The Savage War

by Esther Wallace

  “You can’t,” Memphis intoned. “He has not offered it for debate and he would deny all such accusations. Mira will fall to an islander unless someone is brave enough to risk everything to save her. I don’t know how they’d do it, short of eliminating the brat, but I wish there was such a hero.”

  With a large sigh of defeat, the high councilor trudged out.

  Pulling his hood closer about his face, Darien slipped into the most likely tavern. Li’l Smokey was, as its name would imply, windowless and filled with black smoke from a badly vented chimney that no one had ever bothered to repair. Perhaps, the tavern’s owners just never had the money, but regardless of the reason, it dissuaded a richer crowd and concealed petty crime.

  Not all the Mirans there were of disrepute, but they were poorer, simpler, more often drunk, and willing to obey a single command of the king without question, as long as it gave them some extra food for their table.

  It had taken little trouble to rip off the wax bearing the royal seal from one letter and melt it with its imprinted crane onto forged orders. Showing it to the right people and whispering into the right ears, Darien knew it would be done. As he slipped the supposed orders into a reliable man’s hand, his work was completed. The threat would soon be no more.

  As night descended over Arnacin, leaning on his ship’s prow, he sighed, straightening. It was still too cold to be out at night as the sharp wind, steadily growing more frigid, reminded him.

  The usual hubbub of the inns greeted him as he started up the streets toward the castle. Drunkards stumbled from one inn to the next, followed by the rowdy ruckus that would emit from the door they had exited, only to be picked up by the new entrance. There was even the occasional wretch who would suddenly fly out into the street as the proprietor felt the need to eject him. It was one such incident that bowled the islander over as a man was flung into the street.

  As he was passing a tavern, the door flew open. He saw a flurry of movement in the doorway. Then, before he could step out of the way, a man smashed into Arnacin’s right side. With a cry, the islander collapsed, the man’s concentrated weight on top of him. He reeked of alcohol.

  “Sorry, mister, sorry,” the man’s mumble was slurred as he shot to his feet. Grabbing Arnacin’s right arm, he hauled upward.

  The tug on his shoulder caused a sharp burst of pain that leapt straight into his head. Almost pleading in gasping agony, Arnacin tried to gain his feet on his own. “Let go. Just let go.”

  To the islander’s complete shock, the man suddenly yanked him within both arms. A strong-smelling cloth was shoved over his mouth and nose. His throbbing shoulder allowed no chance to halt his quick breaths, forced out between his teeth, and within seconds, he knew no more.

  “Those are the King’s orders?”

  “From what I’ve been told, yes.”

  Slowly, the voices filtered into Arnacin’s consciousness. “Why would he order us to kill the boy? He could execute him any time he wished.”

  Full awareness jerked back to the islander to find that his wrists and ankles were bound tight and a thick cloth had been shoved into his mouth. Tall barrels blocked his vision, yet it was plain from the nearness of the sounds of movement that men stood close by, whispering.

  “I was just told what you are to do, but from what I heard, the king fears he’s instigating treason. Yet he fears killing him where everyone knows about it. Arnacin’s too popular to discard safely. So, when you’re done with him, make sure there is no sign—none whatsoever.”

  Footsteps receded and, still suffering under the drug, Arnacin urgently struggled with the rope pinning his arms behind his back.

  “Easy now,” the soft sigh caused the islander to look up as a small man climbed over the barrels, a flask in his hand.

  He pulled Arnacin into his arms, taking out the gag, and the islander weakly gasped, “It’s a lie. The king’s not that much of a coward.”

  “Shh, that’s more than I can say. I can’t take that chance.” Arnacin did not dare reply—the hand on the back of his neck restricted his head’s movement while the waiting flask pressed against his sealed lips. Gradually, his attacker forced the flask’s contents through, however, and as pain and darkness swooped in, Arnacin heard the distant apology, “I’m sorry. This is all I can do.”

  As word spread that Arnacin had deserted by taking passage aboard some ship and the search for him showed no promise, Sir Hadwin asked for an audience with the king.

