ARTHUR

The war goes exactly as he suspected it would--poorly. The whole ordeal is an embarrassment. It is shameful that people so entrenched in military structure are so godawful at battle. Commander Vonadieu quickly proves she has no sense for strategy or tactics. Her methods essentially consist of head-on, blunt force.

The Busuruli leader is different. She clearly has no patience for negotiations, but she is blatantly aware of basic war tactics. A dozen small ships flank the Malroix warships before their force can even reach the shore, and one ship is lost to a surprise invasion before sundown on the first day. It sinks in a fiery blaze, the soldiers onboard slaughtered.

Arthur is disgusted to be on the side of the idiots, even if they are the idiots with numbers.

The Busuruli warriors are impressive. They are naturally tall and well-muscled, practiced at defending their shores from raiders. Even The Stormbelt doesn’t deter the water clans, like The Keshling, from wreaking havoc on The Golden Isles.

The Busuruli’s pearl pink armor and long golden ponytails are attractive under the sun, especially against their warm brown complexions. In the moonlight, they look ethereal and otherworldly. Their weapons of choice seem to be harpoons, spears, and chain-sickles, though some of them run into the thick of a squabble weaponless, wrestling down their opponents with strength and skill alone. The agonized screams of Malroix soldiers paired with the snapping of bone becomes a common cacophony as the days wear on.

The Busuruli display a fondness for burning whatever they can get their hands on, something Arthur can appreciate. They douse the ship hulls with flagons of oil and use flint to set them alight, but the Malroix’s stormcoricers are always quick to extinguish the flames with a bit of rain. It’s an obvious distraction tactic. The Busuruli have taken to catching the Malroix with their chain-sickles as they try to douse the fires, pulling them overboard. Making quick work of the humans once they hit the water, merfolk tear into their bodies with teeth and talons.

Cornelia had died similarly, and the reminder sends vicious satisfaction pulsing through Arthur. He has to hide his smiles when the Malroix go into their watery death throes.

The Malroix hold the remaining two ships but lose most of the dinghies. Two days later, more Malroix ships are called into battle and Arthur finds himself busy managing even more low-ranking soldiers. It is still an easy job, one he could do in his sleep, but it’s more time-consuming. He stills spends his spare free moments above decks, watching the war proceedings with distaste and itching to go ashore and show the foolish Malroix how a real battle is fought.

Ten days pass before Malroix soldiers even set foot on those pink beaches. The first thing they do is burn enemy corpses upon the shore. This sends fury blazing through the Busurli ranks. It is their tradition to lay their dead at sea. To burn them is a great offense.

It’s been many years since Arthur has smelled the scent of burning human flesh, and he is surprised to find it still makes his mouth water. Of course, the stench of burning hair and bowels is always quick to overcome the sweet, pork-like scent beneath it, but something primal in him appreciates it regardless.

The Malroix finally seize the islets, which the Busuruli must abandon as they flee to the mother island, but taking the Primrose Palace is no easy task, as Commander Vonadieu quickly discovers.

Two months into the fight, she lets her temper get the better of her as again and again her soldiers fail to break past those stubborn walls. Her first tactical play is to set a trap and draw them out, but the Busurli warriors they leave in the open on the beaches, wounded but not yet dead, simply end themselves the moment they are left alone.

And of course, the Busuruli sneak more small boats out and attack the Malroix during the dark hours, their knowledge of these shores far superior to the Malroix’s.

Arthur is not surprised when Commander Vonadieu orders him up from the low deck to her personal quarters one afternoon. She may not know his history, but she’s smart enough to know he’s cleverer than she is. He goes without a fuss.

Her antechamber is already cramped with her three favorite subordinates seated at a small wooden table. Arthur makes a spot for himself and forgoes a salute, brushing shoulders with comrades he’d happily gut if his life didn’t depend on staying in Malais.

Commander Vonadieu looks haggard and angry, the lines on her face taught. “I know you have a mind for strategy, Arthur.”

Arthur wishes she’d address him by his rank for once.

“Commander,” Arthur says flatly, “I’m not sure what you think I can do here that you and the other junior officers can’t.”

She slaps the table. “Don’t play humble! You must have some idea we haven’t thought of!”

Oh plenty. But he’s not terribly inclined to share them. Unless…

He props his elbows on the table. “I might have an idea, but it hinges upon secrecy. The others must not know.”

Said “others” make some affronted sounds that have Arthur fighting a smirk, especially when Commander Vonadieu agrees to his terms without hesitating. The Council must really be pressuring her to end this conflict soon.

“Get out,” she tells the others. “To your posts. Don’t you dare eavesdrop or I’ll toss you to the merfolk myself.”

They leave, shooting Arthur dark looks as they depart, and she locks the door behind them. When she sits back down, Arthur’s skin is prickling with anticipation. He can taste fire on his tongue.

“Alright,” Commander Vonadieu says, sitting back down across from him, “what’s your brilliant plan?”

“First,” he says, his voice taking on a crackling quality as flames lick up his throat and into his mouth, “listen.”

Her eyes glaze over.

He lets himself relax yet speaks with a mouthful of flame, “You are going to listen to me, but you are not going to remember what I say. You will come out of this meeting angry with me. You will claim my ideas are foolish. Enraged, you will remove me from my duty as Head of Supplies. You will not, however, reassign or resign me. You will not care where I go or what I do.”

Arthur’s words grab hold of her, sink into her, scorch into her core.

“In the coming days, you will get more and more stressed,” he says. “The pressure of leading this war will weigh on you. You will know that you cannot win, and it will drive you to distraction. You will fight a Busuruli warrior, and you will slip. They will kill you. You will let them.”

Her stare is distant, but she nods.

Arthur leans back in his chair, smirking.

“Now it is time for you to storm out.”