The Savage War

by Esther Wallace

  “Circle,” the lord whispered to his men as he dismounted. “And have a few of our archers climb the trees.”

  His men secured the place in moments and, untying the blanket that sat behind his steed’s saddle, he approached the savage. “Do you want me to finish it for you?” he asked while lightly dropping the blanket over the suffering savage, again taking in the lack of clothes indicating that the savage had been in battle.

  The savage just continued to tremble, his eyes scrunched up. Carpason had no idea if he was even aware that the Mirans were there. “Why did your own kind shoot you?” he asked all the same.

  The savage’s eyes flew open. “I refused to join the ground attack… in an arrow ambush.” He twitched and, just by his movements and the color of his eyes, the lord knew the savage only said anything because his life was already over. In another second, his breath gurgled in his throat and the trembling stopped.

  Pulling his blanket over the savage’s face, Carpason remounted and ordered his men forward once again. They had to find a good place for a blockade, yet the savages’ cruelty to each other dampened the air.

  It was Arnacin who spotted the natural dip in the forest floor, almost on a straight run from the location of the enemy camp. If the savages were trying to flee a stampede, they would take the flat ground, which aided speed, and run straight into a blockade. With troops lined along both sides of the place the savages were to be directed, they could block off all escape routes.

  To keep such a thing secret, they just had to build their blockade overnight.

  The stampede caused what Arnacin had predicted. One native muttered unintelligible words in a deep voice, which caused the ground to tremble. High bellows of fear rose from the charging beasts as they swerved aside, but with only a grim smile, Arnacin bent his bow where he hid a few feet from where the Mirans chased the stampede through the enemy camp, scattering the natives before them.

  As the islander’s arrow pierced the medium’s leg where he stood, he stumbled to the ground and the Mirans were upon him. Knocking their captive senseless, they wrapped him in blankets and carried him to their own encampment.

  There, Hadwin ordered fifty men to stand guard over the captive with Arnacin, while he took the rest to reinforce Carpason at the blockade.

  Once the whole troop had returned, Carpason and Hadwin joined the islander by the tightly bound captive and they shook him awake. The medium’s eyes instantly lit with hatred, matching something in the eye burned onto his forehead, a dark hatred quite unlike a human’s, but then it disappeared just as quickly.

  It was, however, a human who spoke, glancing as if afraid from Hadwin to Carpason with their drawn blades. “Please, I don’t know anything. I don’t join in the fighting. I would never think of it.”

  Carpason’s cold expression remained unchanged as he snapped, “How many of you are there, and are you attached to individual tribes?”

  Yet the medium’s eyes had turned to Arnacin and the eyes glimmered, whirled into dizzying circles. Then, in a voice that sounded as if a million shrill beings were growling in unison, the medium spoke again, all trace of fear and pleading gone. “We are many, and one, as you already know. Come, do you truly wish to know more? We would be glad to show you. You are wise and don’t ignore us. Come.”

  Sweetness had entered that sound, the drone of bees around a sweet fruit, and Arnacin felt exhaustion creep across him, yet he backed away, breaking his gaze with those swirling eyes to glance at the other two. They appeared quite still, however, as if they had heard nothing, or perhaps they heard something entirely different. Yet the voice coaxed on, “You want to do great things, Islander? You want to feel that you have helped the world? One small boy in all of this evil? Impossible. Your god plays with you, but we? We can give you the ability to do so. You can transform the world with our power, see people live in harmony, where flowers bloom and children sing. You can know that you gave everything for them, and feel that joy of purpose. You gave everything.”

  Those voices were so loud his ears rang, his head felt like it would split open, crack into quarters, and still those voices continued.

  With great force, Arnacin jerked away. “Stop!” he cried. He dropped to the floor gasping, wrapping his arms around his pounding head. After a second, he whispered, “Just tell us what we want to know.”

  “Arnacin?” Carpason’s concerned question snapped through the wailing in the islander’s ears.