  “Sire?” Hadwin bowed as he was allowed entrance to the great hall. Miro did not even turn to him, staring out the dark windows. “About the reports of the islan—”

  “He was seen leaving,” Miro growled, cutting the debate off there, or at least trying.

  “Has anyone you personally trust said as much?”

  “Trust,” the king scoffed. “Trust is not for kings. Occasionally, a king will have a friend or two they trust, but those friends soon die or are killed through various means. I currently have none. Only reason can be trusted.”

  “Sire, you know that is only defeat speaking,” Hadwin sighed. “You know in your heart you have many around you whom you can trust, including Arnacin.”

  “Is that so? I know in my heart, you say?” Those words were a sarcastic snort. When the knight only waited, the king abruptly erupted. “Stop standing there making wise comments like a philosopher or an oracle of old! Had I wanted those, I would pull that walking corpse, our oracle, out of his tower! Reason itself says Arnacin did exactly as the people say he did!”

  If he expected Hadwin to bow out at that, he was wrong. Without even a preparatory breath, the knight exclaimed, “Sire, I don’t believe it. Arnacin would never just abandon us.”

  Miro simply stood there, his back still turned to the knight while he stared out the great hall windows. Finally, a sigh escaped him. “There is a very good reason he would.”

  “Do you know him at all, Sire? He would sooner commit suicide than desert. What reason do you think higher than his commitment to honor?”

  Whirling, Miro snapped, “Then explain why there has been no sign of him! This is Arnacin of Enchantress Island, a person the entire city knows by sight! They would set up an instant cry if they saw anyone attack him! So why do they only say they saw him board a ship—saw?”

  Studying the floor, Hadwin confessed, “I don’t know, Sire.” Seconds passed before he spoke again, asking, “Sire, give me the order to search his ship. Perhaps I may find something.”

  Chuckling sardonically, the king said, “Don’t think he’ll have left so much as an outline to hint at his home’s location. That ship will be stripped clean of anything that could be used against him.”

  “He has a bow, Sire. A beautiful bow. I’ve seen him use it. It’s so light that he can use it even now, despite the state of his shoulder. You would never think he has an injury when he uses it, and I know he kept it on his ship. I highly doubt he would leave it behind, not only because it is such a fine weapon and a sentimental one for him, but because in his condition, it may be his only defense. If I don’t find it, it will give credence to the rumors, but if I find it, believe me, his remains, at least, have not left Mira.”

  Sighing, Miro nodded, “Take a small force and search the ship.”

  Taking ten of Tarmlin’s men, Hadwin boarded Arnacin’s ship. Dusk was already upon them as they stood on deck, looking at the lack of places to hide anything. With only the hold—a hold barely tall enough to walk through bent double—and the cabin, Hadwin sent three men down into the hold and took the cabin himself with one other, leaving the rest of the men to keep watch.

  Upon lighting the lantern hanging in the cabin, Hadwin quickly realized there were no potential hiding places there either. A bed and a dresser alone decorated it. The drawers would not fit the bow, but since it did not appear to be anywhere else, he decided he might as well see what the cabin did hold.

  The first drawer kept only what he might expect in a medicine drawer—but in the sec
ond one down, he discovered a small book beside a few ink jars and writing utensils. One lone book, its leather ruined and rumpled with dried seawater, its pages crackly as Hadwin carefully pulled it out and opened it. Toward the middle, after the complete ruin of ink and paper, careful script bumped along wrinkles in the pages. It was written in an unfamiliar language, but as the mental images of Arnacin writing it swam before Hadwin, he felt his eyes moisten in the knowledge that the islander might be gone forever. A dull clunk interrupted his thoughts.

  Meeting his companion’s gaze, who had come to stand at his elbow to look at the book himself, Hadwin raised a questioning eyebrow. The knight in turn nodded toward the bed. One careful look caused Hadwin’s grimace of disgust with himself. The bed did not rest on a solid wood frame as he had first thought. A thin line down the center revealed that there were sliding doors over a compartment.

  Dropping onto his knees, he pried his fingers into the crack, pushing one side open. A thick wad of green wool blocked the opening, yet tugging impatiently at it proved futile. It remained jammed. He stopped suddenly, however… for in touching it, he had revealed a foot the folds had previously hidden.

