The Green Ember (The Green Ember Series Book 1)

by S D Smith

  Then Picket saw him, soaring through the air over the shoulder of Heather’s attacker. Father? he thought, but all was a grey blur. Behind Heather and the first wolf, the one whose jaws were wide to strike, the second wolf was now charging, intent on intercepting the soaring grey rabbit.

  Picket’s brief moment of hope dissolved. He tried to get an arm out past Heather to strike the red-eyed wolf bearing down on his sister. Then he saw another form, a white blur, launch from the bushes and tackle the second wolf. The grey and white tangle of teeth and blades rolled away into the thicket and out of Picket’s vision. He heard the sounds of a terrible struggle.

  Then, to his shock, he saw that the soaring grey rabbit was headed for Heather. No! He stepped back without thinking as the rabbit’s powerful feet connected with Heather’s shoulder, sending her crashing—into the cave!

  In. The rabbit had hit her hard, yes, but had put her out of danger of being killed. The wolves could never fit inside. Picket was thrilled and confused at once. He knelt by his sister, listened to her heartbeat, and felt her breath. She was knocked out cold, but alive. He sprang over to the cave entrance, his heart racing. What had happened to Heather’s savior? Was it Father? And what of the white rabbit, the one who had attacked the second wolf?

  When he peered out the cave’s entrance, he saw the grey rabbit’s back to him, standing guard over the entrance, a gleaming sword in his hand. There were three long red lines across his back. Rescuing Heather had cost him. He stepped back and forth as the red-eyed wolf with the horrible scar stalked him. The wolf was sizing up the sword-bearing rabbit and looked eager to strike.

  “You again,” Redeye said, a guttural growl growing in his chest. “This makes me very happy. My mission, you know,” he finished, laughing.

  Picket knew the grey rabbit had little chance against this powerful wolf. Redeye bared his teeth, crouched to spring.

  Then out of the bushes came the white rabbit. He was injured as well, Picket could easily see, but had overcome the other wolf. Picket could not believe it! The white rabbit was dressed in ordinary traveler’s clothes, as was the bigger grey rabbit, but his neck was crossed in a flowing black scarf. He strode out of the thicket, his sword bared.

  He said, “Unless you would die like your father died, Redeye Garlackson, leave now.”

  Redeye’s lone eye widened in shock. He was taken aback, then seemed suddenly eager. A look of frenzy was in his eye. But he could see that his opportunity had passed. For a few tense seconds, Picket believed he would strike anyway. But, after a moment’s hesitation, he stole away with a bitter growling hiss. Picket saw mingled triumph and disappointment on his face as he left. When he disappeared into the woods, they heard a terrible, menacing, and mournful howl.

  “The howl of shame,” the white rabbit said, lowering his sword slowly.

  “It’s not the first time I’ve heard it,” the grey rabbit said, slumping. Picket thought he knew that voice.

  “Father?” he said, emerging from the cave.

  The grey rabbit turned slowly, and, at first, Picket thought it was Father. But looking closer, he wasn’t sure. Everything seemed hazy.

  “I’m not your father, lad,” he said gently. “I’m the next best thing. I’m your uncle.”

  Picket could see it clearly now. He needed no confirmation other than to look at his uncle’s face. There were, he realized, some fairly easy differences to spot. Where Father was soft, perhaps a little pudgy, this rabbit was lean and powerful. In fact, he was more muscular than anyone Picket had ever seen.

  “I’m Picket,” he said, smiling wearily.

  “I know your name, lad. I’m your Uncle Wilfred,” he said, winking.

  “Heather!” Picket said, running back inside. He knelt beside his sister. He wanted to hug her, to hold her and weep. He couldn’t believe she was safe. It was too wonderful. And he owed it all to his uncle and the white rabbit.

  The white rabbit slid easily through the cave entrance and noticed Heather on the floor, unconscious.

  “We need to move her,” he said, taking in the cave through squinted eyes.