  Looking up, he saw the medium laying on the ground, his eyes staring sightless at the ceiling with a trickle of blood running from his mouth and over his cheek. “What happened?” Arnacin gasped, quickly pushing himself back to his feet.

  Carpason only shook his head in horror, and it was Hadwin who found his voice. “He was just shaking his head, pleading his innocence. Then suddenly he started convulsing, and he started… making sounds as if he had a million different voices he could use all together. It was high-pitched screams, laughter… squeals all at once. His face changed, skull-like, then he just stopped moving. His eyes glazed over…” He trailed off and, with a shaking hand, Carpason patted his shoulder.

  “I don’t think he could have said anything, perhaps,” the lord whispered with a shudder. “But, Arnacin, what happened to you? We heard you scream something, but I don’t think it was in our language and, after he died, you were shaking on the ground.”

  For a long moment, Arnacin was silent, unable to pull his eyes off the body only a few feet from them. Finally, he whispered, “I’ve never seen a sorcerer before. They’re horrible.”

  “Come,” Carpason ordered after a moment, and Arnacin flinched at the word. “We can’t stay here. Burn the tent with him inside. I won’t ever want to erect this thing again. And we have cows to return and a festival we’re supposed to attend.”

  It seemed to Arnacin that the whole troop was subdued on the return trip, but perhaps he imagined it as those words from the medium tumbled through his mind. Why had he alone been so tortured? Was it because he did believe in the supernatural? Yet they had seen horrors that he had missed somehow, despite the fact that he had been staring at it until the very last moment.

  Nothing seemed possible, but one fact remained. No one in Mira was any closer to figuring out what they had to know—the hints Gagandep had unintentionally dropped.

  It was as he thought of Gagandep’s loyalty to a people group that slaughtered each other without mercy, that he again thought of Carpason’s reaction to the dying one in the forest and he looked up at the lord.

  Arnacin had volunteered to work on the lord’s armor that night and Carpason simply stood at the tent’s entrance, staring out across the plain.

  “Milord,” the islander softly asked. Slowly, Carpason turned to him and Arnacin noticed the lines of weariness that had nothing to do with his physical condition. He did not comment on it, however. “Why do you not share Mira’s view of the enemy? You’ll actually call them ‘natives.’”

  Smoothing a wrinkle in the tent’s flap, the lord sighed. Finally, he whispered, “I grew up around them, more or less. Tarmlin was our trading city with the mountains. When I was a boy, it was a swelling hub of natives and Mirans. Families would come into the market and, while the adults bartered, the children played. I had several I considered friends.” His gaze was distant, his words slow in memory, and Arnacin did not interrupt. “I don’t remember their names, but nationality meant nothing to us, except our skills when we competed in our games.

  “There was one in particular that I liked. His thick build was cumbersome, yet he moved with the prowess of a cat. Nine times out of ten, he always bested me at whatever we played.

  “Then those days passed. I moved to the capital to train under the swordmaster and, two years after moving back as my father’s squire, war broke out. I was about your age when my father died in battle. All of a sudden, I was a commander, fighting alongside the prince, our Miro, rescuing him even. Our friendship grew in that time…”

  F
or a long time, Carpason was quiet. Then he said, “He’s a great man, Arnacin, despite his faults. I wish you knew that.”

  As the lord’s eyes flicked to him, however, all Arnacin saw in his mind’s eye was the despair of the knights and the massacre of natives. Dropping his gaze to his work, he said nothing, and Carpason sighed.

  “As you know, the war ended when Prince Noblius ascended the throne twenty-two years ago to become King Miro. I went home to find it would never be the same again. Although we still had peaceful trade with the natives, they no longer flocked the streets. They came in silence for the things they wanted, and left in the same silence. As I was a noble, they avoided me and if they even glanced at me, it was with fear.

  “I knew then that war might resume someday, yet I tried to stop that unease with a constant open friendliness. It did nothing. After ten years of this unsettled peace, the natives’ tension grew until their young men would come to Tarmlin to wreck market stands and throw stones at Mirans. I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid to fuel their anger by stopping them, but I couldn’t let them continue.

