Sighing, Arnacin picked up the book and read aloud haltingly. “‘Just when… since,’ no, ‘as…’ One of those. ‘We thought we… ate? freedom—’”
“That’s 'taste,'” Valoretta sighed, snatching the book from him as she did so. “The way you’re struggling, you’ll miss what you need to read.
Just when we tasted freedom, a tragedy took place. Five men set sail and only the shells of what they were before they drowned washed back onto shore. Now, not only is our hope smashed, but should anyone find our dead companions, an investigation is sure to follow and our attempt at escape would be discovered.
One of our members, bold beyond mortals, suggested that, under those circumstances, he would claim he murdered them in order to keep us undiscovered, yet I beg anyone who controls the motion of fate, that he should not have to do so.
Regardless, our only guess is that, after all our work, there is still a flaw in our balance, something, as I have documented, we have learned is detrimental in every design, even more so on a raft or, as in our case, a ship with a raft for a bottom.
Finishing, Valoretta glanced back up to see Arnacin staring at her in expectation. When she said no more, he shrugged, “We already expected that.”
Slowly letting her breath hiss out, the princess explained, “They worked it all out, ‘documented it’ as the writer wrote, and I hunted the references down. What I found is not their finished experiment, but with this one, the one that failed them, they made this…”
So saying, she pulled out a piece of parchment bearing her handwriting on it and a sketch she had made of a ship. “Look, they hypothesized that you could float two houses in midair, if what connected to the ground always remained on its axis. They also reasoned that its axis was not necessarily the center—as where your mast was in your ship—but wherever the weight is best supported by it. The length is as important as the mast and cabin…”
Very soon, she had covered the whole parchment in scribbles, yet as she continued, she noticed Arnacin’s gaze shift, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Smiling slightly, she knew she had given him what he needed and that his thoughts were far ahead of her.
Chapter 6
War’s True Color
“BRACKWEED,” GAGANDEP SAID, PASSING ARNACIN a wildflower. “It absorbs vitamins from the earth like a fire burns grass. For this reason, the natives use the weed as their main food in times of trouble. That being said, it leaves you feeling as empty as before you ate and lacks quite a bit in flavor.”
“In short, if someone wished to use them as a spice, it would never work.”
“Not a spice, but an enrichment to any meal mixed with flavorful substances that lacks not the taste, but the strength. Silently, it adds the strength and, without ever knowing why, the troops fight like four thousand men in only one hundred.”
Smiling at the way the native spoke, as if bestowing a deep magic, Arnacin asked what he had patiently waited to ask since their introduction—waiting while Gagandep grew ever more comfortable around him. “You remember all these things—would you know, or remember…” He paused, licking his lips as he glanced away. “Is there a remedy for their poison?”
For a long moment, Gagandep simply studied the boy, lacing his fingers together thoughtfully. Then, he whispered, “I will not say either way, Arnacin. Coming as a foreigner, perhaps you can understand my kind of loyalty. Our gods demand that we do not betray those who rescue us, or raise us, on the penalty of death. They demand that we take our rescuers’ side in conflict and support them almost entirely. As far as it goes, Arnacin, I love my family, my parents who adopted me, my wife and children. I would slit my own throat before trouble came to them, but my kin—they are also my family, Arnacin. They are my aunts, uncles, fathers and mothers, and they hold that much of my heart. It cannot be released. Had they done something wrong, I would have no choice but to go against them, but they are fighting for justice, for a freedom they foresee others will someday try to rip away.
“This was our land and it was once beautiful and wild. To help a bunch of starving, desperate, slave-driven runaways, we surrendered part of it, but then they grew. They would not be satisfied. Now, Mira’s army, its tactical superiority, its ability to study, would flatten my kin should they discover the largest equalizer in this war. If there was a remedy and I knew it, I would take the secret with me to the grave.”
