by S D Smith
“It’s lighter,” the Pilgrim said. “The range is longer by at least a hundred yards. It won’t dip. Aim true. Center of the body.”
Jo nodded. They set their feet, and Jo closed his eyes and felt along the arrow for imperfections. Finding none, he opened his eyes again. “Ready.”
He eyed the raptor king on his side, a huge eagle with hooked beak, razor talons, and crowned points on his silver helm. One of the dreaded Six. He breathed out, trying to find his focus as the eagle approached range. Almost there.
The eagle drew back and fired his spear with frightful force.
Jo flinched, then saw with a moment’s relief that the spear would miss them low. He readied to shoot. The eagle just came into range as the spear he had thrown smashed into the barracks below, shattering the walls that held up the roof.
The rooftop shook, then collapsed in a compounding avalanche of wreckage. Jo and the Pilgrim tumbled down as the Preylords unleashed their fury on the tops of the walls and swept into the city with ear-splitting shrieks.
Chapter Forty-Five
THE ARCHER’S LAST
Jo was falling, tumbling through the air among the shattering of the barracks below him. This time he had not gotten his shot off. Neither had the Pilgrim. Jo landed with a bounce in a heap of spraying debris amid the rubble of the fallen barracks. The Pilgrim was gone, along with his incredible black arrows. Jo lurched to his knees, wiping from his eyes the blood trickling down his forehead.
Amid the fresh rubble, Jo saw the one black arrow he had meant to bury in the eagle’s heart lying alongside his bow. He grabbed both, but the bow came apart in his hands. It had snapped in the fall and now dangled uselessly as Jo shouted in anger.
Screams and wild cries echoed in the air above the city and all along the wall. The raptor horde, now doubled and led by two of the Six, wreaked havoc on First Warren.
Jo stood slowly, groaning at the pain in his back as he shook loose some of the debris caked in his fur. He lumbered a few, awkward steps, realizing he had fallen only one story down. He stumbled around a jagged rend in the floor, which must have been where the Pilgrim had crashed through to the bottom floor.
“Pilgrim?” he called through the breach, setting off a coughing fit that he gasped to recover from. He heard nothing and ran ahead, taking several steps before he began to feel his legs working again. He ran faster, rushing to the edge of the barracks.
There came a thundering crash, and the roof above him tore free at the cleaving strike of a massive raptor’s talons. The Preylord’s open-beaked screech nearly knocked Jo over and deafened him at once. He stumbled, then balanced, drawing his sword as the great eagle beat his wings and slashed back with his powerful talons. Jo readied to spring over the slicing strike, knowing he would have to jump high. Driving into the floor, he made to leap, but the floor came apart under him and gave way. He plummeted below, narrowly ducking below the raptor’s slash.
Falling once more, Jo hit and rebounded off the solid bottom floor. He rolled over in pain and reached out for his throbbing hip. His back screamed at the reach, and he writhed on the ground in agony. His sword was gone.
The Preylord hovered just above, and Jo lay as still as he could. He clenched the black arrow tightly, listening to the eagle’s breath and his awful beating wings. Another screech, and those powerful talons shredded the next level of the barracks, exposing Jo once again as rubble rained all around him. Ignoring the pain, he shot up and darted for the door. The raptor tore ever more of the crumbling structure, and Jo outran, sometimes by inches, the Preylord’s killing strokes. Finally, Jo dove free of the crumbling barracks and rolled onto the wall top. He scrambled to his feet and turned back amid the chaotic noise.
Jo saw with terror not only the huge predator eagle but the second of the Six—the massive hawk the Pilgrim had meant to kill.
Two raptors, and one rabbit. Not ordinary raptors, but enormous kings of their kind, worshiped by their followers and evil beyond imagination. Jo was injured, his clothes in tatters and his body battered. He had no sword, nor his famous bow. All he had in his hands was the Pilgrim’s black arrow.
Useless. Hopeless.
He closed his eyes as the raptors drew back to cut him down.
A cry rose from behind him, and he turned to see the soldiers of the wall, led by Meeker and an arrow-firing one-eyed Nate Flynn. And Owen! They shouted and shot and leapt into the impossible contest with the towering raptors. They were few, perilously few, but their well-aimed arrows sent the monstrous enemies banking back, giving a moment’s reprieve.
