by S D Smith
The flint-and-fire arrow found its target. The packed blastpowder barrels blew apart in a raucous rupture that showered the night sky with great sprays of orange and gold. Catapults in line broke apart in the shattering blast. The concussive wave reached the glider’s wings, and he rose on the dissipating force. He turned, settled into the breeze, and sailed ahead—back toward First Warren. He felt grateful to be alive and happy to have ruined some of the weapons that would soon have been aimed at those he loved. He was glad to strike out against foes who would destroy the cause for which he would gladly lay down his life. After all, Tameth Seer—villain though he was—wasn’t wrong about the cost of the cause. It would be won with lives.
Heather. Oh, no. How will I tell Picket?
Jo felt a stab of pain, and he twisted, losing his easy glide. An arrow protruded from his side. He could feel it wasn’t deep, that his pack strap had slowed its entry, but it still hurt. More arrows followed. The Terralains, rushing along the ground, shot at the moonlit gliders. Thankfully, Cole and Heyna were far enough ahead of him to be clear of their fire.
An arrow shot through his left glider-wing, causing him to dip. Another ripped through his taut right wing, then another. He was hit again, but this time a buckle blocked the deadly point. His glider was failing, even as he managed to stretch ahead to reach beyond the farthest enemy archer’s aim. But the damage was done. His glider, already an imperfect device, was unbalanced by long rips, and he fell lower and lower till he landed roughly in the branches of a tall tree. He was in a grove of trees somewhere between the Terralain war camp and First Warren.
Jo checked his arm, which had turned awkwardly in his landing. He determined it was okay and scrambled down the tree. He landed hard and rolled over. Taking a deep breath, he sprang to his feet and checked the moon. He would run toward First Warren and hope for the best. As he started, he heard a voice from behind.
“Hands up.”
Jo stopped.
“I said, hands up.” This warning was punctuated by an arrow shot from behind him, which stuck fast in the tree just above his head. Jo raised his hands.
“Turn around slowly.”
Jo obeyed, resigned to his fate. He consoled himself that he had taken out some of Terralain’s capacity for war and that Cole and Heyna had escaped with the needed intelligence. Well, some of it. When Jo had turned all the way around, he gazed at the figure before him. It was a strong rabbit, though not so tall as the Terralains he had just seen. A hood covered his face. Behind him, a swarthy band held weapons ready.
“Who are you?” Jo asked, peering into the shadowy face, a small spark of hope flickering in his heart. The rabbit peeled back his hood and smiled. Jo laughed. “I thought you were dead!”
“I’m very much alive,” came the voice of the archer in the dark. “Where’s Picket?”
Chapter Three
RECALLED TO WAR
Picket limped along a wide path leading back to Helmer’s family farmhouse. He gripped a long, rotting beam of the split rail fence and pulled himself forward. He had rested, as commanded by Princess Emma, but he felt that now he must move. It wasn’t only that he wanted to do his part amid the preparations for the coming battle at First Warren but that he felt his fire for the fight waning.
Picket was tired. He felt old, almost. Haggard and weary. His injured leg was stiff and ached with pain. He had all but outrightly defied Emma’s insistent order for him to spend a few days at rest, angrily arguing with her so loudly that her staff and court were alarmed. But having grimly accepted his sentence and come to Helmer’s rundown family farm for a short retreat, he now found it hard to think of leaving.
Picket hadn’t been safe for so long. He hadn’t had a home, a proper home, for what felt like years. As for family, he had only had Heather and Uncle Wilfred since that day the wolves attacked and he lost his home, happiness, and, for a while, hope. Picket didn’t know if Uncle Wilfred was even still alive. But this farm, Helmer’s family’s farm where his sister Airen and his niece Weezie lived, felt both homey and safe. Safe. He felt a deep, soul-weary longing to stay.
So he knew he must go. Must move. His errand wasn’t over, not as long as Heather and the rest of their family might be alive, nor as long as any rabbit in Natalia trembled beneath the vast, ravenous shadow of Morbin Blackhawk and his Preylords.
