Stepping forward to join Cornyo, Hadwin whispered, “For Mira.” It took a few moments, but then the entire troop had shuffled around to join Cornyo as they all pledged their lives, “For Mira.”
Submitting, Arnacin bowed in turn.
Soon after, Arnacin began secret missions into the natives’ land with portions of his troop. Through his infiltration of the enemies’ defenses, his way of traveling the woods without detection, the unique and completely devastating way he completed the king’s orders for village attacks, and the knowledge that he never lost one man while on the field, Arnacin felt fear gather in the natives.
Those natives soon entitled Arnacin the “Black Phantom” and it became a terrified whisper or, when any of his men were spotted briefly, a cry. Even other Miran troops began talking of the Black Phantom as some sort of unknown ally. Slowly, the frightened enemy was forced out of Mira’s borders and into the mountains.
Then, for just a few days toward the end of autumn, Mirans celebrated what they were sure was the end of the war, after the report that the last savage had retreated into the mountains. Boundary markers began to rise back in place and peaceful silence met the watchful troops along the mountains’ edge.
Gagandep hosted a family celebration, including Arnacin, the night word came that Mira had won. Standing, the adopted native lifted his mug, saying, “To Arnacin’s continued ship repairs…”
Feeling Firth’s taunting elbow dig into his side, the islander smiled. Yet Gagandep continued without notice of the wordless remark, “…and to Mira’s victory.”
“Mira’s victory” echoed around the table from the family, and the adopted native winked. “Perhaps I can already be peacefully in my grave before the next one erupts.”
Arnacin only laughed sadly, unable to drink to victory himself, thanks to his misgivings.
Six days later, the easternmost point of the forest went up in flames.
When all his councilors had gathered in the great hall at his request, Miro slowly turned away from the view of the harbor. They stood there, nervously shifting, yet for a moment, the king thought of nothing to say. A king could never admit he was without an idea for future action, or even a hope. That was, unless he was speaking to Carpason.
As it was, however, he decided to say, “I would like suggestions on how to proceed, since the savages have clearly not conceded.”
“If the choice was mine, Sire,” Memphis said, “I would prove both Mira’s strength and integrity through an action they couldn’t ignore.”
“Such as?”
“Attack the mountains.”
“No,” Miro refused, shaking his head as he turned away in thought. “Such action would prove their fears, despite any strength on our part.”
“I don’t mean for you to attack and keep it, Sire. I was thinking more that you gain a portion of the mountains, hold it for a day, and then return it to them. It would force them to realize that the reason you have not attacked them beyond your borders is not because you lack the ability, but because you care about your word.”
Nodding slightly, the king was silent, rubbing his bearded chin. As his pacing turned him back toward the councilors, a bow from one of them caught his attention, however. “What are your thoughts, Councilor Krisno?”
“Perhaps the savages’ lack of surrender is a sign that we should leave, Sire.”
An instant murmur of anger rose from the councilors, but for just a moment, Miro considered the suggestion. His gaze traveled around the great hall with its familiar walls of blue lapis and opal, interspaced by gold pilasters; its eastern-facing wall lined with high windows. It was a beautiful, majestic great hall, and it was home. His father had ruled from the throne at the far end, and his father’s father, and many more before them. Memories of them and of his own youth clung to the walls. He almost heard the laughter of simpler times.
Slowly, he voiced his thoughts. “We cannot leave Mira as Mirans. No one would give us land without a war we couldn’t afford. We would need to disperse as the lowly into many different kingdoms, and subject ourselves to their rules and way of life.”
“But if it would save lives, Sire?” It was clear from the glares of the other councilors that Krisno’s opinion was highly unpopular, and Miro sympathized with the majority.
“Such a lack of hope, Krisno. I think you would have more love for your homeland,” the king muttered.
“Memphis, your idea is a good one.” His tone dismissed them and once they were gone, the king sent for Cestmir.
While waiting, the king wrote the order on paper, sealing it with Mira’s crane. Not long after, the duke entered with a bow and Miro handed him the order, telling him of the plan, and that he wanted the duke to lead the massing of all Mira’s armies. “Make the plans, Duke Cestmir. You know the area and the enemy far better than do I by now. These orders are so that no one questions your decisions.”
Although his face had taken the pallor of a dead man, the duke muttered, “I’ll only need such orders for the islander. Everyone else would take me at my word.”
Smiling, Miro said, “Your men seem not to have any complaints.”
“They love him, Sire, especially Cornyo.”
“And you picked them for their loyalty to Mira of course.”
“Of course.”
“Then don’t worry. We would all know if Arnacin did anything that would harm Mira. He has two-hundred zealous spies for men.”
“Those savages are not deterred from attacking the boundaries we have just re-established,” Cestmir informed the other commanders temporarily under his charge. “The fools force us to deny our pledge of leaving the mountains as the edge of their land.” Emitting a sigh, he finished, “In short, we are to smash them for the next two months, until the year ends, in one large assault on their foothills.”