But it did not last. The wall guards were not enough—nowhere near enough—and the Preylords soon swept back at the vulnerable bucks on the wall. Jo’s eyes grew wide, and he turned and ran back to his fellows. He dove for an abandoned bow as the eagle’s beak snapped into the defenders and his talons tore through the wall they tottered on.
Jo was struck hard by the incredible force of the awful talon, swiped sideways with a great gash torn along his side. He flew out and away from the wall into open air amid a spray of rock. He cried out in pain and terror.
Jo opened his eyes at the height of his fall and saw the two raptors kings in a line, one in front of the other, atop the shattered wall, striking at his surviving allies with savage zeal. He closed his eyes and felt what was still gripped in his hands.
A bow in his right hand. A black arrow in his left.
Automatically, without thought of what would follow, he brought the two together and smoothly nocked the arrow to the string. Aiming as he fell back, he drew hard, waited a moment, and exhaled with a smile as he released the speeding shaft.
It raced through a shower of debris, narrowly missing a chunk of parapet, to sink inside and rip through the angry eagle’s heart.
But the arrow did not stop.
It sped on through the raptor king with a shocking pace and caught the heedless hawk behind him directly between the eyes.
The raptors tottered, then fell dead, plunging limply from the top of the wall.
Jo watched until he saw his shot go home. He sent out his arms and twisted his wrists, activating his mangled glider. It went taut, though only barely as its stitching began to tear apart in the tension. He glided low, weaving uncontrollably till he landed roughly among a band of soldiers, who surged up to protect and give him aid. They bore the arms of Chelmsford.
“Where’s Lord Felson?” Jo asked, panting.
“Dead, sir,” an officer said, face showing amazement. “What did you just do?” Above them the surviving raptors went mad, and many fled. A medic bent beside Jo and eased him back onto the ground. He felt a stinging on his side.
“I helped the Highwallers up there … We killed two of the raptor kings. Can you send up reinforcements … and medics for them? They’re heroes up there … there aren’t many left.”
“Yes, sir,” the officer said, nodding to his colleagues to send a detachment that way.
“You should all go, in fact,” Jo said trying to get up. The medic held him back.
“Wait, Lieutenant Shanks,” the officer said. “Please lie back a bit. Let her stitch you up, at least. We’ll relieve them up there.”
“There’s an old buck up … in the old wolf barracks,” Jo said, wincing. “He’s on the … bottom floor. Please find him.”
The officer gazed up at the devastated barracks, then back down to Jo. “We’ll do our best, sir.”
“He’s stitched up and bandaged for the worst wounds,” the medic said. “Recommend evac to field triage.”
“The palace,” Jo groaned, sitting up. “I’ve got to get back … to the palace. Picket needs me.”
“I’ll send soldiers with you, sir,” the officer said.
“Send everyone you’ve got aloft,” Jo said, accepting help getting to his feet. “There’ll be more enemy … here in no time. They need you up there on the wall. And anyway … it’s nearly time to clear the field here.” He glanced over at the alcove beneath the dam.<
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The officer frowned, hesitated, but finally saluted and hurried off toward the steps, followed by the medic. Jo took a last look up at the shattered wall and wrecked barracks. He shook his head and hurried—limping painfully—toward the palace.
Chapter Forty-Six
ACCEPTED
Picket stepped closer, listening intently to Lady Glen. Jo and Kylen, accompanied by the mysterious Pilgrim and his band, had left not long ago. He was back inside the palace in Emma’s council chamber. Helmer and Heyward had just laid out their long-planned scheme to thwart the ground invasion.
“So all our hopes hang on the timing of the blast,” Helmer said. “It must all come apart in time. Otherwise, all those young soldiers …”
Picket caught his master’s eye, saw there through a dewy veil the old soldier’s affection.
“Do we have any chance of survival if the alcove scheme fails?” Emma asked.
“None,” Helmer said.
Lord Blackstar nodded gravely. “It has to work.”
“It’s a gamble,” Lady Glen said, leaning back in her chair, “but it’s all in the balance now. We have to turn the tide, so to speak.”
