The Savage War

by Esther Wallace

  Not five days after a group of knights went to the mountains to bring back Arnacin, a messenger came flying into the capital, with a panted cry to speak with the king.

  “What now?” Miro growled as the messenger entered the hall where he stood with Carpason and Memphis.

  “The islander’s dead, Sire.”

  “What!” the king exclaimed, leaping to his feet. In his horror, Carpason only glimpsed the smile of relief that passed Memphis’s face.

  “The savages ambushed his troop. He was the first one hit, or so his men told me after I found them scurrying out of the mountains.”

  If Carpason had thought the king’s face red before, he had not truly known the color, as it intensified ten times over. For just a moment, no one breathed, fearing the reaction that such wrath would create.

  Slowly exhaling, however, Miro hissed, “How much of the troop was lost?”

  “Surprisingly little, Your Majesty,” the messenger quaked. “Apparently no more than eight or nine. The savages did not seem all that interested after they had felled the islander. Most of those that did perish died from the poison during their flight.”

  After another moment, Miro excused the messenger, sending his high councilor out with him. Carpason waited, forcing his own breath through his lungs in the ensuing stillness.

  Sighing, Miro dropped back onto his throne and growled, “I hate him and love him, Carpason. You tell me how that works.”

  “Only with Arnacin,” Carpason painfully surmised. “Not that it matters now.”

  Once again, silence fell while the king seemed to study the floor beneath his feet, and his lord sadly watched. After a long time, in which the shadows all but disappeared due to the height of the sun, Miro stood with a sigh. “Well, I find I am glad, for the second time, Arnacin was not an ambassador, or I would certainly be writing a rather infuriated letter to his king with the news that he no longer lives.”

  His lips twitching in a slight smile, the lord whispered, “You would be writing a book of complaints, Sire.”

  “Mira has no choice, Carpason,” the king breathed as they walked out of the throne room. “It shall simply return to how it made its plans before that…” The king’s voice trailed off. In the pause that followed, the lord could well image the words, “swine,” “antagonist,” “genius,” “hope” and “beast” pass through the king’s mind. He finally decided on, “…that phantom ever arrived. For now, however, his death will not be told.”

  “You are hoping he’ll return somehow,” Carpason surmised, at which Miro cast him an almost guilty glance and stepped out through the doors.

  It was in a dream that some shape-shifter appeared to Mira’s king, mutating in rotation from a being of light to a twisted, mummified corpse. In its lighter form, it stated, “Dare you to wish for the Phantom’s life? He is not dead.”

  “You again,” the king scoffed. “Why should I believe a thing you say since you are sent by those charlatans hidden behind their mountain? Specter or not, you would say whatever they wished you to say.”

  Now the cackling corpse withdrew something from where a human’s organs would have been and held it out for inspection. “Vision only, it may be. Take it as you will, yet here is his heart. See how it thumps still. Far away, it is beating in fever.”

  Aghast, Miro drew back, yet his gaze remained transfixed by that morbid sight—a beating, brown heart in the browner talons of its captor. Some distant thought speculated that the color likely had something to do with the lighting of the entire vision, yet it was a small, conscious thing in the otherwise unconscious unreality.

  Cruel hisses of what might be laughter emitted from the being and it extended the thumping heart out farther. “Take it, if you will,” it sneered, but as the king’s hand twitched indecisively toward the still-beating organ, the talons snapped shut about it as the creature rasped, “Only if you leave your land to her natives. Else…” Miro felt a scream rip itself from his throat, thousands of miles away, as the talons continued to crush the heart through them and a dark, thick liquid seeped down the creature’s appendages. “Await us. In two days, we will arrive for your answer.”

  It would be understating Miro’s relief to say that he welcomed the darkness of his room the next second as one would welcome sunlight after crawling through lightless tunnels.