A question hung in the air as Arnacin gazed vaguely in the direction of the basket of native plants before them. Finally meeting that earnest gaze, the islander replied, “I don’t know if I could feel the same. I do have a question, though. You said your gods demand loyalty on pain of death. Do you mean you aid Mira only through fear?”
“I do not understand how that confuses you, Arnacin. Have you no gods that dictate what you do? Even Mira does through its kings and nobles, though they all like to pretend they are each their own masters.”
“I don’t have gods, no,” Arnacin admitted. “My land believes in one god.”
“Then you fear someone.”
“I hadn’t ever really thought of it.” The islander shrugged in contemplation. Eventually smiling, he laughed, “I admit that I’ve obeyed any given law for my own sake. Guilt breaks us after a while.”
“Huh,” Gagandep puffed, “Our gods kill those who only act for themselves. It’s an insult to them, and they cannot abide insults.”
“Tyrants,” Arnacin muttered, hiding his comment by talking to the floor as he picked up leaves that had dropped.
Entering the great hall, the messenger bowed to the king and then, as if in afterthought, gave a crisp nod to his high councilor standing a few feet away. Smiling grimly, Miro asked for the messenger’s report.
“The Earl of Garak has returned from Melmoor, Sire,” the messenger said with a bow.
A jolt of hope shot through the king. “Send him in,” Miro replied, maintaining his regality despite his eagerness.
The earl was a small man known for both his ability to escape notice and his tendency to stumble upon things. It was a joke in the capital to say whenever something was missing, ‘Don’t worry that it’s missing. The Earl of Garak will find it eventually.’”
For that reason, Miro always felt more hopeful when the earl returned from combing Melmoor.
As expected, the earl had stumbled upon a camp located in the center of Melmoor. “If the troop moves carefully, the savages might not even realize an attack is coming. They were mainly busy just west of there.”
“Thank you,” Miro nodded, excusing the earl, and called for someone to bring Carpason.
Miro’s high councilor (or as he called himself, the high councilor of all Mira), Memphis, clenched his teeth behind his closed lips as Lord Carpason entered, the doors closing on the corridor where the high councilor spotted Charlin waiting.
Those two were Memphis’s least favorite people in all of Mira. While Carpason dared to consider the king a friend and was referred to as the king’s closest friend and advisor, Charlin was loved by all. More importantly, Miro’s greetings to the squire, on the occasion they passed each other, were much too sincere.
The squire was a potential threat to Memphis’s position as the king’s favorite, and as for Carpason… He was jeopardizing the entire councilor structure of Mira—the voice of the people, not of the nobility.
Keeping his face bland, however, Memphis watched, cursing Tarmlin’s success as Miro asked Carpason to eliminate the discovered enemy encampment. As always, the lord bowed in complete submission. He never refused an order and he never challenged his monarch. It was this unwavering respect that increased their friendship and infuriated Memphis.
Once Carpason left, Miro turned to his high councilor. “Thank you, Memphis. There are some things I wish to discuss with you later. Meet me overlooking the bailey in another hour.”
Bowing even lower than the lord, Memphis accepted the dismissal and exited through the doors on the lord’s heels. He just heard Carpason ask his squire to f
ind Arnacin before they turned down separate corridors.
Memphis snorted to himself. Let them find their precious sailor. The councilor was only troubled by their interest in the foreigner, and how secretive he remained. The foreigner’s meeting with the king, in fact, and Miro’s request for aid happened only when the high councilor was absent, perhaps unremarkable considering Carpason’s involvement, but perhaps he should start paying more attention. Still, if ever anything concerning came to light, it would be a long while before it was out of hand, and Memphis knew how to read warnings.
He had not gone eight paces down the corridor, when he saw one of the lower councilors, Erlund, approaching. Erlund was unimaginative, gullible and constantly nervous about the future. Some said he might be one of the only councilors who took his job seriously, but his concerns aggravated all the rest.
“Oh, Memphis, I’m so glad I found you,” Erlund gasped, and the high councilor turned to him, folding his hands to listen. “With the war going the way it’s going, what if the knights are right and we’re all going to be slaughtered in our beds?”