He pointed ahead, toward the mountains looming in the distance, their tops covered by the tree line. “We are not to retreat before we have reached that ridge, and then, and only then, back off for them to return there, if they will. Our goal, set by the king and his council, is not to steal more of their land, but to make a point: that we can and will destroy them if we must—that by Mira’s grace alone do they possess their land and that, should they not submit, they shall lose it.”
Movement caught his attention, a silent shifting from one foot to the other in disagreement. Casting the owner of that movement a piercing look, he asked, “Yes, Master Arnacin? What is your problem with this order?”
For just a minute, the islander did not reply. Then he said, “If that is the goal, it will never succeed… Your Grace. They feel they are fighting for a cause that is just as desperate as yours. The only way to… subdue them is to take away every means they have of attack. Even then, each and every one of them would bite, kick and punch before they lost that cause.”
“Are you suggesting retreat?”
The islander shrugged indifferently and the duke barked, “It doesn’t matter! Whether the goal works in the long run is not the subject!” Beside him, Carpason covered his smile with his hand.
Yet Arnacin had not finished. “With all due respect, should the long-term mission not be considered, all smaller battles are not only in vain, they are a waste of lives.”
“Master Arnacin, you are not on the council! The king gives his orders after hearing their suggestions and we are only here to see them through. We are attacking that ridge!”
“Very well,” the islander sighed. “What plans have we been given for so doing?”
Passing him a resigned glare while many of the other nobles smiled, the duke returned to business. “Each commander is to take their troops to a marked position. We are to cover three miles of those foothills. At the first horn blast, the catapults will begin the battle, hopefully taking down enough of their foul archers to make our way forward slightly safer. Then, when my troop sounds its horn, the catapults are to stop and each troop’s horn is to reply in order. When the seventh sounds, everyone starts
forward. Amassed, we will charge those foothills tomorrow morning and take down all of their patrols once at close range. Is that understood?”
“No,” Arnacin spoke up in the silence.
The duke grumbled under his breath before inquiring with gritted teeth, “What is not clear to you?”
“That is the entire plan?”
“Yes. There is no more.”
“There is more. You are all planning to die in this, wipe out Mira once and for all. Isn’t that in the plan?”
“We are making a char—”
“That—” Halting suddenly, Arnacin dipped his chin.
“We must push our message through,” the duke sighed after a minute. “If we do not push for the hope that they will see the uselessness of their attempt, we might as well leave Mira now.”
Although Arnacin said no more, bowing slightly in submission, Cestmir could see the wheels still turning behind his gaze. It was proven by the silence with which the islander departed back to his own troop.
“There is not a chance of them succeeding!” Arnacin exclaimed that evening around one of his troop’s campfires, after angrily repeating the plan to Sir Hadwin. “It’s not hope—it’s despairing suicide and they’ll take everyone with them!”
“We are at that point, Arnacin. We can only attack. If we are dead at this point, we are dead.”
“If that is the case, make it work,” Arnacin despondently whispered. “If it’s time for a true last stand, then stand, don’t throw yourself on spear ends.”
“We must achieve those mountains.”
“You know as well as I that their little encampments, hidden among slopes and trees—guarded by hundreds of archers with arrows that kill at the tiniest scratch, who own the advantage of height as well as position—will never be conquered in this charge.”
“What do you plan to do?” the knight asked.
“I don’t know yet. Danger, risks, narrow ledges, those can be navigated, but never suicide.”
As night wore on, Arnacin remained, staring up at the mountain ridge from where he stood leaning against a tree. When told that he needed to rest, he simply shook his head and did not move. Then, before dawn, he woke his men. “Alright, there is only one thing to do. We must slip around the enemy lines as archers and take them down from the back.”
“How are we to achieve that if the other troops can’t break through?”
“By taking all the horses this troop owns, with only that many men, and entering by the coast. With all the king’s men here, the natives won’t guard that side as carefully. Those that remain here will join with Lord Carpason’s troops.”
“With the catapults, entering the foothills will be dangerous.”
“By the time we arrive, they are not likely to still be going, but if they are, it will aid our cover.”
Including supply horses, their troop owned a total of forty horses, a sizable amount, yet it took some time to divide the men into two groups, depending on their skills. While the chosen forty, who were to enter the mountains, tacked their steeds, Arnacin helped the rest of the men with packing up camp in preparation for joining Carpason’s company. It was during that time that a knight rode up, glancing at the forty men purposely lacking armor.
“Master Arnacin!” the messenger barked after sputtering for a moment. “The duke commands that you ready your troops.”
“And so am I doing,” Arnacin growled with a trace of defiance.
Glancing at the men scattered about, the messenger scoffed, “Readying for what, I ask you—mutiny?”
“You may not ask.”
“You are not given the choice,” the messenger snapped, turning red. “You must ready your troops for the assault at once.”
Coldly, Arnacin stated, “I will not order my men to commit suicide.”
“You are not in highest command at this time.”
“These men were placed under my command. You may take them away but as long as they remain under my command, I cannot order them to certain, pointless death.”
Blustering, the messenger spluttered momentarily and then snapped at Firth, “You! Tell his lordship Carpason of this treachery.”
When Firth remained where he stood, Arnacin gave him a slight nod of permission. As Gagandep’s son hurried away using one of the prepared steeds, the islander pronounced, “Since we must wait, unless you wish to take this argument into actual battle, I will return to my preparations.”