  Picket didn’t like this idea at all. She was tired, needed to rest in safety. “When she’s better,” he said.

  “No, lad,” the white rabbit said. “Now.”

  Picket bristled. It was one thing for his uncle to call him “lad,” but not someone who looked to be about his own age, even if he was a fighter.

  “We can’t move her,” Picket insisted.

  “I’m not asking,” he said, looking back and forth from Picket and Heather to the cave entrance.

  “And she’s not moving,” Picket said.

  “How long until Redeye Garlackson gets back with his wolves and brings an army crashing down on us?” the white rabbit asked.

  Picket couldn’t think of anything at first, but he was determined to take care of his sister at all costs. “The wolves can’t get in here.”

  “And what about your uncle? He can’t fit in here,” the white rabbit said, his tone growing sharper with urgency. “Should we leave him to the wolves? He didn’t leave your sister, did he?”

  “Didn’t leave her?” Picket asked, furious. “Just what are you getting—”

  The white rabbit held up his hand, motioning for silence. “Listen,” he said.

  Picket fumed but was silent. They heard the soft gurgling of a stream. The white rabbit crossed the cave, found the fissure on the other side, and went in, without hesitation.

  “Wilfred,” the white rabbit called, trotting back into the section of cave where Picket sat holding Heather’s head.

  There was the chirrup of a whippoorwill, a hurried call, which made Picket flinch; then Uncle Wilfred’s face appeared in the door. “That’s my call, Picket. You’ll know it’s me if you hear it. I do it a little faster than is quite right.”

  The white rabbit went on. “There’s a stream in here, Wil-fred. Must be another entrance where the water comes out.”

  “Right,” Uncle Wilfred said.

  “Where’s the stream, lad?” the white rabbit asked. Now Picket was sure—he hated being called “lad” by a rabbit who appeared to be about the same age as himself.

  “Past the seventh mound,” he said curtly.

  The white rabbit nodded at Uncle Wilfred, who disappeared with another wink at Picket. “See you soon,” Picket heard his uncle say.

  The white rabbit bent and dug into his satchel. He rummaged inside for a moment, then made for the cave entrance.

  “What’s going on?” Picket asked, allowing some of his anger to bubble up.

  “Just a moment,” the white rabbit said.

  Picket watched him leave the cave and heard rustling in the woods. Picket paced, anxiously watching Heather’s dim form. Wake up, Heather. Please.

  In a few moments, the stranger returned with two long, thick sticks. He bent to apply some cloth to the top of the staffs, squinting as his eyes again adjusted to the darkness. In a few minutes he had two blazing torches going, and the cave lit up. He tossed one at Picket, who caught it. He held it close to Heather, examining her face. He saw the torn top of her right ear and noticed multiple other scratches and cuts. He winced at each one.

  I should have been with you.

  “We have to get moving,” the white rabbit said, his eyes flitting between the cave entrance and Heather, then back to the opening deeper in the cave.

  “We have time to take care of her, I’m sure,” Picket said. But just as he spoke, they heard urgent, gruff voices and heavy footfalls. “They can’t get in here,” he added nervously. But it was almost a question. He disliked deferring to the white rabbit, but fear crept in, and he would do anything to protect Heather, even following this white rabbit’s orders. He would never leave her again.

  “They won’t be alone,” the white rabbit said, all business. He was calm
but collected his things quickly. “Can you carry her?” he said.

  “I think so,” Picket began, handing over his torch and trying to lift Heather. He laid her gently down again and said, “No. I can’t. Please help me.”

  The white rabbit looked at Picket, laid a hand on his shoulder, and nodded. “It’s all right,” he said. “Please carry the torches and go on ahead.”

  Picket accepted both torches and stepped forward, glancing back again and again.

  “I’m right behind you,” the white rabbit said. Lifting Heather off the ground with surprising ease, he moved behind Picket into the interior fissure of the third mound. The noise outside grew louder then began to fade as they disappeared deeper inside the darkness.

