by S D Smith
“Agreed,” Helmer said. He clasped hands with Uncle Wilfred and ran off.
Uncle Wilfred turned to Heather. “And you’ll go back to—”
“I can’t leave Picket!” she shouted, “I’m coming with you.”
“You’ll go back and rally whoever else you can from Cloud Mountain,” Uncle Wilfred said. Then he sprang away, running like he was on fire.
Heather adjusted her wrap, took a deep breath, and blocked out the alarming pain in her arm and the ragged burning of her lungs.
She charged back up the hillside.
Chapter Forty-One
Return to Jupiter’s Crossing
Picket knew the landscape from maps, but it was different to be on foot. He didn’t recognize this tree, or that hillside. He lost his place in small ways many times, correcting course when he came to a large stream or a bigger landmark that he recognized. He kept up a steady pace, measuring his endurance against the long road he knew he had before him. He wouldn’t stop. He hoped Smalls would, and so he hoped to overtake him before he reached Jupiter’s Crossing.
If Smalls beat him to the crossing, he knew it would be too late. A terrifying image kept presenting itself to his mind. It always found him arriving just in time so that he could, like Uncle Wilfred with King Jupiter, see the horrible thing happening and be powerless to alter anything.
He bounded on. His feet dug into the earth, shattering clods and spinning rocks, as he threaded through brush and sped through clearings. His heart pounded. His body cried out against the pace, screaming at him to rest. But his mind argued back. Don’t stop. Never stop.
He had reached the base of the mountain in what he believed had been good time and had made good progress across the foothills, stopping only to drink. He had eaten nothing since their breakfast of bread and cheese in Lord Rake’s quarters that morning. Hunger gnawed at him, but he only drove on harder, refusing to consider rest.
He ducked beneath a branch, snapped past several more, and sped on through an overgrown patch of forest. The woods were silent. He heard his own breathing, felt his own pounding heart, knew the familiar grind of displaced earth beneath his feet. He felt alone in the world.
He hoped to reach Smalls before nightfall, but he was no scout. He wasn’t able to read the ground. He could only pursue the quickest route he could calculate from Cloud Mountain to Jupiter’s Crossing. He hoped he was fast enough to keep that hallowed ground from doubling its deadly reputation.
Most of what he knew, he’d learned from Uncle Wilfred. Jupiter’s Crossing had been crossed for many lifetimes, though it had before only been called “the crossing.” The place called Jupiter’s Crossing meant the narrowest gap between forests and had been where smaller animals would cross. They were easy targets for birds of prey. It had been deadly to try to cross there time out of mind, but King Jupiter made travel through safe. This was why Morbin Blackhawk had relished the irony of this location for King Jupiter’s fall.
When the sun was halfway down the sky in its evening descent, Picket despaired. He believed he had only a few miles to go before he would reach the hallowed crossing. He was more and more convinced he would be too late. Weary, hungry, and hopeless, he went on.
The last few miles toward Jupiter’s Crossing were hard, harrowing work. He jogged now, urging his weary body on. His thoughts were occupied with the many mysteries he was facing. Heather had called him Jupiter Smalls, the son and heir of King Jupiter Good. Smalls had the Green Ember. Picket thought back to Nick Hollow and the Lady of the Glen. Was that Jupiter’s widow—Smalls’ mother? So much that Uncle Wilfred had said now made sense. How ironic was it that all those who hated the Longtreaders, Uncle Wilfred especially, had no idea that the one he devoted his life to protecting was Jupiter’s heir. They had kept Smalls’ identity a secret, and he could see why. Now he, nephew to the traitor Garten Longtreader and marred with the scorn heaped on the Longtreader brothers, was the only one near enough to help the lonely, hunted prince. He was the only one who could save Jupiter Smalls.
He shivered.
He felt the weight of the task settle on him. It would crush him, he was sure. He was as much Uncle Garten as he was Uncle Wilfred, or Father. Hadn’t he as much as betrayed Jacks? And had he not betrayed Smalls as well, with all his moping, moody foolishness? He would stumble, as he always had. He would show he was unequal to the task. There would be birds. He almost vomited at the thought. Terror seized him, so that he could barely put one foot in front of the next. At least he could stay on the ground, die on the ground like a rabbit and not up in a tree.