“I don’t think Morbin expected us to survive the first wave of attack,” Lord Blackstar said.
Picket nodded. He’s not the only one surprised.
Mrs. Weaver leaned forward, hands clasped beneath her chin. “Having thwarted the first invasion—though at great cost, to be sure—we must be prepared for anything. Morbin might decide to send the next waves in pairs.”
“Agreed,” Helmer said. “But even if he does, I still believe we should hold the alcove back, Your Highness. We have already used the Blackhawk Option. I don’t want to squander this until the wolves are in position.”
Emma nodded. “We proceed as planned. Heyward, make sure the primary line is working.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Heyward bowed quickly and hurried off.
“Picket,” Emma said, “is the R.F.A. ready?”
“Standing by, Your Highness. I just checked in with Harmon and Lallo a moment ago. They have done well in my absence. Somehow the ramp is still intact, and they are itching to get into the fight.”
“You have trained them well. And … their time will come,” Emma said, a grimace flickering across her worried face. “Lord Blackstar, try to find out if we have any reparable bowstrikers or anything that might help us repel the next wave.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Blackstar said, bowing. He left too.
The room, which had been a hive of activity over the past week, felt ominously empty. Picket glanced at Captain Frye’s seat and felt a sharp sadness. He thought of Heather, of his parents, and his little brother, Jacks. Glancing over at Helmer, he saw the old buck was looking at him with an expression that matched his own.
“I think that’s all,” Emma said, rising. Those left in the room rose and bowed; then most hurried back to their stations.
“Mother,” Emma said, when only she, Helmer, Picket, Mrs. Weaver, and Lady Glen remained in the chamber, “who is this Pilgrim?”
“He’s an old friend, Emma, my dear.”
“A friend of Father’s?”
“No, your father never had the honor, I’m sorry to say,” Lady Glen said, smiling kindly at her daughter. “Trust me when I tell you that his loyalty to our family and this cause runs deep and goes back far. And how are you, my love? You are doing a wonderful job here. Your father would be very proud. I am.”
Emma smiled. “I hope we come through this, Mother, so we can be together at last.”
Picket looked down, thinking of his own mother with grief.
“It is my greatest hope,” Lady Glen said. “But the place of a queen, whether ruling or not, is to give everything for the cause. I have no doubt you will say yes to your subjects before you say yes to yourself. I see it in you.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Emma said. “I wish Father were here, or Lord Rake. But I’m glad I have you.”
“Picket Longtreader, son of those faithful old friends Whittle and Sween. It has been some time since I last saw you,” Lady Glen said. “You have grown, in so many ways. Your father and mother would be proud of you. I am so sorry. I am afraid my coming to Nick Hollow endangered your family. I meant to warn them. I was heartbroken to see them fall. And your sister …” She hung her head.
Those horrible words echoed in his heart. Heather is dead.
“We have all lost so much, Your Majesty,” Picket said, “you not least of all. I miss my family, and I still feel their loss keenly. I wasn’t ready. I was weak. I feel responsible. But I can’t fix that. I can only try to save those I love now.” He looked over at Emma. “Heather gave her life for Emma. I will do the same.”
“You have been a flame for us in the dark part of our story,” Lady Glen said. “Shine on, while you have the fire.”
“I will, Your Majesty,” Picket said, bowing low.
“Now I must speak to Lord Captain Helmer,” she said, as Helmer drew nearer to her.
Mrs. Weaver crossed to embrace Picket, and Emma followed them to the far side of the room, near the door.
“How are you, my dear Picket?” Mrs. Weaver asked. “You’ve come a long way since Helmer nearly killed you in training and you smiled at me with your bloody teeth.”
“Heather didn’t love that,” Picket said, smiling.
“No, she didn’t. Dear Heather, how I miss her.” Mrs. Weaver looked past their small huddle to where Helmer and Lady Glen were speaking quietly together across the room.
“Heather would have been a great queen,” Emma said. “Was Mother a good queen, Mrs. Weaver?”
“She was. There was glory there, and she wore it well. You can still feel the remnants of our golden age when you’re with her. Heather would have, perhaps, surpassed them all. But you, dear, will be our spark in the darkness.”