Picket stopped and retied the long black scarf around his neck. He leaned against the yielding fence and gazed across at the sagging farmhouse set amid an ocean of pale, swaying grass. The setting sun sprayed rays of gold that played along the prancing grass and glinted on the old house. He watched on and on as the sun dipped lower. His hands played absently with sticks he’d gathered along his walk. Picket took his knife and trimmed and scored the stout twigs, fitting them together in their center. From his pocket he withdrew a ribbon, long and blue. Tying the several sticks together, he stared through tears at what he’d made.
Hurried footfalls sounded behind him, and he swung around, hand darting to his sword hilt. It was Weezie, running up with a smile.
“Don’t cleave me in two, Picket Packslayer.” She raised her hands as she crossed the last yards between them. “I have word from the city.”
“Am I recalled?” Picket asked.
“You are, Captain Longtreader,” she said. “The princess wants you back tonight for a council. It seems the enemy might be on the move.”
Picket nodded, then turned back to glimpse the last glowing light fall on the swaying field. He limped away from the fence, drew back, then launched his creation. He sent the starstick sailing through the air, its blue ribbon rippling in the wind. It rose and fell, disappearing at last amid a dark distant patch of tall grass.
Picket stared at the spot, blinked, then turned back to Weezie.
“Should we go get it?” Weezie asked.
“No,” Picket replied, limping ahead. “I’ll find it after I find Heather.”
He heard Weezie’s steps as she caught up to him and they crossed toward the house. The evening settled in as they walked, and the house began to glow with lamplight. Airen emerged onto the porch and gazed out into the deepening evening. Seeing them, she smiled and returned inside.
Picket’s leg was getting better, but it still ached. His limp seemed certain to be a lifelong reminder of these days of war, however long his life would last. He gazed up at the first stars, marking the vague traces of the warrior constellation high above.
“Was that my ribbon?” Weezie asked.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Weezie frowned in mock severity. “Picket Thingstealer, bane of the does.”
Picket sighed. “You’re never going to let me forget that song, are you?”
“No. I can’t see that ever happening.”
They entered the house.
Airen was waiting in her familiar chair. “You seem about to leave me,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Picket replied, looking down. “The war. The cause.”
“I was sitting in this very chair,” Airen said, squinting against tears, “when Helmer first left to join the war. When cause and crown took my brother away.”
“How old was he, Mother?” Weezie asked.
“About Picket’s age.” Airen wiped her eyes. “He told me he planned to come back—to finish his fighting and return to the farm. It’s what Father wanted, though he understood the king’s need. How I wept! I always wanted him to come home again. I’d stare out the window at the road, believing I might see him top the far rise and walk back into our lives. That he’d carry on what his fathers started. But he never really came home, not to stay. There was always another war, and then … well, then the king fell. That was the end of any hope of having him home.”
“Helmer was far away then, right?” Picket asked. “With Lord Rake and the army.”
“Is that what he told you?” Airen frowned.
“I don’t know if he said that or I just assumed,” Picket said. “He’s not always talkative abou
t the past.”
Airen nodded. “For good reason. So much pain.” She wiped at her eyes and shook her head, then smiled at Picket and took Weezie’s hand in hers. “I’ll let you get your things.”
Not long after, Picket hugged Airen and took his leave.
“Thank you,” he said, taking off and handing her his black scarf. “Will you keep this for me?”
“Of course, Picket,” Airen replied, smiling as she took the scarf. “It will be here when you come home.” He nodded, wiped at his eyes, then set out along the path as Weezie hugged her mother.
“I’ll be back as soon as I’m able,” Weezie said. Picket heard their whispered affection and then the sound of the door closing. He thought of his own mother and how long it had been since he’d seen her. Weezie caught up to him and took his arm.
“I can walk without help, Weezie,” he said, glancing at her grip on his arm.
“I know,” she said.