“You will stand right there, young man!”
“I dare not waste the time.” So saying, Arnacin turned his back on the man, nodding for the watching troop to proceed with their tasks. The messenger could only sit there in seething frustration.
Moments later, two horses galloped up to them and, pulling his steed to a stop by the islander, Carpason gently commanded, “Arnacin, explain please.”
“You should know where I stand, my lord,” Arnacin softly replied with a respectful nod. “I cannot throw these men’s lives away as long as they are my responsibility. Honor dictates that I be stoned first.”
Quietly, the lord inquired, “Does honor not also dictate that you hold to your word of aiding Miro, and does that not mean submitting to his command?”
“I have never sworn to be his subject, my lord, and aiding Mira is the opposite of his current orders.”
Sighing, Carpason submitted, “Very well, Arnacin. You may turn about and take your men back to Mira if you wish.”
“What? My lord—” the messenger exclaimed.
“We are on the edge of battle, sir,” the lord reminded. “There is no time to debate this and as Miro gave him command, only Miro can take it away.”
“My lord—”
Holding up his hand, Carpason finished, “We are the king’s servants, sir. Arnacin is servant of his own honor.” As the islander blushed, the lord gave him a respectful nod and turned his horse away.
“My lord,” Arnacin called. When the noble halted, the islander gestured to those of his men wearing armor. “They are under your command for the battle.”
Casting the islander a shrewd glance, Carpason again nodded and, at his command, most of Arnacin’s troop fell in behind the noble. As the host disappeared, taking the messenger with them, the islander turned to the forty left under his command. “Mount. Our race begins, but stay far beneath the cover of the trees until we reach the coast.”
As Hadwin pulled the islander up behind him, the small force broke for the shore some distance away.
The last note of the horn sounded. Inhaling in preparation, Carpason led his command forward. Arrows rained down on them from the heights as soon as Mira’s front line neared. Still, they pressed ahead, ignoring those who fell beside them.
As they ascended, the attack abruptly stopped and Carpason glanced upward. His eyes scanned the heights and, since he thought he spotted something, he quickly looked again. Arnacin stood on an outcropping above the lord’s troop, an arrow nocked. Then, just as quickly as he had appeared, the islander slipped into the trees with a respectful nod.
“Enchanter,” the lord muttered as he took another step upward. If it weren’t for the enemy shafts that clattered onto the rock where the islander had stood a second before, he would have sworn that it was an apparition. Either way, the enemy’s attention was diverted until Mira stood suddenly on their level. With a shout, the two sides clashed together in a flurry of steel, stone and muscle.
Several hours later, Mira’s troops achieved the summit, continuing their advantage until the savages fled and the nobles again met after totaling their own losses. The Earl of Garak, it appeared, had fallen in battle, and his closest companion gave the report before disappearing.
Watching that knight leave, Duke Cestmir sighed, “Another noble house lost forever. By the time this blasted war ends, Miro won’t have any nobles to his name at all.”
“We don’t know that,” Carpason muttered. All gazes turned almost accusingly toward him as he spoke and bobbing on his toes slightly, he
spoke for them, “Where’s Arnacin?”
“Yes, my lord,” Cestmir growled. “Where is our islander? I noticed the defense weakened against us halfway up. ”
“Then your guess is as good as mine. I spotted him briefly behind the savages’ line, but only once, and I don’t know any more of his intentions than what I surmised in that glimpse. His men haven’t said anything.”
Huffing, the duke stated, “As likely they don’t know anything either.”
“Yes,” Carpason muttered, “so Hadwin has told me in the past.”
With an ironic grin, Cestmir mused, “I suppose he realized Miro was putting so many spies on him when we gave him that troop. That’s why everything’s failed as it has. All of a sudden, my loyal knights turn red and mumble reports as short as those Arnacin gives the king.”
Carpason only nodded in agreement.
Sighing, the duke returned to business, deciding, “Very well, we’ll hold this position until nightfall. Once dark comes, it will be too dangerous to remain. If he has not returned by then…” He broke off, looking over the hill they had just ascended through sweat and blood. “We will wait another day at the bottom before we return to inform the king of our victory—and of his two commanders’ deaths.”
Nodding, they each separated to their own troops to wait for Arnacin or the dark, whichever came first.
It was the afternoon. In the shorter autumn days, Arnacin had four hours to appear at the most. Pacing, Carpason rubbed his sweaty palms together, scanning the land briefly falling away from them before it rose again. Little copses dotted the mountainside, yet the savages had vanished to the eye.
Nothing moved. There was no sight of Hadwin or Arnacin. Neither friend nor enemy appeared while, around the alert Mirans, the shadows lengthened. Finding himself tapping the palms of his hands together, the lord quickly dropped them to his sides, only to find himself running a hand through his hair a moment later. Sighing, he finally folded both arms across his chest.
By then, the sun appeared to sit directly across from him, its light that garish shine of its last moments. Still, nothing moved in the trees. The mountain range remained uncannily peaceful, except for the scattering of crows feasting on the fallen.
The Savage War Page 19