The Savage War

by Esther Wallace

  Breath returned to Valoretta and she was glad in that moment that Arnacin did not look up, for she was sure that her love was cascading from her eyes like a waterfall.

  As if it had been prearranged, Arnacin met Cornyo and the duke in the same corridor where the islander had met the knight two months before. There, islander and former knight embraced, neither able to find the words to express themselves.

  It was Cestmir who ended the silence as the two broke apart. “I apologize, Arnacin. It was most unfair to so judge you.”

  “No,” the islander whispered. “You were right. I’ve only brought ruin to Mira.” Raising his gaze to the exiled knight once again, Arnacin added, “I’m sorry, Cornyo.”

  Shaking his head in denial, the former knight stated, “Don’t feel guilty, Arnacin. I’ve been handed wings. The war is no longer any concern of mine. I can start a real life… and you’ve given it to me, Arnacin. You’ve shown me what it means to live in the first place.”

  “Know this, Arnacin,” Cestmir added as he turned away, leaving them to their farewells. “You proved you are a man, today. A real one.” He did not give the islander a chance to reply to that statement, but his gratitude and the greater shame it brought left no words anyway.

  Turning back to the former knight, Arnacin simply whispered, “Go on, Cornyo. You have much to do before you leave, I know.”

  Clasping the islander once more, Cornyo whispered, “Good-bye, Arnacin of Enchantress Island. I hope we will meet on some other shore, when your mission is done here, although I do not expect it. Sadly, the world is very vast indeed and, if I know you, you’ll make a beeline for Enchantress Island when given your freedom.”

  Arnacin did not bother to deny it, but as the former knight turned to leave, the islander stopped him. “Cornyo, how did you do it? You never answered Miro.”

  Grinning slightly, Cornyo teased, “Oh, over a game of Molshunting, I’ll tell you some day.”

  “I’m not going to ever play Molshunting with you, and you know it.”

  Laughing, the former knight conceded, “I wouldn’t say because I had help. You trained us well, Arnacin, even when you intended no such thing. I hired one of our adopted natives. He had distant family among those captives, and so he was honor-bound to rescue them. He also spoke his native language and was wise in the ways of tracking. Of course, he will never share his knowledge since that would be a betrayal of his people, but he considered this more a matter of protecting their honor. As soon as we reached a settlement safely, I told him to escape. Mira knows nothing of his mutiny and I promised him that they never shall.”

  “They never shall,” Arnacin promised.

  While the islander and Cornyo conversed thus, Darien paced back and forth before his fellow councilor, fuming, “For his honor. The nerve of that wretch from the sea! As if anyone as insane as he is, is capable of possessing honor.”

  “Insane?” the councilor’s closest companion, Erlund, inquired.

  “Yes, insane! Take note of how he fights battles. While anyone with any mind at all goes off to bring peace through killing mortal beings, Arnacin of Enchantress Island goes to kill gods.” Growling, Darien exclaimed, “As far as the enemies themselves, oh no, he protects them, sides with them even. If Miro possessed any sense, he would have hanged that traitor long ago.”

  “No one has any sense in regard to him,” Erlund hissed. “He’s taken over everything.” Lowering his voice, Erlund stated, “It’s high time we did something about him.”

  “That was never in question,” the older councilor snapped. “It’s what we do. I already offered him the kingdom.” Huffing, he sighed in pleased imaginings, “How Miro would have murdered him had he agreed—‘for loyalty and honor,’ of course.”

  “Do you think he saw through you?”

  “Ha, he thought I was making a play for the throne myself. He never dreamed of what I truly intended.”

  Sighing, Erlund concluded, “Well, there’s no use crying over dry wells.”

  “Cornyo,” Darien suddenly growled, causing his companion to pause. “That knight should be dead. Very well, the islander can convince the king to sway as he wishes. So can I.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “He and his family will be found dead in the streets tomorrow.”

  “How are you going to achieve that?”