Chapter Four
THE DAWN ALARM
Alongside Weezie, Picket entered the city center of First Warren. By the light of a thousand torches, rabbits crafted elaborate defense works all over the square. Atop the walls, blue-robed votaries and stout soldiers from various citadels installed bowstrikers and other assets. Across the city center, soldiers and staff from all regions of Natalia worked side by side on a hundred urgent errands. Picket smiled to see the unity in the work. Diligent masons stacked long smooth sections of stone beside the palace roof, binding them together, while others stacked still higher sections above, ending in what looked like curling bridgework below. Elsewhere earthworks were being created with vast ditches situated around high sturdy mounds. Forges fired, and sweating smiths pounded out arms beneath the starlight.
“I’m angry that she’s left me out of this work,” Picket said.
“She’s no fool, Pick,” Weezie answered. “She knew you’d never rest here. And resting’s what she needed from you. You’re not missing out on the work; you’re doing it. She needs you as fresh as possible for what’s ahead.”
Picket grunted.
“You make a good point,” she replied. “It’s not hard to see who trained you. Your master—my beloved Uncle Helmer—has the same sweet facility with language.”
He grunted again.
Soon they were inside the palace, hurrying past the sentries, who saluted, wide-eyed, as they saw Picket limping past. Weezie smiled at their awe.
“Need a hand?” Weezie asked as they reached the foot of the stairs.
“Actually, they’re easier than flat ground,” Picket said. Taking the banister in hand and pulling himself up, he took several steps at a time.
They reached the top and moved into the long corridor leading to a large hall, busy with officers and soldiers coming and going.
“Captain,” an officer called. It was Lieutenant Warken, saluting as he ran up. “Captain Longtreader, if you please, Princess Emma awaits you in the council room.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Picket said, then started for the room.
Lieutenant Warken coughed. “Sir, I’m sorry,” he said, glancing at Weezie. “The council is for only the highest ranking lords and officers by the princess’s invitation.”
Picket frowned and was about to speak, but Weezie shook her head at him, then smiled at Lieutenant Warken. “Of course, Lieutenant. I came only to make sure he didn’t get lost. And you should have seen how much help he needed on the stairs. Picket,” she said, turning back to him, “I’ll be waiting for you beneath the seventh standing stone.”
“But Weezie, I’m sure—”
“Go on, Pick. I’ll wait for you there.” She smiled, turned around, and walked back the way they had come. Picket watched her for a while, then spun and limped ahead.
Picket saluted the guard outside the door, then entered. Inside, lords and captains sat around a large oval table. Emma sat at one end, flanked by Lord Blackstar and Mrs. Weaver. Next to them sat Helmer and Lord Morgan Booker. Lords Ronan and Felson whispered together. They had all been talking, but a silence spread as they noticed Picket come in. An odd reverence, Picket thought, showed on most faces. Some saluted, and others bowed. Helmer frowned.
“So good of you to join us, Lord Layabout,” he said. “Find a seat, Picket, if you can manage the strain.”
Picket grinned. He much preferred Helmer’s needling to the strange awe he seemed to inspire among even the highest ranked rabbits. “Lord High Captain Helmer, Your Royal Lordship, Defender of the Crown and Cause, I thank you,” he said, bowing neatly to his master. “It’s good to see your manners survived the last battle unaltered.”
Helmer shook his head, but a corner of his mouth turned up as he glanced over toward Emma. “Your Highness, I think we’re all here, now that our resident legend of folk songs has arrived from his country estate.”
“Welcome, Captain Longtreader,” Emma said, smiling tenderly at him. Picket bowed, then found an empty seat beside Heyward. “My lords and captains,” Emma continued, “I am reliably informed that Morbin is massing his army north of Grey Grove, and what we have awaited is nearly upon us. We expect his attack within the week.” She nodded to Captain Frye.
“Your Royal Highness.” Captain Frye bowed before turning to address the room. “We don’t expect to be ready with our defenses before ten days.” He glanced at Heyward, who nodded. “This intelligence, which was hard won, is ill news for us.”
“We must press on,” Emma answered. “What else can we do?”
