by S D Smith
No. No. No! Picket fell on his knees, agonizing over what he was seeing.
More screeches followed as the raptor kings pursued Helmer toward the alcove, a sudden suspicion driving them to dive at the scrambling rabbit captain.
Helmer lit his torch and lifted it high, then turned to face Picket. The old buck stood, illumined in the alcove’s arched opening, barrels of blastpowder piled around him, left hand holding his torch aloft and right hand clenched in a fist over his heart.
Picket could see the pale scar wrapped around the bend in his arm.
My arm for the cause and crown.
My all for the cause and crown.
Never taking his eyes off of Picket, he let go his torch.
Picket lurched forward. “No!”
Then he was knocked back, as the great grey dam exploded in a shattering bloom of orange. Jo rushed to Picket’s side, dragging him back to his spot as the dam came apart, spraying colossal chunks of rock into the sky and belching out jets of fire. The host of Preylords around the dam, including the pursuing two raptor kings, burst into flames and were shredded by the hot rock shrapnel blasting out in a wild hail of crippling shards.
The Fowlers tripped their small hidden catapults in turn as the wolf army closed around them, teeth snapping and claws slicing. The young bucks launched in a sudden shot to fly back near the edge of the dam’s calamitous detonation. Picket rose in the blinding brightness, then was hit by the concussive wave emanating from the all-pervading blast. He was driven back in the sudden gust of the explosion’s aftermath, amid the falling rock and fiery spray. He came to himself in the air and banked back automatically to follow the other Fowlers to loop up and land on the palace roof where cheering soldiers shouted for joy and hugged one another.
Picket shoved celebrating bucks away and hurried to the edge of the rooftop, where he gazed at the ruin of the now-flooding dam breech, tears streaming from his eyes. Heyward’s trap had worked better than they had dared imagine. Fires were everywhere in the city center, and the damage was vast, but the explosion killed countless enemies, and the furious flood that now rushed into the city swept away the vast army of wolves on both sides, carrying them past rooftops crammed with rabbits long-prepared for this maneuver.
Fires were doused. Foes were destroyed. Heyward’s gambit had paid off, and he had been there himself to see it through. They had tried to plan for the least cost in lives, but Picket knew Helmer would have chosen this ending for himself every time. He had saved Picket and the other young soldiers in his charge. He had saved them all. Cause and crown.
Picket fell to his knees, weeping for more reasons than he could even understand himself.
Somehow, against all hope, the cause was still alive.
But Helmer was dead.
Chapter Fifty
THE FINAL FOE
Picket sagged on the edge of the palace roof.
Rabbits on rooftops all over the city launched everything they had at the surviving Preylords who fought on. But, as before, many raptors turned back in retreat to fly back to Morbin’s forces. The flood rushed in, covering the city in high water. But the rabbits had been planning this tactic, and they were well-drilled in its execution. Hordes of wolves were washed away and drowned in the flood, many sinking down into the pit that had once held the original First Warren, where Daggler and his band were destroyed and where enemies of the last battle had been cast. The Brute’s Gorge. The pit became a swirling vortex of death, spinning down countless wolves to their end.
They had dealt with all but the final attack waves, had killed five of the vile Six, and the two principal wolf armies were being swept away in the flood. They still expected a wolf attack by sea, still expected the worst of the air attack led by Morbin himself, but the enemy’s land forces were defeated.
Water poured through the shattered dam, and the islands beyond it were open to view. Forbidden Island’s desolate gloom showed clear in the north.
A hand touched Picket’s shoulder, and he turned to see Emma. “Let’s finish what he started,” she said.
He nodded, wiping his eyes, and followed her to the huddle of surviving rabbits atop the palace. Lords Blackstar and Booker were there, along with Lady Glen and Mrs. Weaver. The Blackstar twins, Jo, Harmon, Heyward, Lallo, and the sturdy old Pilgrim—returned from his misadventure with Jo—rounded out the group.
“The true end is upon us now,” Emma said, “and you are all that remains of my council.”