He carried on, trying to think of his father, mother, and Jacks. He thought of Heather, Emma, and Heyward, Helmer, Mrs. Weaver, Uncle Wilfred, and Smalls. He tried to be brave for them all. He could not save the world, but he could go down fighting. For Heather and the rest.
I will at least do that.
Then Picket saw what he had been looking for: a stream running north, the unmistakable sign that he was getting close. He slowed, suddenly conscious that there might be wolves, birds of prey, or any number of evil creatures in the area. They would likely leave this path unguarded, lest Smalls should become suspicious. It was almost certain that they could take Smalls in the forest along the way. But if they waited for him to come to the infamous clearing, they would greatly reduce the possibility of an escape. As the horrors of history had demonstrated, there was nowhere to hide at Jupiter’s Crossing.
The sun was getting low, nearing the horizon of trees, when he had his first glimpse of the clearing. He followed the path now, darting through the trees and peering ahead, searching for some sign of Smalls.
Then he saw.
Jupiter Smalls lay on the field in the midst of Jupiter’s Crossing, his arms bound behind him and his neck laid bare to the teeth of Redeye Garlackson.
Chapter Forty-Two
The End
Picket was afraid. But seeing Jupiter’s heir on the ground, seeing that monster poised above and hearing his laughing taunts, changed something in Picket. He was afraid, but a violent fury rose in him, drowning out his fear.
Redeye Garlackson spoke. “How now, young prince? Where is your keeper? Has your Longtreader betrayed you as well? I think so.” He cackled, his gravel voice rattling out. “No one will come for you. My wolves have done their work. My spy has done his work. You, like your father, are doomed.”
“You can never kill enough of us,” Smalls said. Picket wasn’t surprised to find his friend’s voice even, steady. “Another will rise in my place and deal death to you, just as my father did to yours.”
Picket inhaled. He felt for the grip of his sword hilt.
A harsh growl rose in the wolf’s throat. “I’ll snap your neck, Jupiter Smalls,” he barked, “and feel nothing but delight.”
Picket stepped out, ready for a wild run at the wolf, but froze when he heard another voice.
“Lord Morbin waits.” This voice did not belong to any wolf. And it sounded familiar to Picket. Very familiar. He ducked back behind the tree, stealing glances at the shadowy scene. “The prisoners are on the move, and Lord Morbin wants him added to their number. A crown jewel for his treasure. However,” he said, and Picket saw him emerge from beneath the shadows of the trees across the clearing, “he said it didn’t matter much to him whether this rabbit prince lived or died. Of course, you do have quite the score to settle with him. And the setting is just too delicious here. I think perhaps we should kill him.” Picket saw who it was and knew why the voice was so familiar.
Garten Longtreader.
Picket gasped. He looked so much like Father. He tried to keep his breathing even and made ready to spring into a last, desperate attack. But when he looked again, the grey rabbit was rifling through Smalls’ satchel. He stopped, smiled, and removed his hand. In his hand, fused with the last of the day’s light, gleamed a large emerald.
Over his uncle’s left shoulder Picket saw two massive birds leave their high perches and fly toward the center of Jupiter’s Crossing, where Garten Longtreader was poised to order the murder of Jupiter’s heir. One was a giant eagle and the other, a hawk. Not Morbin Blackhawk himself, Picket knew, but these two were like him—massive, terrible, and cruel.
Picket almost fainted. Paralyzed with fear, he found it nearly impossible to move. But move he must. He breathed deeply and thought of Master Helmer. How I wish you were here with me, you mad old soldier.
He fingered his sword hilt but left it sheathed. An old image of the Starseek game came to his mind, and he relaxed, remembering Heather and the family he loved, the cause they all believed in and for which he was laying down his life. And the Starseek game reminded him of another thing, of how his mind worked. Of what he was good at. He gave one last, hasty look at the scene, then whipped back behind the tree, his back plastered to the trunk. He closed his eyes and quickly mapped out his foolhardy attack.
