulative, young man.”

  “He wouldn’t move for love of the country itself. He said his responsibility to his men had to be considered. Actually, he simply wanted a reward of some kind. When I told him it was all volunteer work, he then told me he couldn’t ask his employees to break their backs or throw away their lives when they had little about which to worry.”

  Sighing, Carpason agreed, “It’s true enough. Many of us fight for our own lives, but those who live at sea can simply leave forever, and death is not an easy thing to face. You, Arnacin, you are not made like most men in the world. A few young men in Mira think of glory and honor when they think of battle, until they’re exposed to it and its cost. Then their mentality fades quickly enough.”

  “Speaking of young men…” Wilham coughed. “Do squires usually sit with their masters in Mira?”

  “Only when no other nobles are present,” Carpason replied. “Not that we do anything differently than every other noble or knight on Mira. We tend to be closer to those serving us, here.”

  Wilham nodded slowly and Arnacin barely caught the hardly noticeable look of amusement that the lord and squire shared. Sticking his tongue in his cheek, the islander glanced away.

  Within a day of returning to the capital, Arnacin could not deny that something had changed. The swordmaster charged him to spend afternoons training, and he had volunteered to spend time with the adopted native, Gagandep, every day.

  Yet, in the relative peace of the morning, it seemed a sheet of glass covered the world. Trying to squeeze the task of rebuilding his ship into the hours he still possessed for himself, he found the histories he attempted to read empty. His concentration was gone.

  All the same, he spent his first morning back aimlessly wandering the library, running his finger along the shelves until finally one title broke through that haze—one book seemed meaningful, at least for the few moments remaining to him—Savage Superstitions.

  Whatever that strange lack of feeling was, it thankfully disappeared when practicing his swordsmanship and left-handed archery. Neither did it return when walking with Gagandep in his little plot of backyard where he grew some wild plants.

  Instantly, Arnacin had liked Gagandep, a man who looked to be in his early fifties, although his hair was already gray. With his easy smile, his round face and squarer shoulders, he reminded Arnacin of his village’s fisherman, Lazarus.

  It also helped the islander’s instant comfort that the first thing the adopted native did was to introduce him to his family, including his Miran wife, Yarel, and his two daughters, eleven-year-old Renda and fifteen-year-old Kira. Gagandep said he also had a married daughter and a son, Firth, but he was on the field. Arnacin noticed that Gagandep hurriedly continued on to state that Yarel named all of her children, as if uncomfortable discussing the odd occurrence of his son serving in the Miran forces.

  After the polite greeting, however, the ladies entered the house and Gagandep turned to Arnacin, his gaze suddenly appraising. “So Lord Carpason wants me to teach you about native plants?” His tone was suspicious, matching his eyes.

  “Well…” Arnacin shifted uncomfortably beneath that gaze, unsure how to answer. Remembering how the suggestion came about, however, he smiled slightly, “Their food’s disgusting and I wanted to learn how to make fresh meals while on the trail.”

  For a long moment, the adopted native’s expression remained the same. Then he sighed. “Carpason said you are as different as your hair implies. Yet, I am wary. He is considerate enough not to push me, but I know, as a dedicated Miran lord, he wants knowledge of my secrets. I don’t yet know who you are, Arnacin of Enchantress Island…”

  In the pause, the islander felt his forehead crinkle. “Yet you agreed to teach me?”

  “I was curious to meet you… Come. Walk with me among my flowers.”

  For awhile, they walked in silence. Occasionally, Gagandep would stop to pull a weed or prop up a drooping plant, but he did so without speaking. Butterflies rose from the flowers as they passed and some even alighted on the adopted native’s back as he bent over his garden. Its peace, such a far cry from the sights and sounds of war, twisted Arnacin’s heart and fueled his yearnings for home.

  At last, Gagandep looked up, asking, “What did they give you for your help, and what benefit do they think to gain with you?”

  “I don’t know,” the islander sighed. “I mean, I helped them because they asked me, because they need it, but I have no idea why they would ask. They somehow thought I could help.” He shrugged hopelessly.

  Standing, the adopted native leaned in so that their eyes were only an inch apart. “Do you think Mira is in the right?”

  Warily, Arnacin countered, “Do you?” Gagandep said nothing and the islander wondered if it would betray Mira to tell the adopted native what he thought, yet he believed in the truth. “The natives fight for freedom and I would join them in a second, but for their fear and hatred, which murders without discretion.” A small smile passed the adopted native’s face as he looked down at the weeds in his hand. Passing one with a fussy pink flower to the islander, he muttered, “This is trava. It grows only in the spring. Native parents hang it over their tent-flaps to give long life to their children. May it grant you the same.”

  It was not useful information, but an offer of friendship, and Arnacin accepted it with a smile.

  Creeping into the library, Valoretta paused, smiling sadly at the sight before her. Arnacin slept with his head resting on his knuckles, Savage Superstitions lying on the floor where it had slipped from his loose fingers.

  Softly approaching, the princ
ess retrieved the book and straightened its pages. As she bent down, however, the islander stirred. Thoughtfully passing him the book, Valoretta whispered, “You’re working yourself too hard, Arnacin. At this rate, you’ll catch the winter curse long before winter.”

  “I never did sleep much,” Arnacin softly admitted. “My family used the time of night as our time together and chores began early each day. I should be used to it.”

  “But you’re not.”

  “It’s not the amount of work. It’s something…” He did not finish his thought, yet the princess nodded anyway.

  “It’s the war. I’ve noticed among some that they experience a period of not living, of losing all they once dreamed, when weariness is the only constant factor in their routine. I feared the same would happen to you when you left.”

  Running his finger down the words burned into the spine of the book, the islander breathed after a second, “I have too many goals to allow horror to dictate too many…” He shook his head slightly, finishing, “demands.”

  Gradually letting her breath out, Valoretta confessed, “I marked the page I thought might help you the most—” Grinning slightly, she added, “and you will not find it in Savage Superstitions.”

  Returning her smile, Arnacin stated, “Perhaps not, but since I intend to finish all my tasks by spring, at the latest…” His grin broadening at her sarcastic expression, he finished, “I thought it might come in handy.”

  “Arnacin, if someone can end our war in three years, I would consider him a son of gods, even though my father insists there are none. You are not going to bring about any type of closing by next spring, I assure you.”

  “Perhaps I am more of an optimist,” Arnacin teased, his eyes reigniting in the challenge. Spotting the histories of Carta on the table beside them, Valoretta threw open the book to her marker and deposited it onto the islander’s lap. “Finish your ship first, and then you can discuss our war. At least start. Now, read that.”