“We have no plan left for killing Morbin,” Lord Booker said. “It was spent on Falcowitson. Father told me what Morbin was like in battle. Helmer—may his memory endure—has given us this chance, but we are not ready, Your Highness.”
“I have seen him at war,” Lord Blackstar said, “and Morgan is right. It is …” He trailed off.
“We have come this far,” Emma replied. “There is a way, even if the odds aren’t good.”
“Beyond a plan to answer Morbin,” Lady Glen said, “we must hope for an unexpected bequest. I have seen it happen before.”
“We can only do our part,” Mrs. Weaver said. “The next right thing.”
“What is that?” Emma asked.
“Fighting them,” Heyna said, pointing at Lake Merle, where a fleet of ships appeared in the lake bay behind the islands.
“And them,” the Pilgrim added, pointing high and far, where a black mass formed like rainclouds on the horizon.
“My eyes are not so keen as yours, Pilgrim,” Emma said. “I see the ships—so many—but is that …?” Her voice trailed off as she gazed into the sky.
The Pilgrim peered into the distance, while Picket reached for a glass offered by an aide and set it to his eye. It seemed a swarm of some kind, but of an unbelievable number. His heart sank. Out in front of the innumerable horde flew a great black bird bearing a long scythe.
“That’s him,” Lord Blackstar said, shaking his head. “Morbin Blackhawk comes at last.”
“They’re all coming,” the Pilgrim said.
Picket clenched his fist as he stared into the distant host. “Let them come.”
* * *
Morbin Blackhawk hit the city at the same time as the forbidding ships. Diving in with his scythe, he carved an avenue of destruction through the midst of First Warren. He raised his scythe as he approached the wall but did not use it. Instead his powerful talon tore through the top of the wall, shattering stone and sending scores of defenders plummeting to their doom. He scythed them out of the sky as they fell, as if so eager for their deaths that he could not wait for them to strike the earth. His cruel, cackling cry echoed around the city and stilled the hearts of its defenders.
Morbin made for the city center, shattering the rooftop armies with great swiping strikes. Many fled, but brave bucks fell at every swing of his deadly weapon, and his breastplate deflected any arrow sent his way. Others stuck in his hide to be snapped off in turn. Nothing could penetrate his armor, nor anyone resist his coming. He came like an angry king retaking his throne with a heart bent on vengeance. Buildings crumbled before his wrath. Even Forbidden Island, visible behind his brutal attack, rumbled and collapsed in a series of unsettling tremors that shook the entire city. The islands on either side of Forbidden shivered and shook, then fell themselves into the ruinous deluge.
Forbidden Island and its six sister islands were gone.
First Warren was falling.
Chapter Fifty-One
ATTACK BY SEA
Heather cried out as the hall came apart all around them. Smalls’ starsword and her massive maul were no match for the last of their foes, the avalanche of falling rock they had themselves created. They embraced in the center of the cavern, the dazzling spread of light falling on them from above. She gazed up while the world rumbled and dragon death-wails joined the noise of bursting rock all around.
The light high above grew, and Heather winced against the sudden sharp brightness. It must be that the high gate is crashing in. Just before she closed her
eyes, she saw a shape against the brightness.
“Take the rope!” came the call of a familiar voice from far above.
A long rope uncoiled above them, falling in a rippling descent until its unraveling end landed with a muted thud beside them. Heather’s eyes flared and Smalls urged her onto the surprising lifeline. She gripped the rope and was heaved up amid the ongoing chaotic collapse of the dragon tomb. Halfway up she saw more forms above, but one looked familiar.
“Heather!” Father cried, and she was drawn up into the light, out of the gate and onto the surface of the quaking island. Father gripped her hand and pulled her into an embrace.
She could not believe what she was seeing as her eyes slowly adjusted to the blinding light. Father stood among others, many of whom she recognized from Akolan, as, in the background, the stout ships packed with battlebucks from District Seven sailed by. One was moored to the edge of the rocky Forbidden Island. They had come, just as had long been planned, and just in time.