One breath. He smacked the tree, drumming out the fear. Another breath. He remembered, with a welling fury, his family’s ruined name, the attack on his home, his parents and Baby Jacks. One last breath. He thought of the cruel treachery revisiting the royal household here.
It must be now!
He ran from his cover and straight for the center of the field. Garten Longtreader examined the Green Ember with satisfaction, and Redeye Garlackson moved to kill Prince Jupiter Smalls.
Picket had covered half the field when he was spotted. Garlackson raised his head, a grim delight on his face. He seemed to recognize Picket. Garten may have too, for he stepped back quickly and tripped, spilling the emerald high in the air.
The birds didn’t wait. They flew straight at Picket, the foremost one—the eagle—swooping low with his talons poised.
Picket never stopped. He ran faster. The hawk circled behind, directly above Garlackson, behind and above the speeding eagle. Picket saw how it was. They would take him in turns.
When Picket was a few yards from the swooping eagle, he went as low as he could, shortening his strides and dropping low to the earth. The eagle smiled a terrible, knowing smile. The smile seemed to say he had seen small creatures try this desperate action a hundred times, that rabbits were always so very afraid and sank low, but it never helped.
They were nearly face to face now, the screeching eagle so close! The eagle dropped lower, and as he did, Picket sprang suddenly up, leaping hard and quick directly at the eagle. The eagle’s face showed shock, confusion. He lashed out with his talons, but he had hesitated.
Picket raised his powerful feet and soared just past the grasping talons, kicking the eagle’s head and landing heavily on the predator’s back. From there, Picket sprang again, using the bird’s firm back to launch higher into the air. The eagle was driven hard to ground and knocked senseless by the succeeding blows to his head and back and the unmoving earth.
Meanwhile, Picket flew.
He sailed through the air with terrific force right at the circling hawk. This bird, stunned by what he’d seen, extended his wings and tried to beat back a short, regrouping retreat.
It was too late. Picket spun forward in the air, feet over head. As the bird’s wings extended, Picket planted his powerful feet directly in the hawk’s middle. It was a devastating kick. The hawk was knocked back, breathless, to fall spiraling to earth. Picket’s momentum had been arrested in midair.
Beneath him, Redeye Garlackson stood stunned. He swerved from Smalls to face this rabbit falling like a meteor from the sky.
Picket did fall. He fell fast. As he did, he drew his sword for the first time in one deft, lightning motion.
Garlackson turned and looked up just in time to see the flashing blade that ended his life. He lay dead on the ground as the red sun set.
Picket rose slowly to his full height, breathing hard. He stared at his sword and at the lifeless wolf.
A moment later, Picket sliced the ropes that held Smalls and helped him up. Garten Longtreader had fled, at first crawling, then running into the woods. The stunned hawk was nowhere to be seen.
“My brother,” Smalls said, clasping Picket’s hand.
Picket smiled. “My place beside you. My blood for yours. Till the Green Ember rises, or the end of the world.”
Smalls nodded gravely. He bent to find his sword. It was lying right beside a bright green gem. Smalls slid on his satchel and returned the stone to its depths.
“We need to go,” Smalls said, sheathing his sword. But as he did, the woods ahead came alive. A row of wolves appeared, nearly fifty strong, snarling furiously as they looked on their dead captain.
Picket shook his head. Of course. Master Helmer said there are no happy endings.
Smalls smiled sadly at Picket. “Let’s make it a good end,” he said.
“Yes, my lord,” Picket said, bowing quickly. Somehow, he felt unstoppable. “Let’s make them remember.” They drew their blades and stood, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, at the center of Jupiter’s Crossing.
The wolves charged, teeth bared and spears poised. Picket braced himself for the end. But before the attacking wolves got halfway to the rabbits they slowed, then stopped. Their expressions changed. They hesitated, eyes widening.
Picket heard a noise from behind. He turned. A host of furious rabbits crashed into the clearing. Uncle Wilfred was at their head, and beside him, Helmer. They were flanked by soldiers, captains, and lords from various citadels and from the Forest Guard. Lord Rake, Lord Victor, Captain Frye, Heyward, and a hundred others charged in.
