The Savage War

by Esther Wallace

  “Arnacin,” Carpason’s alarmed voice informed him who rode one of the horses above him. “Your arm’s bleeding.”

  As Hadwin helped him back to his feet, Arnacin nodded. “That’s not new. It just reopens with every attack.”

  “What happened to it?” the lord inquired, now more interested than concerned.

  “My encounter with one of the five eagles we killed.”

  “Firth killed,” Hadwin muttered.

  Arnacin ignored him, adding, “This one came the closest, as you can see.”

  Smiling slightly, Carpason dipped his chin. “Maybe next time you will take my warnings more seriously, then.”

  “I took them seriously,” the islander protested, sliding his sword away. “We spent days practicing our marksmanship on plummeting targets. You saw us doing it, too.”

  Laughing, Carpason informed him, “Well, we arrived to see what happened to you and to make sure you return safely.”

  “We can use that,” Arnacin wearily gasped, before slipping by to check on his men. Only later, now riding behind Lord Carpason, did he confess, “Our search was fruitful, if there is still time to alert Miro.”

  “I’m surprised, Arnacin,” the lord said. “I surmised that you had been bottled up on the native’s boundaries, and that was the reason none of your troop had been seen.”

  To the gentle reproach, the islander remained silent.

  Arnacin had wished for a private meeting with the king. However, as soon as Arnacin and his troops returned, Miro called together all his generals so that each could know what the rest were doing, as he did on rare occasion. Despite that, what the islander had to say could not wait. Therefore, when his turn came to report on his latest mission, he licked his lips, starting, “All of their tribal leaders and all forty-nine of their mediums have gathered in a camp just on the other side of the mountain.”

  For a second, the room filled with the silence of a tomb as every eye studied him with one emotion or another. “And pray tell, how does that mean anything to us?” Miro finally demanded, his own voice cracking in wonder. “All their gods themselves could gather on that side of the mountain, and it would make no difference to us since we still cannot reach them.”

  “You can,” Arnacin whispered. “I’ve been up there almost every time I’ve been out on the field—my men with me.”

  Sharp inhales met that piece of information and the islander saw Carpason close his eyes on the other side of the room.

  “You’ve been where?” Miro demanded, his brows suddenly knit together as his eyes glinted beneath.

  “Gathering information,” Arnacin breathed, fully knowing what his words meant to those around him. Not giving any of the Mirans time to react, however, he pushed forward explaining, “I know all the paths up there, all the ones less watched, and if we ambush that encampment, you can end the war now, at least for several generations. Those remaining will be lost without the communications of their gods, and forced to surrender.”

  He had nothing else to say, but he knew without looking that most of the nobles were stuck between admiration, hope and disgust.

  After another pause, however, the king snapped, “We will wait until such an opportunity presents itself on our land! Everyone is dismissed. I shall send for you when I decide where to send you. Islander, you will stay here.”

  After all the nobles had filed out—Carpason casting a backward glance toward where the king and Arnacin stood, glaring at each other—Miro barked, “How long have you been disregarding my orders?”

  “What orders, Your Majesty?” the islander challenged. “Your loosely defined ‘searches’ hardly have any boundaries whatsoever. As to the other missions, I take down your villages for you, when they are found.”

  Red-faced, the king retorted, “It is a rule—by common consent—that no one steps foot into those mountains unless under very special orders. You, boy, who cares so much about not murdering, appear to care very little about your own men.”

  Several heated words rose to the tip of the islander’s tongue, but taking a moment to force them back down—an effort that felt close to strangulation—he whispered, “I was simply trying to aid Mira, Your Majesty. The troop, after all, has already sworn their lives to that cause and they felt that information gathering was less of a waste of their lives than…” There were no ways to say it without it insulting, and Arnacin finished lamely, “usual.”

  Sighing, Miro paused himself. “I little realized how impulsive you were, Arnacin of Enchantress Island. When you return, I may need to do something about it, but currently, every troop is needed. You have made me aware of one thing: they could be gathering to start a large-scale march into Mira and every troop has to be stationed along our borders to stop them, should they try. Succeed diligently in this task, and you may yet retain your command.”

  It was a clear dismissal. Bowing, the islander began to leave, until the king commanded in parting, “Before you leave, send Lord Carpason to me. There are a few things I should say to him as well.”

  Halting, Arnacin insisted, “He wasn’t fully aware of what…” At Miro’s sharp glance, he broke off.

  “I have said nothing of thinking him involved in a conspiracy with a foreign islander, have I?” Arnacin shook his head slightly and the king nodded him off. “Send him to me.”

  As they marched away from the capitol, on foot as usual, Arnacin softly addressed his troop, “Hadwin has already said we need to, but for this I must ask all of you. Do you really want to attack the mountain camp? I don’t see any outcome where you live. I’m—”

  “Arnacin, stop,” Cornyo whispered. “Did we not tell you where we stood when you first asked us?”

  “But the real treason has finally come.”

  “It makes no difference.” Firth shrugged. “But now that treason has come, what about you? This isn’t your home, Arnacin. Are you really ready to stand with us in our lone defense?”