“Press on,” Lord Morgan said, and others nodded and echoed his assent.
“Your Highness,” Mrs. Weaver said, “we must meet with the Terralains at once. It is vital.” Emma nodded, concern playing over her face. She glanced at Helmer, who looked away.
“And we must get the most vulnerable away safely to Harbone,” Lord Ronan added. “Unless they are already safely away.”
“The last travelers are preparing to leave now,” Helmer said. “I’m afraid we must send a sizable escort along, due to the nearness of the enemy.”
“I do not like it,” Mrs. Weaver said, shaking her head.
“What else can we do, wise Mother?” Helmer asked, without hint of rebuke in his tone.
Mrs. Weaver shook her head. Picket thought he read the meaning of her concerns. Nowhere is safe. All choices are heavy with peril.
“They go to Harbone,” Emma said firmly. “It is the best decision I can make. I will go with them, and the same escort that sees them there will bring me to meet Prince Kylen of Terralain.”
“I will assemble a party, Your Highness,” Helmer said, bowing his head quickly to her.
“Lieutenant Heyward,” Emma said, “is the coordinated defensive unit working well together?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Heyward said. He coughed nervously and glanced over at Picket. Picket nodded to him confidently, and Heyward continued. “Lord Captain Helmer has scoured every battle burrow with help from Harbone’s Captain Brafficks and Lord Ronan’s elite guard. We have brought all the weapons we can into the city. Emerson is overseeing the installation and fitting out the bowstrikers and other defensive measures. He has helped equip the Highwall Wardens and has hardly taken a break since your victory.”
“Our victory, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Go on, Heyward.”
“I am heading up the special constructions, under Captain Helmer, and my team of brother votaries from Halfwind has been excellent. As Captain Frye said, at our current rate of preparation, we need at least ten days.”
“Thank you, Heyward. Counterintelligence?” she asked, looking back at Captain Frye.
“Yes, Your Highness,” Frye said, looking cautiously around the room. “I will have a full report for you by morning.”
Emma nodded, then gazed around the room. Picket thought she looked tired and thinner. “What are we missing?” she asked. “We are doing our best, I know. And I appreciate how hard you’re all working. I do. But do any of you
have ideas we need to hear? Is there any way to shorten our preparations?”
“Your Highness,” Lord Blackstar began, “our messages sent to all secret citadels might yield reinforcements, but it seems unlikely to greatly reduce our need.”
“Thank you, Lord Blackstar. If any arrive, you will see to their integration into our forces and preparation.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“The trouble is, we don’t have enough personnel or time,” Lord Ronan said, frowning, “and we can’t manufacture either.”
“Which leads us back to the Terralains,” Mrs. Weaver said. “So much hinges on what they do.”
“I wouldn’t expect too much from them,” Lord Blackstar said. “Tameth Seer has poisoned them into thinking we betrayed and murdered Prince Bleston.”
“And that’s not all he’s doing,” Emma said. “But still, we must try. I sent an embassy for peace days ago, but they haven’t returned. Meanwhile, I have taken other, more covert, measures.” Another glance at Helmer.
Picket frowned. I’ve missed something. Where are Jo and Cole? Where’s Heyna?
“Maybe Picket should sit that meeting out,” Helmer said. “The Terralains don’t love his folk songs.”
Picket’s frown turned into a smirk.
There was a knock at the door. Lieutenant Warken entered and, folding his hands behind his back, waited to be acknowledged.
“What is it, Lieutenant?” Emma asked.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness, but a band from Halfwind just arrived,” Warken said, “and their leader is demanding to speak to you.”
“Their leader?” Emma asked. “Who might that be?”
The door was pushed open, and a gallant grey rabbit strode in. “Wilfred Longtreader, Your Highness,” he said, bowing low, “reporting for duty.”
Picket leapt to his feet. “Uncle Wilfred!” Sidestepping his chair, he limped quickly across to fold his uncle in an embrace. He felt the strong arms close around him. “I thought we’d lost you. I can’t believe you came. How is this possible?”