“For Jupiter’s blood and Jupiter’s heir!” Uncle Wilfred cried.
“For the Green Ember!” Lord Victor shouted. They drew even with Smalls and Picket, and all advanced together, putting the ragged band of wolves to flight.
Chapter Forty-Three
After the End
Picket dashed into the fray, side by side with Jupiter Smalls, slicing at the retreating wolves. They pursued for a few minutes, then Smalls stopped. Picket stayed with Smalls, grateful for a chance to rest. When had he last rested?
Lord Rake came up beside them and bowed quickly to Smalls. “Prince Jupiter,” he said, handing him the horn. “I suggest, lord, that we call off the pursuit.”
Prince Jupiter nodded, then sounded the horn clear and long. At once, soldiers came trickling back through the woods, and everyone worked their way back to Jupiter’s Crossing. “You’re right, Lord Rake,” Prince Jupiter said once they had gained the clearing. “We all need rest, and we’re too few if they are reinforced and turn on us.”
“But what if they share our location? What about the security of Cloud Mountain?” Picket asked.
“It’s likely they’ve already sent word as far as Morbin,” Uncle Wilfred said, breathing hard as he jogged up. “There’s little we can do about that now.”
“Uncle Garten was here,” Picket said.
“Then it’s certain,” Uncle Wilfred said with a scowl. “Morbin knows.”
“We’ll have preparations to make, my lord,” Lord Rake said. “Up the mountain and elsewhere.”
“The world has changed today,” Prince Jupiter Smalls said, looking at Picket.
More and more had gathered now and were circling around them, chattering and slapping backs. Torches were lit and Jupiter’s Crossing was illuminated. Uncle Wilfred, seeming to remember himself, raised his hands. The rabbits, breathing hard and smiling, grew quiet.
“My friends,” he called. “Your prince—Jupiter Smalls!” He dropped to one knee and bowed his head.
Picket followed his uncle quickly, bending the knee and bowing his head. Everyone else did the same.
Picket looked up to see the prince with his arm extended toward him, motioning him over. “Stand with me, Picket,” he said. “If you will.”
“I will do nothing els
e,” Picket said, rising and crossing to Smalls’ side, “for as long as I live.”
“Loyal rabbits all, please rise,” Prince Jupiter said. They stood. “We have pressing matters still, so I’ll say little for now. But I call you to remember, by your honor, and to faithfully repeat, that on this day, in the place of my family’s greatest loss, the name Longtreader meant salvation.” He pulled Uncle Wilfred to one side and wrapped his arm around his shoulder. “And for many years, I have been protected by the name Longtreader.”
Picket beamed, tears standing out in his eyes. Heather found him, and they stood together beside the prince and their uncle. “Thank you all for your valiant work. We will need more in the years to come. The war is only starting now, but this, the first battle in our war for liberty, is won.”
Cheers and shouts filled the air above Jupiter’s Crossing.
* * *
There were fires all over, surrounded by tired, happy rabbits, leaning on swords and swapping stories. The company rested and shared what provisions they had. They cared for the wounded as best they could and saw to the care of the few who had fallen. All were exhausted.
Picket and Heather sat around one of many fires. Prince Jupiter had called a halt halfway back to Cloud Mountain. Picket took water and his share of the scant provisions. Heather blinked and rubbed at her eyes. Uncle Wilfred insisted on perfecting the sling he had hastily made for her earlier.
“But you’re as bad off as I am,” she said wearily.
“Not quite,” he said, smiling through a painful bruise on his cheek, a swollen eye he could barely see out of, and an awful gash on his neck. “I’ve had worse.”
Lord Victor sat across from the Longtreaders at the fire, beside Helmer and a smiling, sometimes wincing, Captain Frye. Uncle Wilfred finished his adjustments to the field sling and turned to Lord Victor.
“Where’s the prince, Lord Blackstar?” he asked.
“Prince Jupiter is at the central fire,” Lord Victor Blackstar said, pointing. “He asks for the captains and lords at his signal. He has procured Lord Rake’s horn.”