  The dream was too real to be forgotten and, despite all fears of reacting to it, Miro sent for Carpason while it was still dark on the morning of the second day. “Lord Carpason, gather your men and position them in a hidden perimeter around the gate, in the trees, around the first buildings in the city, and behind the bushes. Savages are coming today to parley. I will convince them to leave their hostage a few feet before them, but you must act then. If they have not seen the trap, perhaps all will go well.”

  Carpason merely nodded at the strange orders, asking, “Do you want us to kill the savages?”

  “No, arrest them. I will decide what to do with them once I know what type of offer they bring.”

  Although the lord said nothing, as the daylight grew and the shadows dissipated, the king felt his rising fear that the savages intended to make him appear insane. He could already guess what Carpason’s men were thinking, crouched in various hiding places for hours, painfully stiff and afraid to shift. Miro could curse his own gullibility.

  Then, a guard came to tell him that savages were right outside the city and they wished to parley from the outside. “Come,” Miro hurriedly ordered, dashing to the outer ramparts.

  “Sire,” the guard protested, puffing behind. “They have clear aim at you—”

  “They wish to parley. Very well, I will hear it.” Arriving on the wall, the king saw nine savage riders arranged below, their horses stamping their feet. Over one of the horse’s back, the king saw black hair protruding from a rolled bundle.

  “Have you come to offer peace?” he demanded of the savages, looking to their leader, marked by the number of feathers at his shoulder.

  “We have come to offer life and the return of your Black Phantom. Should you leave in the next week, we will harm no one.”

  “What Black Phantom?”

  Carefully, the chieftain pulled off the furs around that bundle before him, revealing Arnacin within. Yet, no movement came from the islander.

  “Ha,” Miro scoffed, swiftly looking along the wall to make sure none of his archers were present. “You seek to bargain with a corpse. Even should he live, you would stab him with poison the minute we agreed to your wishes.”

  “We will not come inside your walls. You must trust us.”

  The king drummed his fingers on the parapet. “Put him between us, where we have an open view of him and perhaps we will discuss things with you. Naturally, if the gate starts opening, you will be able to reach the body first.”

  As the king watched the savages glance at each other and then nod, he was glad Arnacin could not know what was happening. The islander would only condemn Miro’s deceit.

  Below, the natives carefully unbound their captive, carried him just beyond a line of trees, and then retreated. Except for how terribly death-like the islander looked, Miro might have smiled grimly. All Carpason had to do was act. In the meantime, however, the charade had to be continued.

  As the savages remounted, Miro called, “Now, what action would you accept as proof that we intend to leave Mira for good?”

  “Your immediate act—” But men were leaping out of the trees, dashing from around bushes, and charging from the city. With a cry of rage, the savages leapt toward the men now surrounding the islander’s body—proof that they at least thought he still lived.

  Carpason’s men were too many for the nine savages, however, and they were quickly overpowered.

  The royal accommodations consisted of the whole top quarter of the keep, including the roof, although the roof was only ever opened during a royal wedding for the newlyweds to have a private ball under the stars. Poor Rosa never received that honor, but she was
unaware of its significance.

  Beneath the roof, the royal family—including those who had remained servants all their lives—had what might have been an entirely different castle in the same building. The only type of rooms they lacked were cellars and kitchens, and the largest population in the accommodations was the servants—great aunts and uncles. Though the cousins moved out once they married, the number of men and women living there was still a fair number.

  Their bedrooms started one floor above the library’s level, and most of them faced the courtyard. Valoretta’s room, however, looked northward toward the gates and the distant bluish mountains beyond. Although she had not picked her room—Sara had when she was an infant—the princess liked its less tame view. These days, however, the sight was a reminder of the war.

  Stifling a sigh, Valoretta sat on her window bench while her nurse did her hair. A small commotion near the gates drew her attention. It was with a nervous flutter that she recognized the figure of her father standing on the ramparts beside the guards. Only some horrible situation would put him in the line of fire, the princess knew.