  Chapter Ten

  Rules of the Labyrinth

  Picket charged ahead with torches aloft, the white rabbit carrying Heather right behind him. They moved through a narrow rocky passage into a wider room. Picket noticed vaguely that there were drawings on the walls and some crumbling tapestries hanging. He tripped over what felt like cups on the floor. They waited here a moment; then the white rabbit ran on into another passage, which led to another and still another room, similarly strewn with a sparse assortment of neglected objects. Picket followed behind, or beside, the white rabbit from room to room, providing the light needed and looking, always looking, at Heather with concern. The white rabbit stopped to listen, grew frustrated, and hesitated at each turn.

  Picket was sure he heard voices inside the caverns, but they were distant and indistinct.

  They raced on and on. Picket stayed quiet, but he heard the white rabbit’s mumbling sighs, saw his eyes darting all around in futility. Finally, after speeding through countless corridors, they came to another cave that looked like the first entrance at the third mound, where Heather had been rescued. They crept up, and Picket looked out the tiny entrance, which had been covered with large rocks and was impossible for any of them to get through. Picket peered out but didn’t see any sign of the wolves or Uncle Wilfred. He shook his head.

  The white rabbit hesitated. He seemed to be deciding between trying to force an exit—which seemed impossible to Picket—or surrendering to the frustrating hunt for another exit in the dim and dank passages of the cave. He was also struggling with Heather. He was surprisingly strong, but he had his limits.

  Picket heard scraping and clawing coming from deep inside the cave. Had it been there the whole time? He was unsure. But it was there now. The only other sound was the constant noise of water, which would increase or decrease depending on where they went.

  The white rabbit ran back inside the passage, bearing Heather, with Picket following hard on his heels with the torches. They stopped to listen again and again. They found many similar rooms but no way out. The white rabbit finally collapsed to his knees and laid Heather down. He sagged, gulping air and heaving deep breaths. For the first time, it came to Picket that he and Heather weren’t the only ones who were exhausted. He had no idea how long Uncle Wilfred and this rabbit, whose name he did not know, had been without rest.

  “What’s your name?” Picket asked.

  “My name?” the white rabbit gasped. “I’m … I’m Smalls.”

  “Smalls?” Picket said, surprised.

  “I know,” Smalls said with a weary, wheezy laugh, “it’s strange. But I’ve always been little.”

  Then it occurred to Picket that, though they were roughly the same size, he might still be younger. And Smalls had the same lean, muscular frame that Uncle Wilfred had.

  “Smalls,” Picket said, motioning in the air, as if counting, and concentrating hard, “I’m good at math.”

  “That’s fantastic, Picket,” he said. “I wish we were in lessons right now,” he said, “working on a massive math problem.” He sounded completely spent.

  “We are, Smalls,” Picket said. “This is a labyrinth. But it has rules.”

  Smalls stood up. “Go on.”

  Picket furrowed his brow, thought for another moment. “Well, I know this area. I know Seven Mounds, at least from the outside. And while we’ve been running around in here—”

  “Wasting time,” Smalls finished.

  “No,” Picket said. “It hasn’t been a waste. I’ve been getting to know the inside.” He paced back and forth as he spoke. “When we looked outside I recognized the second entrance, the blocked up one, as being outside the fifth mound. We came in the third mound. Now, by the way we came, it seems clear to me that there was no similar room in the fourth mound. We have been going around inside through these three mounds. The third, fourth, and fifth. I think, if there’s no entrance in the fourth mound—and there isn’t—then maybe there isn’t an entrance for the second and sixth mounds.”

  “Okay. I sort of follow,” Smalls said.

  “So, I know there’s the stream up near the first mound. And there’s the stream you heard, which comes out and must join the brook that runs right past the seventh mound.”

  “So,” Smalls said, “you can find the stream entrance and—”

  “Uncle Wilfred,” Picket finished. “I think so.”

  “Lead on,” Smalls said, bending to scoop up Heather once more.