  “Arnacin,” he gasped, shoving open the other side to reveal the rest of a green cloak that someone had carefully positioned over the opening. Shoving both hands in, the knight found shoulders and gently pulled the captive out. Arnacin barely stirred beneath his hands, yet he breathed, his ribs rising and falling.

  Quickly unbinding the islander, Hadwin commanded the other knight, standing there in shock, “Bring some water. Hurry!”

  In the ensuing silence, he examined the islander as best as his limited medical knowledge allowed. Whoever had bound their captive had kept the ropes loose enough to prevent any harm to feet or hands, but other than that, the slightly stale scent of alcohol, and the perspiration that was likely due to the tight space, Hadwin could tell nothing more about Arnacin’s health.

  A scuffle broke out at the door suddenly. Looking up, Hadwin saw three of the knights enter with a small, struggling man in their midst. “He started to board until he saw us,” a knight explained. “We felt it odd enough to give chase.”

  “What do you know?” Hadwin barked, still cradling Arnacin.

  “Nothing, nothing!” the man protested.

  “What’s Arnacin doing here?”

  With a sudden breakdown, the man exclaimed, “I couldn’t do it! I couldn’t!”

  “Do what?”

  Taken aback, the man fumbled for words. “Kill him, like the king ordered.”

  “What!”

  “The k—”

  “Never mind. What did you do to him?”

  “He’ll wake any moment now, Sir. I was coming to give him his nightly dose. Don’t harm me! I’m loyal to the king, I swear!”

  Feeling Arnacin shift in his arms, Hadwin looked down to see unfocused eyes opening. Without needing to be asked, the knight who had left to retrieve water passed over a flask, yet the islander jerked away. “Arnacin, it’s alright.”

  “Hadwin?” the islander moaned. Then, as his eyes focused, “Why are we on my ship?”

  “You were reported to have deserted. The king asked me to search your ship for evidence.”

  Arnacin’s gaze flicked to the open drawer and the book still sitting atop it. Instantly, all color washed from his face and, shakily pushing himself to his feet, he breathed, “Out. Take your men, yourself, and everyone else off my ship.”

  Shocked, Hadwin protested, “Arnacin! I promise, we only did it out of worry for you. ”

  “I know. Now leave.”

  “We’ll leave,” Hadwin sighed, pushing himself to his feet. “Just come with us.” Turning to the knights as Arnacin shut his drawer—the book simply disappeared—Hadwin gestured them out. “We’ll take the suspect to the king. He can figure this mess out.”

  Once at the bottom of the ramp, he looked back to see that Arnacin was leaning on the rail panting, his face flushed. “Are you alright?”

  With a slight smile, the islander gasped, “It’s just dehydration.”

  “It has been five days since anyone last saw you,” Hadwin said, pulling the islander’s arm over his shoulders. Arnacin did not comment and he softly asked, “What are you protecting, if I may ask?”

  “Our freedom, Hadwin. My worst nightmare is that my home will know the natives’ pain. No kingdom must ever know where Enchantress Island lies.”

  Hadwin only nodded.

  “So you just believe anyone who forges the king’s command?” Miro said after the story had unfolded.

  Before him, the culprit quivered. “Please, Sire… He showed me the royal seal.”

  “What!” Miro exclaimed as everyone else in the room—Memphis, Arnacin, Hadwin and the rest of Tarmlin’s knights—stiffened.

  Shakily, the culprit pulled out a piece of parchment bearing Mira’s royal seal.

  Miro’s face turned white in fury. “Who gave that to you?”

  “M-Mulch, the vineyard owner.”

  “Bring him here now!”

  “He didn’t forge it!” Arnacin interjected, glancing toward Memphis. “He can’t have. It was an inside job. The kidnappers knew too much about my injury for it not to be.”

  “I don’t care who it was! I will discover who dares if I must search the whole city and castle combined!”

  “Your Majesty,” Arnacin pleaded, still watching Memphis. “Don’t follow the trail given. The culprit obviously has good contacts who will warn him if you start closing in and your trail will end with witnesses’ murders.”