  “I asked Miro for his advice, telling him of my concerns. His response was to inform them that the attacks must stop or the market would close and they would no longer be allowed in Tarmlin. That warning only fueled their anger, and we were forced to carry out our verdict. Two months after they were removed, Tarmlin was attacked.”

  A long silence fell. Arnacin knew the lord was again feeling the loss of his family, but when Carpason spoke again, he chose not to relay the story of his loss. “For years, I thought of them as every other Miran does and was glad to destroy the monsters. Yet after eliminating one enemy encampment, we found an infant hidden in the forest. Considering his age, his mother must have hidden him—and likely died with the village.” Carpason’s voice broke. “I looked at those tiny fists, those scrunched eyes, and toothless mouth, screaming for a mother who was no more. In that moment, I remembered that they were people, whether or not they had started the current war. Underneath, they were people with their own hurts, their own reasoning…”

  “What happened to the baby?”

  “You must know, Arnacin, that adopting natives is now illegal. Their connection can easily make them enemies if they know. That aside, I gave the child to a new mother and father in one of our villages. They had a son about the same age as the infant, but I warned them never to let the child know he was native. As far as I know, he’s still there. He’s probably six or seven now. I hope the war will be over before he is too old for such a lie to deceive him.”

  Yet, without the answers the medium was incapable of giving, how could it? All those poor misled natives, all the despairing Mirans—they would destroy each other. The medium had spoken the truth—there was nothing Arnacin could do to stop the war except stumble along on the best course available and hope for a good outcome.

  As if sensing the islander’s pain, Carpason looked over, smiling. “Come on, Arnacin. We’re not dead yet. There will be a way. Two days ago, the thought would have never occurred to us to enact the plan you devised. Even though it may not have turned out the way we’d hoped it would, it was a very good tactic and I’m sure you will come up with more of them.”

  Thankfully, Mira did immensely well against Ursa in the festival that year. Yet despite Carpason’s insistence that they still had hope, no one could deny Mira was continuing to lose the war, slowly but steadily. After long thought, Carpason approached Miro on the subject in the autumn, four months after the spring in which Arnacin had arrived.

  “Sire,” Carpason inclined. “I assume you are well aware of our current position in this war.” When Miro only exhaled in stressed acknowledgment, his lord continued, “I think we may do better if we have another troop on the field.”

  “Led by whom, pray tell? There are no nobles left fit for the task. They’re all too young, too sick or immobilized. Unless you suggest allowing men to go without commanders—an outrageous idea—we cannot have another troop on the field.”

  “I think,” Carpason began carefully, “Arnacin could lead.” The look he received was pure incredulity. “Please hear me out, Sire. I know he’s young and impetuous, but he has a mind for strategy and a way of thinking uniquely when problems arise. I think that if you give him the right men, who are able to coach him along, particularly in the area of mature caution, he can provide the insight even the better generals are lacking.”

  For a long moment, Miro contemplatively ran his fingers along his jaw, studying his lord. Finally, as if to himself, he commented, “He might need to learn those skills regardless, and perhaps the savages’ knowledge of his honor can bring about some change if they know that Mira allows him such a position.”

  Smiling, Carpason asked, “Then you agree?”

  “I will contemplate it,” Miro promised. “Before I do, however, answer this: will all the commanders act as spies? If each troop gives ten of their most wise, most loyal men to this new troop under the islander, will they report everything back to their original commanders? Do not misunderstand me. It is not that I distrust Arnacin, but if he appears too rash, I wish to know of it before we lose control of the situation.”

  “I am sure we each have men who would be willing to do so,” Carpason promised.

  As autumn came on, the days were cooler, the dockside slightly quieter. On his ship’s deck, making rope for ratlines, Arnacin barely had to pay attention to his work anymore, doing it entirely by rote. Above him, sitting on his rail, Valoretta sat in silence with a book in her lap. The shawl wrapped around her head did little to hide her identity should anyone really look, but neither of them cared much.