“Erlund,” Memphis soothed. “That’s the nobility speaking. They exaggerate due to the trauma they’re facing. Go out into the city. You’ll feel better.”
“But—”
“Erlund, the savages are angry with the government. If the worst happens and our current monarchy falls, the people will elect a new monarch; one the savages trust. The war will end. Surely, you see that? Just do what you feel is right and don’t worry about the rest. Good always triumphs.”
Nodding in relief, Erlund allowed himself to be pushed outside by the shoulders. Stopping in the doorway while the lower councilor walked toward the city with a new spring in his step, Memphis nodded. The war was a necessary tool until the peasantry held the throne in the form of their esteemed high councilor. Yes, his wisdom and subservience would win the king’s favor and the princess’ hand in marriage. When that happened, the war would end. New government would make a whole new world…
If only those from Tarmlin would all die.
Smiling at the thought, Memphis brushed polished nails along the brocaded shoulder of his vest and turned back inside.
Arnacin was kneeling in Gagandep’s garden, helping weed, when Charlin found him. Nodding to the adopted native, the squire turned to the islander. “We’re returning to the field, Arnacin. Something’s come up.”
With a sigh, Arnacin brushed the dirt off his hands and knees. “How soon is your lord intending to start out?”
“The men were packing when I left to find you. You have some time, but only a little.”
Nodding, the islander said, “Give me a few moments. I’ll be there.” As the squire left, Arnacin turned back to Gagandep, asking, “Would you like me to help you finish here?”
A note of sadness in his voice, the native shook his head, stating, “They will be awaiting you. I am quite able to burn the rest of these and scatter the ashes over the plants.”
Offering his hand, the islander whispered in sincerity, “Thank you for your time.”
“Thank you for your interest in things that truly matter,” Gagandep returned. “May the gods spare you.”
Touched by the gesture, but disbelieving that the native's gods would want to spare him if they even existed, Arnacin nodded, trying to hide his grin.
Entering the inner bailey, where men still prepared, Arnacin spotted the princess standing on one of the terraces beside her father and the high councilor, Memphis.
At the islander’s glance, Valoretta covertly waved her farewell. With a slight dip of his chin, the islander turned away. Just as he reached the master swordsman’s side, the call to line up came and, it seemed, the last week began over again, starting with a night of training.
“Eyes! Eyes!” the usual snap broke through Arnacin’s concentration as his gaze slid, once again, to the flashing blade opposite him. Despite his original habit occasionally taking over, he had made quite a bit of progress, and even the master swordsman had noticed. “Watch the right thing and you will know, instinctively, where the next attack will be.”
As the man glanced down toward the boy’s unprotected leg, Arnacin swiftly blocked his attempted strike before exclaiming, “Now you’re just making it easy.”
“Then attack back,” the swordmaster snapped. “Never let a moment of ease pass.”
Waiting only a second, Arnacin swiftly moved his blade to the man’s temporarily open chest, careful not to look where he struck. Without blinking, his trainer lazily blocked it, never breaking eye contact. At the stunned look on the boy’s face, the man smiled.
“Now you should realize what I’m saying,” he growled, sliding his own blade away to signal the end. “Watch the flickers in the eyes. Those tell you all intention. When you do that effortlessly, you notice other things from the corners of your perception that tell you the rest: a twitch of a muscle, a shift in stance. All these subtleties will eventually tell you everything, as long as you train yourself properly. You have grace and quick reflexes. Now learn to read. The smallest flicker in a shadow beneath a tree will have a clear meaning once you learn this task. There is nothing you won’t know. You’ll be able to read hearts, tell men their darkest secrets…”
“Really?” Arnacin smiled, skeptically. “Is that your belief? There’s not a secret in the world once you train yourself?”
“Name an example,” the swordmaster challenged.