  “My Lady,” Sara hissed in exasperation as Valoretta pulled away to lean closer to the window. The princess paid no attention, however, as below a group of horses burst through the gates, which slammed shut behind them. Most of the knights dismounted, handing their horses off to the boys who stood ready, but the horse that had been in the lead simply stopped in the yard, where men rushed around it. Valoretta briefly saw that something or someone was slung in front of the rider before the converging men blocked her sight.

  Even at a distance, however, she could tell that they were lifting the horse’s burden. Seeing a flash of what appeared to be black, she felt her stomach clench. As she shot to her feet, she felt some of her hair part with her scalp.

  “Valoretta!” her nurse exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

  The princess did not reply but simply lifted her skirts and dashed from the room. Whatever her nurse shouted behind her was lost to the pounding of the princess’ heart. Down the steps she raced and out the keep’s entrance, only slowing as she reached the group of men huddled around a figure.

  “Father, what’s happening?” she gasped, pressing her hand to her aching ribs as she stopped beside the king. He did not have time to answer as the huddle parted to allow a physician to approach them from the middle. In that moment, all her worst fears were realized. Through that gap, she saw Arnacin stretched on a blanket, his features colorless, blood covering his right side, where, through the bubbling mass of his flesh, his collar-bone showed.

  “He’s still alive, Your Majesty… Majesties,” the physician informed them, stopping before the king and his daughter. “I highly doubt he will remain so…”

  “Do everything you are capable of,” Miro barked, wrapping an arm around his pale daughter. When the physician sighed, the king inquired, “So the weapon was not poisoned?”

  “No, they wanted him alive, at least for the time. Their weapon went straight through his shoulder, however, and the wound is past the area where we could amputate, anyway. If you want me to try to save him, he’ll live or die with his arm.”

  “Is it possible to move him?” the king pressed.

  “We’ll have to chance it. On your orders, Sire, I’ll see what burning the wound will do, but I’m telling you, we might as well save him the pain and let him die in peace.”

  As Valoretta choked back a despairing sob, Miro ordered, “Take him inside. And let it be known that if anyone breathes a word of his condition outside the castle, the punishment will be death. If Arnacin survives, he will need his wound kept secret.”

  Bowing, the physician turned to relay the orders.

  The princess had not cried since she was a small child, not even when her mother died, but watching the men carrying the broken islander inside the keep, she felt very near to surrendering. Somehow, for sake of her faked strength—for her royalty—she again resisted, feeling her father’s arm tighten lovingly about her shoulders.

  Beside them, only Lord Carpason remained, still holding his horse’s reins as he and the king shared sorrowful glances. “All we can do is hope,” the lord finally whispered before turning away with a bow to take care of his steed.

  After assuring his daughter that the islander was in the best of hands, and that was all they could do, Miro retreated to the great hall, where he soon began to pace. Only Carpason had followed him and, finally shaking his head, the lord asked, “What do you wish to do about the prisoners?”

  Miro halted abruptly, looked up, shook his head and then continued his pace. With a slight smile, the lord tried again, “Sire, you can’t just let them rot. The abuse they’ll receive while doing so will be worse than execution. And if you tell the jailers they are to be considerate, they’ll think you’re mad and possibly disobey anyway. Such is the extent of their hatred.”

  “Carpason,” the king sighed, “you must realize that if I have them executed, word will reach the savages that we murder our enemies even under a white flag, and if I send them back, they’ll tell everyone of the trap… under a white flag.”

  “Is that why you’re pacing?”

  Again halting, Miro turned to his lord. “Would such a choice not make you pace?”

  “Perhaps, Sire, the only thing you can do is release them. Hopefully, the act of mercy will soften their anger.”

  “Huh.” With that snort, the king circled back to his throne, collapsed into it, and ran his hand over his face. “Carpason,” he moaned, “should I have just told them to finish the islander? He’s dead anyway. If he breathes a few more hours, I’ll think he’s cursed.”