  “Arnacin?” Valoretta asked, breaking the silence. When he looked up, dragging his thoughts away from the distant shores of his home, she continued, “What do you do at sea?”

  “What do you expect?” Arnacin returned, completely perplexed.

  “I mean, you’re awfully young, and you don’t even have someone to whom you can talk.” She turned red as she said it and quickly muttered an apology, but the islander simply shrugged.

  “It was a choice between going alone and not going at all. I—” He broke off as someone hailed him from shore. One of Carpason’s men was approaching the ship. Reaching it, he glanced at the princess in surprise, hastily bowing low. Meeting Valoretta’s gaze, Arnacin grinned, while she rolled her eyes in response. She quickly rearranged her features into composed dignity as the man looked back up.

  “Your highness,” the newcomer murmured. Then, he turned to the ship’s proprietor. “King Miro requests your presence at once, Arnacin,” he informed.

  Glancing again toward the princess, this time in apology, the islander nodded, pushing himself to his feet.

  “He can’t be serious,” Arnacin raved at Lord Carpason as they left the council room together thirty minutes later. “I’m trained in leadership as much as your cooks. All your knights know far more. Why does he not ask one of them? If you send out unknowledgeable men as leaders, you’ll only reap dead men as a reward!”

  “Arnacin,” Carpason finally cut in, albeit gently. “If you are afraid of your lack of skill in weaponry…” Although the islander sighed, Carpason did not pause. “You need not worry. Most commanders only make up the brains behind their troops. Many of our nobles don’t even step foot on the battlefield for that reason. They leave with their men, assess their target, and then stay safely surrounded while most of their troops do the actual fighting. Now, it was I who suggested you as someone to take command.”

  He smiled slightly at the islander’s look. “You never try to hide your thoughts when you think things should be done differently than I am conducting them, my friend. More often than not, however, I find wisdom behind your words, a shrewdness and ability. I have complete faith in you. Your swordsmanship will continue to improve as well, never fear. None of us would expect you to be great after only four months, but you are improving. Whenever blades come into use, you have never
failed to defend yourself, and you show promise that a third of the people I know never do.” He comfortingly patted the boy on the shoulder and turned away, leaving Arnacin to glare at the wall instead.

  Before Miro sent any armies out, he had each commander give ten men to the islander, amounting to a troop of almost two-hundred men. Carpason generously sent Sir Hadwin as one of his ten.

  “My lord,” Hadwin inquired, after Carpason informed him of the assignment, “I like Anacin quite a bit, but isn’t this madness? At his age, most nobility are not commanders and they’re trained from birth for the mantle of leadership.”

  Sighing, Carpason gestured for his knight to follow him. Only once he was in the safety of his own rooms did the lord whisper, “I pushed for it, for reasons I will not tell the king. Tell no one, Hadwin, what I am about to confide in you.”

  Nodding in agreement, the knight nevertheless said, “If it is so secret, my lord, I need not be told.”

  “I am telling you because, as a man of your age and experience, I am hoping that if and when the need comes, you can counsel with a clear head. I want Arnacin to be a commander precisely because he is a foreigner. He has an unbiased view and also has the persuasive tongue to convince others of what he sees, as long as every part of his being fully believes in what he is saying. In short, Hadwin, I want him to realize that the only way to win this war is through infiltration of the natives’ mountains, whether it must come to attack or not.”

  “My lord,” Hadwin gasped, “what are you saying?”

  “I have believed for some time that we cannot allow the savages to keep their sanctuary, but as many different ways as I try, I do not have the talent Arnacin does. I try reason—he comes from a view of absolute knowledge that his way is right.” He smiled. “Whether he is or not is another matter. Therefore, it must be Arnacin to suggest this to the king and, for him to succeed, he must come to that answer by himself. I cannot tell him to go speak of this to the king, because if he does not believe in it, he will convince no one. Also, if he has to start infiltration before Miro gives permission, I know he will, but that is where I hope you can help. Should he need persuasion to speak to Miro when he does come to that conclusion, it is my wish that you push for it.”