Behind her, Smalls emerged and was pulled out onto the faltering rock.
“We have to hurry!” Father cried, gazing up with a shudder as the crew urged them ahead to the ship while the ground rumbled, gave way, and split apart behind them, opening ever-widening gaps that flooded with rushing water. Heather leapt onto the deck of a long narrow ship as the island behind her collapsed entirely in a thundering rumble of ruin.
“Give way!” Father cried as the ship’s crew pushed off with long poles extended, and a huge wave generated in the wake of the island’s demise shoved them ahead. Heather, unbalanced by the sudden surge, fell on a coil of rope. Gentle hands reached out for her, steadying her shoulders amid the swelling sea’s rise and plunge as the ship sped ahead.
“I’ve got you, Heather dear.” Heather squinted up to see Mother bending over her.
“Mother!” was all she could say; all else was lost in an astonished babble.
“Are you okay?” Mother asked.
“I’m …” Heather paused, glancing around as her eyes adjusted further to the light, “… I’m very well.”
“I’m glad to hear it, my dear girl,” Mother said, “because you will have to be brave for what we are facing.”
Smalls stood beside Father only a few paces away, and Father was pointing ahead as he spoke in the prince’s ear. Heather gasped at what she saw.
First Warren was under siege. Everywhere fires blazed, but a sudden gushing flood—the current of which the ships seemed caught in—was extinguishing many. She squinted to make out a massive raptor above the city with a long scythe tearing through defenders with alarming ease.
“Morbin!” she cried, stumbling ahead.
“It’s him,” Father said. “Hold on!”
The ship entered a rough gap and shot down into the city itself. The dam, Heather saw with ever-rising alarm, had been blown apart, and the ships of District Seven’s long-prepared fleet were sailing into the city. Heather saw Father and Smalls on the prow, stark against the brutal battling all around. The Tunneler and the Truth and Whitson Mariner’s Heir, sailing into the ancient city on its darkest day.
“Fire away!” Mother cried, as raptors flew low overhead.
Small, coiled, wooden devices were tripped, and great nets shot out from bow to stern of the long ship, enveloping enemies in a tightening net fitted with weights. They brought down several raptors, and the ship’s company of battlebucks, who had trained their whole lives inside the caves of District Seven in Akolan, leapt from the ship to finish off their foes.
Battlebucks from every ship followed hard after the netapult attacks on the raptors, and soon the rooftops of the flooded city were relieved by teams of eager rabbit soldiers—all born slaves in Akolan—surging into the fight.
Heather saw, with satisfaction, that Father’s forces from Akolan were helping to even the odds against Morbin’s raptors and the smaller number of wolves who fought against the rabbits atop the roofs of First Warren. These Akolan rabbits had planned their battle with raptors for decades and had spent countless hours and resources preparing for this war.
The netapults were joined by other devices and strategies, ably adapted by shrewd commanders to the battle blazing all around them. A kind of iron blastpowder barrel sprayed shrapnel skyward, tearing through and bringing down countless Preylord foes. Bucks throughout the fleet set fire to touchholes on these devices and a cheer followed their roaring blasts.
The bedraggled rabbits of First Warren’s defenders rallied, and the intense fight continued all around. But there was that part of the enemy’s arsenal for which no preparation could be made.
Morbin.
The Preylord king carried all in his wake. There was no answer for him, and defenders fled or fell at his coming, cut to pieces. He tore through every defense, and no strategy could withstand his invincible advance. Morbin swept into the city center and hovered above the last of the tall standing stones lining the square.
Smalls, sailing into the city by sea like an ancient king, gazed with hatred at the massive hawk, the eternal enemy of his kind.
“Steer for the standing stones!” Smalls commanded.
“Aye, Your Highness,” the pilot cried, and they swerved past a massive half-shattered building upon which rabbits and raptors battled.
Along the tops of the buildings a new thing was happening. Some of the enemy raptors bore rabbits on their backs, and these uniformed soldiers leapt from the birds and landed on the rooftops, joining battle against the city’s defenders. Heather fumed as she noted the red bands at their necks, preymarks of the so-called Longtreaders of Akolan.