  “Armed villagers will do the deed.” Darien smiled malevolently.

  “They’ll never do that.”

  “They will obey their king’s orders.”

  “What?” Erlund exclaimed. “If you are intending to forge the king’s command—”

  “The king will never know. Random men—who disappear. All Miro will know is that the exiled are dead, that men are angry at his lack of authority. During the time of mourning, we can convince him of how easily he was manipulated in the first place. At the least, if we can’t see the wretch of an islander executed, we can bring an end to all his successes.”

  A scattering of soot into the cold fireplace caused them both to freeze. “Who’s there?” Erlund squeaked. No answer followed, but he panicked. “What if that was one of the chimney sweeps? What if he overheard you?”

  Hissing, Darien stated, “No lowly servant can accuse any of the king’s councilors. He would look like a conspirator himself.”

  Quaking, the younger councilor persisted, “All the same, I’m not helping. I’m not being tarred and hanged, thank you.”

  “Fine, remain a coward. Something must be done and, if I’m the only one with enough backbone to do it, then so be it.”

  Had someone asked what made Arnacin so miserable in that moment, even he could have found no real answer, and if they asked if he had actually wished to hang, he knew he might have said “yes” in the end. For indeed, there was a part of him that wished to quit, to forever end the fear that the war would drag on indefinitely, that all his plans and moves were and would remain futile. Miro’s wisdom, or the islander’s honor, had narrowly avoided splitting the kingdom internally. Should the fighting continue, what else might happen?

  Practicality, usable arm or no, told the islander that he would never see home again, not unless he first betrayed all he knew of himself and life. It was that part which simply wished for death, which begged for it. And so, beginning to feel horribly caged, he took a walk beyond the city’s grounds, where his only companions were the blades of grass protruding out of the muddy puddles that blanketed the ground. There, he let his thoughts seep into the blankness of the squelching and splashing of his booted feet. Beyond his sight, the ocean roared and the crash of waves battling rock felt pleasurably catastrophic to his tormented heart.

  He had not gone far, however, when hurried splashing footsteps sounded behind him. Yanking his blade out, he whirled. Running toward him came a boy, every inch of him smeared in what Arnacin took to be charcoal.

  “Arnacin of Enchantress Island,” the boy panted, causing the islander to take a wary step backward.

  “You apparently know who I am.”

  “Never mind that,” the stranger gasped, halting before Arnacin and placing his hands on his knees as he fought to regain his breath. “I was sweeping a chimney…”

  Looking again at the black streaks covering the boy, the islander nodded, “That much is certain.”

  “Listen,” the boy snapped. “They’re plotting against you!”

  “They’ve been doing that since I arrived,” Arnacin said, immediately turning away in bitterness.

  “Not like this. I was up the chimney and heard mutinous-sounding whispers, so I stopped and listened. They said this and that, always with you as the subject of their disgust, but then one says that they can’t let you win, and they’ll forge an order of the king’s to murder those leaving tonight.”

  His attention captured, Arnacin demanded, “Who would be fool enough again?”

  “For ambition, almost anyone, I suppose, but I can’t remember that they said anyone’s name.”

  “
Anything that would tell me who purposes such a crime.”

  “Um… The main person pushing for it said he offered you kingship and that you refused. He said it like he had been planning to turn you in as an assassin the minute you agreed.”

  It took Arnacin not a minute to drag the memory forth. Hissing softly, he pushed past the boy.

  “Are you going to tell the king?”

  Whirling back, the islander asked, “Tell him what? Without any evidence, it’s too high a charge for anyone to believe.”

  “I told you because I thought you would believe me, no matter what my position. Doesn’t the king trust you enough?”

  “In what, Chimney Sweep? Against his councilors? They rule, and I have too much to gain by accusing them.”

  “What do you plan on doing, then?”

  Although he was tempted to say, “Kill those given such orders,” he knew it was a futile move. Despite the careful hours the swordmaster had spent training strength back into the islander’s arm, he still could not keep up with an ambush.