  “If I must hang the entire city, I will find the culprit. This outrage won’t be ignored.”

  “Your Majesty, please,” Arnacin protested. Knights and culprit alike paled at the king’s threat. Memphis, however, remained impassive. “Do you not know how that will harm your kingdom? Your people need to feel safe under you. The natives don’t, which is why you’re at war. Don’t lose face with your own people.”

  For a moment, silence hung in the air like an executioner’s axe and it seemed that the room had emptied, save for those two actors. Then, the king sighed, “I can’t let the forging of my command stand, Arnacin. It must be dealt with or it will happen again.”

  “I know. So allow me to do it my way. I might find more direct ways.” He saw Memphis’s eyes narrow and continued, “You’ll never find the culprit by arresting the general populace.”

  “And how would you accomplish that?”

  “I’ll find a way—I promise.”

  Finally, Miro dipped his chin. To the culprit standing there, he said, “You may go home once you hand over that seal. Say nothing of what’s happened.”

  Nodding hastily in relief, the man slapped the parchment into Hadwin’s hand and bolted from the room.

  “If you could learn some wisdom, Arnacin, you might make some progress, as this has proved,” Hadwin commented as they left the great hall together.

  “Wisdom, you say,” Arnacin snorted. “Your king could do with learning a little selflessness. He’s sure everything that happens is due to him and that everything that could happen will affect him.”

  Smiling, Hadwin shrugged, “Somewhat, that is the truth of kingship.” He laughed as Arnacin emitted a growling sigh.

  “You know exactly what I meant.”

  “That he’s a little more pigheaded than he needs to be? Perhaps, but you are not easy to put up with as soon as you hold opposing beliefs. You have to admit that.”

  “Little more pigheaded,” the islander repeated in sarcastic resignation. “Little Pighead could go on his door.”

  “It should go on yours,” Hadwin returned, to both their laughter. “I’m glad we found you,” he admitted.

  Despite his earnest search for the forger, Arnacin met dead ends. Suspecting that one or more of the councilors had commanded the crime, he discovered nothing to prove which one, if any. The only information that Valoretta could provide was that Memphis had pushed the most in suppo
rt of the theory of Arnacin’s desertion, but as they both knew, he would have done so anyway.

  Meanwhile, no sign of Cornyo surfaced and Cestmir mostly kept further native attacks away from inhabited areas. Arnacin wondered if the enemy was allowing the duke’s success.

  Then, on a rainy day two months after his disappearance, Arnacin slipped out onto a balcony despite the damp cold that seeped through his skin. The wind was so fierce of late it pummeled water droplets into everyone’s faces, hoods or no. After yet another debate with the unyielding king, his brewing temper delighted in the harshness of the wind and rain that beat his cloak into his face and legs.

  His brooding changed to numbness as he spotted Cestmir’s troops pouring through the gates—surrounding a captive. Quickly, the islander stepped back beneath the archway, hoping no one had seen him, while his heart suddenly burned. Somehow, Cornyo had returned.

  Sliding down against the wall, Arnacin closed his eyes.

  After a few hours, the islander pushed himself to his feet, and turned down the corridor to the stairs that would take him to the lower floor, the guardroom of the dungeons below ground. He had always avoided it, trying to forget its existence, knowing that it was all too likely that he would be hauled there himself any moment. For Cornyo, however, he would risk it.

  The guards in the room, however, halted him before he could even finish descending the steps. “Arnacin of Enchantress Island,” one guard called. “We know why you’re here, and we’ve been given strict orders that you are not allowed. We have also been told to arrest you as well if you don’t turn back up those stairs.”

  For a long moment, the islander stayed in place, halfway between one step and the next, glaring at the guards. Yet they did not back down from their position, waiting for his decision, their weapons pointed toward him, and their expressions void of compassion.

  At last, Arnacin pulled his cloak around him like some dark bat, around the cold that had seeped up his spine, and returned back up the stairs until he was out of sight. Once the door had been lost to view around a curve, he charged up the steps three at a time until he reached windowed corridors.