“The endlessness of the heavens, the green of the trees—”
“Don’t play with me, boy. Those things are not practical inquiries. Only women wonder over such whimsical things.” Letting out an amused puff of air, Arnacin departed with a polite nod.
That night, Arnacin aided the chefs and, with his newfound knowledge, they created a large cauldron of soup. While everyone else praised it, the islander showed the chefs as much as he could with the limited resources around them. He did not tell them of the natives’ beliefs themselves—somehow feeling that would be a betrayal—but he taught them all he did not feel would misuse Gagandep.
Two nights later, however, Carpason pulled the islander aside for a private word. “Will you share what Gagandep has confided in you?” Carpason asked.
“Honestly, my lord,” Arnacin said. “Would that not be the same as telling everyone?”
“Arnacin, yes, to be honest, it would eventually make it around to all of Mira, but we need that information. You said it yourself. If we know how they use it, we may know how to turn this war around.”
“Like what plants they use to make their poison?” Arnacin sarcastically replied.
“Has he told you that?” Carpason asked in shock.
“No, but even if he did, I wouldn’t share it. You don’t shake hands with a broad smile while concealing a knife in your other hand. No matter the gain, it can’t be done.”
“The end of this war would help him as much as it helps Mira.”
“By lying to him?”
“Arnacin,” Carpason sighed. “I’m not here to force you into spying for us, but answer this. The adopted natives lack any conviction as far as sides. They are on both sides or neither and, for that reason, they have never completely become Mirans. Yet they are outcasts and traitors to their own blood as well, alone in their own world, all because they can’t make up their minds. Whose side are you on, Arnacin? You said you were on Mira’s, yet you are unwilling to act thus.”
Staring at the ground, the islander made no comment for some time while the lord waited. “I am on Mira’s side as far as honor and righteousness permit,” Arnacin finally voiced. “Gagandep spoke about his gods’ demands. There is a higher law I must also follow. It must come before any allegiance, and deceit is against the most basic tenet of that law.”
“Very well, Arnacin. Keep your secrets and his, but don’t stop learning about them. Perhaps it may spare your life, if not save Mira’s.”
Bowing in assent, Arnacin excused himself.
They reached
Melmoor much faster than they had the last time. Once inside, Carpason broke his men into groups, each one weaving through the woods in an attempt to lessen the risk of being noticed or of enemies learning the direction they were heading. Meanwhile, he sent a few scouts ahead.
After another two days, with suspiciously little resistance, the troop caught up with the scouts, who informed their lord, “It’s there this time. Below, in the dell.”
“Tell our men and position them as best you can in a perimeter around the camp,” Carpason ordered before turning to the soldiers behind him. “Set up camp here, as quietly as you are able.”
As the troop set about following their lord’s wishes, Carpason took a few of his men, along with his squire and Arnacin, on foot, to view the native camp for themselves. To Arnacin’s wonder, as they dropped onto their stomachs and peeked over the hill, laughter reached their ears.
A warm smell of food drifted near and the islander saw a mobile village. Dogs tumbled with half-dressed children, and women crisscrossed the camp on their apparently pressing business. The only thing alien to the islander’s sight was the man hunched over the fire in the center of the camp, showering dirt particles in circles above it while he whispered words to the men sitting raptly around him.
“Why do you think they have guarded this place less, my lord?” Charlin whispered beside the islander. “It appears the same as their others.”
“I have the feeling,” Carpason breathed in reply, “that it’s because their hordes are busy leading our troops away from these camps. For ages, their tightest defenses have led us to their camps, and they know it as well as we do.”
“Yes, and while they change their tactics accordingly, we don’t,” the squire hissed in exasperation. “Well, we can thank the Earl of Garak that he didn’t fall for it.”
“I do, but I also know it was half accident.” The lord fell silent as his marshal crawled up to them. “Is everyone stationed?” Carpason asked the soldier. At the nod, the lord sighed, “We’ll attack at nightfall and hopefully, by dawn, no one will have escaped.”
The Savage War Page 10