  After a moment, he whispered, “I don’t know.”

  “May I suggest something?”

  “Anything you like.”

  “Speak to the king. Find some way he cannot doubt you.”

  Arnacin bowed in answer, causing a red hue to shine even under the boy’s blackened skin. Smiling slightly, the islander strode back to the castle.

  After the king had dismissed everyone but Memphis, he sat there, watching the men file out. Long after they were gone, he still sat there, contemplating his decision.

  Cornyo, one of Mira’s most steadfastly loyal knights had rebelled against his country. Yes, he had admitted to doing it because of a lady, and for love of Mira itself, but the fact remained that before Arnacin appeared, not even those things could have made him.

  As wrath bubbled inside Miro, he shot to his feet and stormed over to the windows. It was obvious, no matter what anyone said, that Cornyo had help in his rescue, and it was not the islander. While Cornyo himself swore that was not the case, if it was, Arnacin himself would have admitted it.

  No, there had been someone else—someone Cornyo had carefully kept secret even from those he was rescuing. Miro doubted even torture would pull it from the man. Considering how white he had been during his interrogation in the cells, he had expected it, but the king was convinced that torture would yield nothing, and would be a poor reward indeed for their hero.

  “Sire,” Memphis finally commented from behind the king, “I fear how Cornyo will inspire the next hothead. He did not seem to take his punishment as he should have and that is almost as bad as receiving none.”

  Without even turning away from his view by the window, Miro muttered, “Are you daring to question my judgment, Memphis?”

  “By no means, Sire,” the councilor puffed, yet just as he was about to finish his assurances, one of the door guards announced, “Arnacin of Enchantress Island, Your Majesty.”

  Considering how the islander entered before the guard finished announcing him, the king pictured the herald spotting the islander’s determined stride and quickly blurting his words out before Arnacin could fully pass him.

  Smiling slightly, Miro inquired, “And did you also come to question my judgment, Arnacin, son of Bozzic?”

  Only a sharp gaze would have spotted the brief glance Arnacin threw in Memphis’s direction, as if confirming the question’s origins. Then he replied, “In such circumstance, I can hardly question them. No, Your Majesty. There is a rumor…”

  This time, no one could have missed the look toward Memphis in the hesitant pause that followed.

  “What type of rumor, Arnacin? There are many for me to choose from should you not finish.”

  Turning back to the king, the islander dipped his chin. “A rumor for your ears alone, Your Majesty.”

  “And what ears are you concerned about?” Miro pressed.

  Something hostile flashed in the islander’s gaze as it again flicked in Memphis’s direction.

  Guessing some of the unsaid words, the king sighed, “If this rumor is of such importance, Arnacin, it is likely that Memphis shall hear of it before long.”

  A long silence followed, in which the king felt entirely forgotten as an invisible duel appeared to transpire between his high councilor and his war councilor. To Miro’s surprise, it was the islander who backed down, whispering, “It is my understanding that someone will forge your command to gain their means. Should word of the rumor leak outside your hearing, I fear that any possibility of truth in said rumor will end, and the culprit will therefore hide until another chance for evil.”

  Suspiciously, Miro warned, “I will not have you suggesting that Memphis is plotting against Mira, and should that not be the aim of your hints, I see no reason to fear his ears and mouth.”

  For a long moment, Arnacin stood there, and then bowing, he whispered, “Your Majesty.”

  With that, he departed, leaving Miro with the unsettled feeling that he was ignoring a warning of imminent danger.

  After another five minutes of silence, the king excused his high councilor while he remained in the great hall to mull over his own fears and the many pitfalls that awaited him should he make the wrong choices. Hardly had the councilor left, however, before a dark shape slid soundlessly into the room from a side door, causing the king to whirl in alarm.

  Coming face-to-face with Arnacin, Miro breathed, “What happened to the guard?”