  “I’m expecting to be thrown off of Mira at best, but I can’t do otherwise. Should we succeed, your war will end. Should we fail, at least we will have tried—something your king is apparently not willing to do. If I can help I will.”

  “He would hesitate until we were all wiped off the map,” Firth mumbled, before commenting to his commander, “Yet, you’re not surrendering much. You want to be kicked off Mira anyway.”

  Laughing, the islander confessed, “I’d prefer a dignified farewell, but if exile is what it takes, and it’s half my fault anyway, I’ll take it. I promised to return home and I hope to keep that promise. I doubt it will happen, though.”

  “Well, we’re with you, Arnacin,” Cornyo promised, his grin clear even from his back. “If we’re alive and Miro decides to hang you, we won’t let you die alone.”

  “That’s very comforting, I’m sure,” the islander laughed, pushing the knight forward a few steps in play.

  Arnacin pushed himself and his troop to greater speed for four days, allowing them to rest only once they reached the foothills of the mountains. There, he gave them an entire day to regain their strength, while they remained hidden to all passing eyes.

  Once refreshed, they started up the most treacherous part of the mountain. The trail Arnacin liked best was not a trail at all. It was a way he had found to ascend the mountain undercover. By scrambling under, over and around large protruding boulders and up dirt-slicked sides, sometimes at almost a ninety degree angle, they avoided enemy eyes—hidden by hanging brush. It was particularly useful for bringing all of his men, as the islander had to that time.

  Somehow, as with every other time they took that route, Arnacin guided them to the top, where they disappeared two at a time, into the woods hanging over the cliff edge. For another day, they threaded through the mountain range like shades, stepping carefully in their commander’s footsteps, occasionally crawling along an exposed ridge, until they felt the ground slowly starting to slope more often downward. During the second day, the brush beside the troop suddenly trem
bled slightly against the wind.

  Arnacin jerked to a halt, whispering, “Go back,” and then more insistently, “Back.”

  It was too late, however. Natives jumped out all around them.

  Reacting to a shape springing before him, the islander’s bow was instantly in his hand. Yet before he was able to loose the shaft, before he was able to move at all except by reflex, something slammed into his back thrusting him forward by his shoulder— right before pain burst into a million stars about him. Struggling through them for reasons only his training would know, he briefly distinguished running shapes and heard the echoing sounds of battle above his head.

  Then, the stars won.

  Chapter 13

  For Love of an Islander

  AFTER HIS ESCAPE FROM MIRAN captivity with the help of the Black Phantom, Shashidha, originally of the Wa-tennie tribe, had joined the first tribe he came upon. There, in the Gootika tribe, a medium currently traveling with them asked the boy his story. That medium’s reaction was shock and meditation. The next day, he declared that the gods had rescued Shashidha in order to serve them and so the boy had begun his training.

  Now, the once unimportant boy watched as his mentor ground steaming herbs together under a pestle, while continuing to mumble under his breath in prayer.

  Since only the gods had the right to heal, it was an insult and risk not to defer to them when administering to the sick. For that reason, only the gods’ mediums worked with the sick and injured.

  Looking back down at the captive shivering in fever beside him, the boy tentatively ran his fingers through the black hair whence came their captive’s title. The fire in the tent cast everything in an orange glow, yet still the Black Phantom’s skin was the pasty color of the dead.

  Shashidha looked up again as the medium slid back into place beside him, finished making the drug.

  Knowing he could speak now, the boy inquired, “Are you going to leave the wound as it is?”

  “There’s no healing that,” the medium muttered. “Not only did it pass all the way through his shoulder, but he fell on the tip, causing it to mutilate anything remaining. If he even lives long enough for the barter, the gods will have performed a miracle on our behalf. After that, he is meant to die anyway. Mira cannot be allowed to keep its dangerous tool.”

  Passing the cup to his protégé, the medium instructed, “Give him this. It will slow the blood flow, which should decrease how much of it he loses and keep him fully unconscious for the trip.” He left the tent then without any explanation for his departure. The gods’ mediums never explained anything, Shashidha knew.

  Regardless, the boy slipped his arm beneath the Black Phantom’s head, as instructed. That movement, however, half-roused the captive who then attempted to jerk away, his dark eyes snapping open. Through the haze in them, Shashidha did not know if the captive could actually see or not, but switching to Mira’s language, the boy lied, “You will be fine. Just drink this.”

  He had not really expected an answer, but a low denial emitted from the Black Phantom as he stubbornly turned his head away from his captor’s reach. It was with surprising pain that Shashidha heard Mira’s accent blending with what he remembered as the captive’s own. Softly, he asked, “They’ve destroyed you, haven’t they?”

  For a minute, he wondered if the invalid had again lost all consciousness. That thought left as the boy again attempted to obey his instructions and felt a weak pull against the arm cradling the captive. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

  He wondered why his entire being pleaded for the opposite of the feeble “No” he heard, yet he could not say he had anticipated anything else. Regardless of the pain, Shashidha knew the drug had to be consumed, yet he also knew that a struggle would probably kill the captive. Gazing at the side of the invalid’s head, the boy contemplated his options.