  Picket ran, with Smalls right behind him bearing Heather, who was still unconscious. They heard noises in the distance, what sounded like wet wings flapping and terrible screeches. Every noise echoed, and the caves resounded with pounding steps.

  They ran on harder, Picket making some adjustments in their route, until they came through a long tunnel, longer than they had been through before. “The seventh mound!” Picket called. “There’s a longer distance between the sixth and seventh mounds!”

  “Great,” Smalls whispered, “but keep your voice down.”

  Behind them they heard a growing noise of hurrying figures, shouting and cursing. Closer and closer.

  Picket led them through still more rooms and passages, always ascending higher and higher, before finally coming to a halt before an open space. In front of them were three entrances to separate passages. Heather stirred in Smalls’ arms.

  “Please tell me you know which one is ours,” Smalls said, looking back as the noise behind them grew louder.

  Picket paced and rubbed his eyes, shaking his head. “I don’t have it, Smalls,” he said, peering over his shoulder down the corridor, as if he expected it to burst with birds and wolves at any moment.

  “Get it quick!” Smalls cried over the crashing noise echoing in the endless series of cave passages.

  “I can’t,” Picket cried, crouching to the ground and rubbing his head, defeated. “If we choose badly, there’s no telling what’s down the wrong passages. Have you looked at some of the tapestries in here? This is not a safe place.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I’m sorry,” Picket said. “I can’t solve it.”

  “Then we’ll do what I usually did in math,” Smalls said.

  “What’s that?” Picket said.

  “We’ll guess!” Smalls cried, and he shoved Picket into the middle tunnel. Picket heard him slide in with Heather behind him.

  Sliding. Unable to slow down. Smooth, slippery rock. Spiraling down and down. More and more water seeped into the tunnel the farther they slid, so they picked up speed on the increasingly slippery surface. Picket tried to see if Heather was okay behind him, but as he twisted to look, one of the torches he was holding was extinguished. He threw it ahead of him and worked to protect the flame of their last torch. He would have to trust Heather to Smalls’ strong little arms. He could not let their only light go out in the middle of an underground labyrinth.

  They picked up more and more speed, and the tunnel steepened. Picket tried to control how fast he slid, but he couldn’t. It grew wetter still as more water rushed in from unseen underground streams. This is a drain. How full will it get? Picket struggled to stay upright a
nd keep the flame of his torch from going out. But it was impossible. He squirmed and gripped for the sides, trying to shield the flame. But he could not.

  A quiet hiss and all was black.

  They were underground, almost underwater, hurtling down a narrow tunnel of rock, and the fire of their only light was quenched. Picket cried out as he slid wildly in total darkness. The tunnel grew steeper still, until it finally ended and Picket shot into thin air.

  Chapter Eleven

  Trapped and Attacked

  Midair. Blind and frightened. Picket hung like a flightless bird out of his element. The moment passed, an endless fraction of a second.

  And now he was falling fast, plunging through blackness into he knew not what. He closed his eyes. He flailed wildly, as if it might somehow slow him down. But he came down and down like a sack of stones. One moment he was surrounded by nothing but air; then he was submerged in ice-cold water.

  Picket sank deep in the water, kicking frantically to reverse his downward momentum. Finally, he fought his way up and up in the darkness to break the surface of the water and take in great gulps of air.

  He opened his eyes. In a few moments he could see, albeit dimly. He was in a huge cavern, the bottom of which formed the large pool in which he found himself. Above, there were cracks in the walls that let in small shafts of light. After total darkness, it seemed almost bright. He strained to see a shore but couldn’t locate anything. Steep walls arching into a dome surrounded him. He was still confused, and his eyes were adjusting to the room’s dim light.

  Heather!

  He twisted, paddling in place, searching the water for his sister and Smalls.

  “Heather!” he shouted. “Smalls!”

  He looked all over, desperate to find them. He could not lose Heather again. In his frantic searching, he saw a little shore of pebbles in a corner barely illuminated by two low lights from the cave wall.