  A laugh escaped the lord before he could cut it off. The question was too serious for humor. “All I can say, Sire, is that I wouldn’t have been able to permit such a thing and, since it is a past decision, your only possible action is to decide what’s to be done now.”

  The king’s eyes flicked up to Carpason’s gaze. After a moment, he sighed. “Do you know of anyone other than an adopted native who can take a sample of the poison off one of those blades and discover its compounds?”

  “I will try to find someone, Sire.” Bowing, the lord left. His search was futile, but in that time, Miro made his decision. He chose to release the captives. Sadly, only Carpason seemed to think it the right choice.

  Mirans grumbled against the decision and the natives only scoffed. In fact, the chieftain taunted before they rode off, “Ha, your king means to trick us. No one can lie to the gods.”

  The councilors’ reaction was to blame Arnacin for all of the natives’ actions.

  Carpason found them all clustered in the corridor outside the islander’s room, whispering angrily. “And how has Arnacin changed the savages’ view of Mirans?” he demanded.

  Councilor Erlund shrugged. “He’s been the only one to disregard the right of their boundaries.”

  “Of course, he is just a boy,” Darien said, his glinting eyes fixing themselves on Carpason. “He was schooled in his tactics. Perhaps, Lord Carpason, his death is your fault. You caused this. You were stupid and unfeeling enough to suggest the aid of a foreigner. First, you twist an innocent boy into a disrespectful killing machine, and now he lies dying… at such a young age, thanks to you.”

  “I don’t see your tears.” Carpason snapped, shoving past them into the invalid’s room.

  No matter what anyone said, however, no one held out much hope for Arnacin’s survival.

  Cornering Hadwin as soon as Arnacin’s troop returned, Carpason snapped, “What were you thinking? Did you not caution him at all?”

  Dropping his gaze, Hadwin guiltily whispered, “There was no other way, my lord. As long as the natives have people and the mediums call on their gods, man and woman, boy and girl, down to the youngest child capable of holding a weapon, all will fight to the death. We had to silence their gods. We’re ruined, my lord, as much as I loathe saying it.”

  For a long moment, Carpason
was silent, staring at the floor. Finally, he whispered, “This is what you found out, in all those months?”

  “Yes, to our loss.”

  “How do you silence their gods?”

  “The only way is to silence every single one of their mediums, or at least all the ones pushing for war, and that is an impossibility. We had one opening and it failed.” Closing his eyes, the knight breathed, “Now, even Arnacin’s dead somewhere in those mountains.”

  “Indeed,” Carpason distantly replied, too deep in thought to register the knight’s last comment. Instead, he asked, “Are there any still in that encampment?”

  “I don’t know,” Hadwin answered, his brow furrowed.

  “I intend to find out.”

  “What?”

  “The king will send us this time and we’ll see what we can do.”

  “Why would he ever agree to such a request?” the knight nearly squeaked in shock.

  “Because his hope is also dashed and it is then that you jump at any possibility of hope handed to you, as long as it is approached in the right fashion.”

  Blackness filled the room, aside from the physicians’ candles scattered about. In their flickering light, Carpason sat next to Arnacin’s bed. Although the lord had relieved the doctors of their careful watch, one still slept in the room to tend to any change in the islander’s condition. Studying those ashen features as if staring into a void, Carpason placed his hand against Arnacin’s brow, pitying the clammy pallor.

  The soft sound of the door closing made him look up in surprise to see Miro enter, seemingly having escaped there without the knowledge of his constant retinue.

  “Sire!” the lord gasped, causing the physician to stir in his sleep.

  Staring down at Arnacin for a moment, the king sighed. “He did one favor for Mira. He proved what happens when one defies her king.”

  When the king again dropped silent, his lord replied, “A few days ago all your councilors were condemning him for ripping Mira to shreds simply by existing. When he dies, you’ll no longer have that issue.”