  It was believed among his people that names were sacred—and therefore a powerful weapon in the hands of the gods’ mediums. Those not in communication with the gods could safely use their companions’ names, as long as they did not swear on or by them. But the mediums—those granted a touch of the gods’ power—dared not speak any true name, lest they bless those they would rather curse, or worse destroy those they served. It depended on the medium’s deepest, often subconscious, yearnings toward the person of whom they spoke.

  In the case of the Black Phantom, Shashidha knew his yearnings, confused as they were, and he also knew he alone held that power over the captive, since he alone knew the Black Phantom’s true name—a secret he would take to his grave. Under the circumstances, he knew not what else to do.

  Running the tips of his fingers along the captive’s arm, he breathed back in his own tongue, “Arnacin, trust me.” Within his arms, the Black Phantom suddenly grew limp and, for a split second, Shashidha wondered if he had done something terribly wrong. Then he noticed the gradual rise and fall of the captive’s sides and felt warm air against his fingers from the captive’s mouth and nose.

  Breathing again in relief, the boy gently tipped the drug into the captive’s mouth and slid his arm from beneath him. No matter what anyone said, he knew that since the gods had granted his intent, they would send Arnacin home and leave Mira to her natives without more war. He knew it. He had known it as he breathed the captive’s name in both fear and love.

  Miro had sent all of his generals out to watch the mountains, except for Carpason, from whom the king demanded suggestions regarding what to do with the islander when he returned. The responsibility for the islander’s conduct, Miro said, was only due to the lord’s previous advice. He further proceeded to remind his noble of all the things the lord had said to gain the islander a command position, only halting to allow Carpason to make any suggestions when out of words.

  “Sire,” Carpason wearily soothed. “Did we not all know, almost from the beginning, that Arnacin follows his own rules? You knew as well as I that you could never buy his obedience, that he agreed to all you asked only because he felt it was right. Whenever he felt otherwise, he disobeyed as swiftly as he agreed. Can any of us deny that we knew that about him?”

  Turning away, Miro huffed, “Politics are certainly not his strong point.”

  Forcing his smile under control, Carpason shook his head. He remained silent however until the king turned back, reminding him, “We have discussed other possibilities. I wonder if they are still an option in light of his recent activities.”

  “As usual, Sire,” Carpason sighed, “he had a point and…”

  “And should I have acted on it, the war with the savages would likely be over,” Miro finished the unspoken thought with a resigned sigh. “Yet he fails to understand politics.”

  “Or chooses to fail,” the lord muttered.

  He broke off as the door opened and one of the guards standing there announced, “Councilor Darien has urgent information, Sire.”

  “Send him in,” the king sighed, echoing his lord’s resigned irritation. It could hardly be anywhere near as urgent as the councilor apparently thought.

  Carpason could not have been more wrong, as, after the normal courtesies, the councilor said, “Two of your nobles were talking as they left, about our current place in this war and how we only have the foreigner to thank for our respite.”

  His face quickly darkening as Carpason’s paled, Miro demanded, “And?”

  “They wonder if they would already have seen the end of the war had they all likewise disregarded the council’s… your orders, Sire.” When the king remained silent, Darien persisted, “Sire, if the boy is allowed to continue as he is, no one will listen to you anymore. Arnacin of Enchantress Island must leave the field.”

  Sighing, Miro admitted, “Yes, he must.”

  Seeing the thin-lipped smirk that began to creep across the councilor’s face, Carpason narrowed his eyes.

  “There’s only one thing for me to do,” the king continued. “Make him my war councilor.”

  Darien’s smile vanished in h
orror. Sputtering on the words, he choked, “What? Sire, that would reward treason!”

  “No, it would bring an end to treason. He thinks only he has the mind for strategy, so if he creates the plans himself, he certainly cannot undermine my final decision and his clear talent can still aid Mira in her need.”

  Now it was Carpason who was smiling as the king commanded one of the guards at the door to send a messenger to drag the islander back to the capitol. In the humor of discovery, Miro laughed, “And if he protests, arrest him.”

  Indeed, it seemed an enchanted sleep had befallen the Black Phantom. Although he breathed, nothing caused him to stir—not as the Ragoosh chieftain lifted him from the tent, nor as he was tied onto a horse. Had he truly been dead, he could not have moved less.

  “The gods have said you must go the sacred way,” Shashidha’s master instructed the chieftain. “There, you will move swiftly without attack. The gods have promised their protection while you cross their lands.”

  “Can I go?” Shashidha asked as the chieftain bowed.

  “Only as far as the edge of the sacred way. There, you must turn back and meet me at the praying fields. The gods’ servants must not enter the plains of the enemy.”

  Bowing, Shashidha mounted with the nine tribesmen and they set off with their captive between them. When they reached the edge of the marshy land that was the beginning of the sacred way, Shashidha nodded to the tribesmen. “Here, we part.”

  Before leaving, however, he touched the Black Phantom’s uninjured shoulder. “We will not meet again,” he told that still form in the Miran tongue. “But I do not doubt the gods will go with you.”

  Then, raising his arm in farewell, he turned his steed north, toward the other side of the mountains where the praying fields lay covered in the most blessed of plants.