These were her uncle’s—Garten Longtreader’s—own soldiers, and she scanned the rooftops for their leader.
A shriek spun Heather around as a pale raptor dodged past a desperate netapult blast and winged back to strike at the sleek ship. The massive talons tore through the mainmast, sending shattered wood spraying out in splinters, killing many of the crew, including the pilot. The ship swerved left, back toward the main surge of the current, knocking Heather sideways. The raptor circled back, beating his wings to fly in and strike at the scattering crew atop the ship.
“Pikes!” Father cried, and the rabbits left on deck reached for the long poles that they had used to shove off Forbidden Island and turned the reverse sides, with points carved into sharp-ended javelins, up at the attacking raptor.
The raptor balked, then came again, swiping sideways with his talons to tear apart several of the long pikes. But the brave crew drove the remaining pikes back at him again and found their mark. The wounded bird broke off, rising only to dip and dive into the surging flood before washing down toward the swirling sinkhole in the near distance. While the pikes were stowed along the ship’s sides, Heather sprinted in to help the hurt, swinging off her satchel and going to work at once on a badly wounded buck knocked senseless by the raptor attack.
Father ran for the helm, and, arresting its reckless roll with help from a strong sailor, he steered the ship back around, aiming for the prince’s destination: the standing stones. The mainmast was down, but they had enough steerageway to correct the course with the remaining smaller sails. The hands were busy clearing the wreckage away as Father called out orders.
Heather looked up from her latest patient, having done all she could do quickly, and saw with satisfaction that Morbin’s forces were diminished, and the Wrongtreaders and remaining wolves were facing hard fighting atop the roofs. Morbin himself fought on with savage expertise, his impenetrable breastplate repelling every advance and his swift killing strokes ending any defender in reach. The killer king brooded above the seventh standing stone, slaughtering all around him.
As their ship drew nearer to the first standing stone, Smalls stood poised on the bow, angry eyes aimed at Morbin. Heather felt a hush fall over First Warren. A vast shadow from above blocked out the sun, and her heart sank.
More of these endless enemies? More of Morbin’s forces? She shuddered, then willed herself to
gaze up at the massive shadow.
Chapter Fifty-Two
THE DEATH OF LONGTREADER
Heather’s heart swelled. Looking up, she saw a host of rabbits flying, gliding in the sky. At their head, unmistakable to Heather’s keen eyes, flew Picket Longtreader.
“Picket!” she cried, leaping high as Father and Mother looked up, astonished. Father left the helm to a reliable hand and ran to stand with his family.
Elation gave way to fear as she saw the target of his flight. The enemy raptors still filled the sky and, beyond them, Morbin himself.
“They’ll be killed,” Mother said, “all of them.”
Father grabbed his pickaxe and called out, “Signal all ships to converge on us!”
“Aye, Tunneler!” came a drenched buck’s reply. It was Dote.
Dote sent the signal, and several of the vessels began a slow turn. They steered toward their leader, the Tunneler and the Truth. Heather hoped they wouldn’t be too late to help. As their ship drew nearer the first standing stone, a diving raptor flashed in and slashed at them again.
Heather dove down alongside Mother and Father as the raptor tore a long gash amidships. Heather lay on the edge of the gap, nearly rolling in with the sudden pitch of the deck. The raptor reappeared and swept low to finish off the rabbits.
Behind the raptor’s raking dive, she saw Smalls swing in from a foremast rope. As the rope’s arc swung upward, Smalls let go and drew. The starsword flashed out, catching the poised raptor and cleaving it so that the bird fell to splash in the flood, both port and starboard.
The helm came around, and they sailed through a surge as wind filled the sails. They were crossing the first standing stone from the west, gaining speed.
“Can you slow the ship?” Smalls called.
“No, Highness!” Dote cried from the helm. “Anchor’s cut free and our crew’s been mostly killed, so we can’t take in sail.”