  “He let me in,” the islander whispered, shortening the space between them. “Your Majesty,” he added in deadly seriousness, “I do not suspect Memphis of anything at this time, yet I do believe he and the other councilors… are close, that it is common for them to share their complaints, if nothing else.”

  “Your persistence, Arnacin,” Miro huffed, “is tiring. Very well, what rumor have you heard?”

  “Someone attempts to order Cornyo’s assassination before his departure, along with anyone going with him. I don’t know for certain if it’s true or not, but if it is true, I wish not only to stop it, but also to catch the culprit. Will you give me the authority to command a detachment of guards tonight in secret to protect the exiles?”

  Trying not to humiliate the islander by glancing at his shoulder, Miro asked, “You anticipate an attack and hope to find the culprit thereby?” At the slight nod, he demanded, “What would any fool gain by forging my command in this, outside of death? It is an absurd rumor, whatever the case.”

  “It is,” Arnacin agreed, looking past the king’s shoulder to the sky outside. “But I’m not willing to risk Cornyo’s life by ignoring it.”

  Asking himself the question the islander had left unspoken, the king sized the islander up.

  “There are times, Arnacin,” he whispered, “that I wonder why I feel certain of your honesty.” As the islander’s gaze flew to meet his, he continued, “Do you wish to know what I am thinking? As you wish. I am wondering what you could achieve by making the whole thing up and then saying tomorrow that, unfortunately, no attack came. That is what I am thinking.”

  Pride flashed in Arnacin’s dark eyes, yet he made no comment.

  Submitting, the king exhaled, “Take your command, Arnacin. I cannot think of anything you could gain.”

  Coolly inclining his head, the islander strode back out. Watching him, Miro called forth the guard responsible for allowing Arnacin entrance in the first place. The islander had indeed stolen Mira’s heart and mind, but there was a limit.

  Through inconspicuous messengers, Arnacin warned Cornyo of the impending danger and asked him if he had yet found a ship willing to take him. The answer returned that one captain had agreed—albeit with some complaint—to set sail just before dawn, leaving the former knight with as much time as possible.

  The islander’s greatest fear was that an attack would push them beyond the rising of the sun, and he could not predict Miro’s decision if Cornyo pushed such a line.

  With no control over that matter,
however, the islander spent the day gathering any of his old command currently in the capitol, passing word from one to the next to meet him outside Gagandep’s home as the moon conquered the sun. While they continued to inform each other, the islander sat with the master swordsman to consult him regarding the state of his shoulder.

  “Leave it to them, boy,” the master swordsman advocated. “You are not capable of handling the force of anything striking your blade. If you have any desire to go home, you’ll give your men your orders and leave the rest to them. That is my advice.”

  After a moment of staring at the tufts of grass peeping up from between the courtyard’s flagstones, Arnacin sighed. “If not for the fact that it is so necessary for them to remain out of sight and hearing, I would listen. As it is, I feel I cannot, and you know it. I asked you for advice about ways I could avoid the actual conflict while still being present. Please be so kind as to provide it.”

  Meeting him full in the face, the master swordsman growled, “I have answered you, boy. You are known too well on Mira. Should you be there at all, there will be no avoiding the fray and you will forever ruin what little chance your muscles still have of any sort of recovery. It’s too much for them.”

  “We’ve been working all winter,” Arnacin exclaimed in frustration.

  “Impatient boy,” the swordmaster warned. “What type of war veteran are you?”

  “I hardly consider eight months of waiting a lack of patience,” the islander reminded him, “and under current circumstances, someone’s life is in peril.”

  Sighing, the master swordsman pushed himself to his foot. “They can easily protect him from death, boy. Let your vengeance rest this once.” So saying, he hobbled away on his peg leg.

  Watching him leave, Arnacin remained sitting in thought… Was it vengeance to wish Darien brought to justice? Indeed, could it be worse than vengeance? Could it be a manipulative drive to best an opponent in any way possible?