“I only wanted to heal,” Emma said, head down.
“Queens can heal,” Mrs. Weaver replied, gazing across as Helmer knelt before Lady Glen. She put her hands tenderly on his head in a blessing. Helmer rose, bowed low to the Queen Mother, then turned and hurried out the door with a quick sideways glance at Picket.
There were tears in his eyes.
After a quiet moment, Lady Glen crossed to join them.
“He still feels it, doesn’t he?” Mrs. Weaver asked. “Guilt over the king’s death.”
“Helmer feels he could have done more,” Lady Glen replied. “And maybe he could have. He could have lost his arm and died fighting them all. I think he wishes he had.”
Picket winced. “Wait, what? Excuse me, Your Majesty, but did you say he might have lost his arm? What do you mean?”
“He never told you about the scar on his arm?” Lady Glen asked.
“No. I hadn’t even seen the scar until Harbone fell. What happened?”
Lady Glen exchanged a look with Mrs. Weaver. “I think you ought to tell him,” Mrs. Weaver said.
Lady Glen nodded. “You see, Picket, in those last days before my beloved husband, King Jupiter the Great, was killed, Helmer felt uneasy about your uncle Garten. By other betrayals, Garten found out and had Helmer and his squad sent on a meaningless errand. Helmer’s team of elite young bucks was known as the King’s Arm. Their motto was My arm for the cause and crown. My all for the cause and crown. Helmer grew suspicious of his mission and turned around, returning unexpectedly with his young soldiers. Finding the traitor on the verge of his betrayal, Helmer and his unit tried to kill Garten and foil the plot. But they failed. He failed.”
“And the young bucks under his command were all executed in front of him,” Mrs. Weaver said. “This was worse than killing Helmer a thousand times. He cared for his soldiers unlike any other commander, looked after their families and treated them like sons. But for Helmer himself, Garten had far darker plans.”
“Indeed.” Lady Glen picked up the telling. “Garten sought to teach Helmer a lesson on the futility of resistance, a sick lesson from
a corrupt and wicked mind. He had Helmer chained to a tree in sight of the clearing at Jupiter’s Crossing, where he could witness the defeat of the king. Garten did not think the king would be killed, but he savored his rival witnessing what he believed was his crowning achievement.”
“Garten had only Helmer’s right arm chained tightly to the tree,” Mrs. Weaver said, her mouth drawn down in disgust, “and the cruel villain left Helmer his sword.”
Lady Glen went on. “‘If you want to die fighting for your king,’ Garten said, ‘then use your famous blade and cut down this tree, or else take off that strong arm you’ve used to win so many battles.’ And Garten left him there with this twisted, unwinnable dilemma.”
“In the end, Helmer watched,” Mrs. Weaver said, tears in her eyes, “thinking, quite wisely at the time, that his death in attack would do nothing to serve the crown and cause, but if he survived to fight, he might right this wrong. But ever after, he was convinced he had failed and should have given his arm and his all to stand up for the king. He called himself oathbreaker and brooded for years.”
“Oh, Master!” Picket groaned, so much of his mentor’s pain making sense like it never had before. “Oh, my master.”
“All the young bucks died, and his king was murdered,” Lady Glen said. “He saw it all. He knew he could cut himself free, losing an arm, and charge into the clearing to be killed in a vain and valiant final stand. Afterwards, his heart beat, but he was dead inside. He lived only for revenge against Garten and Morbin. But he kept his arm. He kept his life, and his body unmarred. Except for the scar on his arm. The arm he should have, in his mind, cut free to die in an honorable ending. Yes, he kept his arm, and his life. But he lost all hope.”
“Until you came,” Mrs. Weaver said. “Until you gave him hope again.”
“I suppose you know,” Lady Glen said, turning to Picket, “that he loves you.”
“I know it, Your Majesty.” Picket wiped at his eyes. “And I love him. He accepted me—me, with the same name as his tormentor and traitor—when I couldn’t accept myself.” An image of Helmer as Picket had seen him that fateful day appeared in his mind, fist over his heart, making his surprising vow. I accept you. Picket hadn’t known then how brave Helmer had been to do that.