by S D Smith
“I have to go!” Smalls cried, staring a long moment at Heather before he sprinted to the edge and leapt high, landing roughly on the stone stairs spiraling up to the top of the first standing stone.
Heather watched with growing dread as the one she loved took the stairs three at a time in a desperate climb. The ship sailed by, and she rushed to the helm. As she ran, a volley of spears from swarming raptors tore through the ship. A lurch sent Heather sprawling, and she leapt up to see Dote recovering the helm.
Heather glanced back at Smalls as he ascended. “Turn us around, Dote!”
“It don’t answer, Heather!” Dote cried back, spinning the wheel uselessly.
“Rudder’s knocked away,” Mother called from aft; then she ran up to join them alongside the rift amidships.
“Hull’s opened and we have water coming in too fast to pump out,” Father said, appearing from belowdecks.
“We’re adrift, I’m afraid,” Mother said, pointing ahead, “and going wherever the current’s going.”
“And where’s that?” Heather asked, then saw their horrified faces. Spinning around, she saw the great swirling sinkhole ahead taking chunks of debris, and many fallen foes, down into a watery doom.
“We have to abandon ship!” Dote cried, lurching for the side. Father caught his arm.
“No, Dote. If you jump over, you’re into that pit,” Father said, “and there’s no coming back from that.”
“What do we do, Father?” Heather asked, trying to keep her voice calm.
Father lunged for a rope and began tying it around his waist. “Tie this fast to the mizzenmast, and I’ll try to ship the rudder.”
Heather nodded, leaped to the mizzen, and sent the rope around in a quick knot. “It’s secure!”
Father hurried to the stern rail and gazed over, testing the tension.
A swift raptor swept in, aimed straight at Father. On its back rode a grey rabbit.
“Get down!” Heather cried as the raptor’s talons reached out for Father. He dodged sideways, striking the rail so hard he pitched overboard.
The raptor rushed on, tearing through the mizzenmast as the grey rabbit leapt from its back and landed on the deck with a roll.
Garten Longtreader sprang up on the aft deck, drawing his sword with an angry cry. Heather saw rage and indignation combined in his face. He seemed the offended party in an ancient feud, finally finding his foe.
He caught Heather’s eye and looked surprised. “You? How are you still alive?”
Mother stepped ahead of Heather. “Garten, don’t do this.”
“Will you see me now, Sween?” he screamed. “Am I still invisible? Will I be invisible if I run this rabbit through?” He stepped ahead and met Dote’s brave charge with a sideways step and slicing sword stroke across Dote’s middle. The young buck fell motionless on the deck.
Heather and Mother stepped back. “No!” Mother cried. “What are you doing, Garten?”
“What I should have done long ago,” Garten said through gritted teeth. He stepped ahead, his sword hand shaking with anger.
“Look what you’ve done, Garten!” Sween cried, sweeping her hands around the city at war. “This is all your doing.”
“Me? You started all this, Sween!” Garten said. “Where could I go when you turned me away? Your refusal sent me straight to Morbin. I didn’t know it then, but I wanted all this. I wanted it all to burn.”
Heather glanced around the deck, seeking for some defense against this attack.
“If you want to kill me, then do it,” Sween said, stepping forward with her arms out wide. “I chose your brother, yes, but I never hated you then. We were family then. We are family now. Won’t you come home again?”
“Your home is destroyed,” Garten said, nodding over where Morbin’s scythe filled the sky with the dying cries of rabbits. “And this is your end.”
Heather felt an urgent presence from behind, and she shoved Mother over as Garten advanced. A shrill shriek came from behind, and Garten’s raptor swept in, set to slice Mother with its talons. Heather rolled to the rail, grabbed a pike, and swiveled it quickly around, bracing the dull base against the joining between rail and deck.
The raptor was focused fully on its impending kill and didn’t see the pike until it was too late. Its shriek was cut short as it struck Heather’s pike, snapping the long stave in two as it plunged into the water. Heather swiveled back to see Garten surge ahead, sword poised to strike down Mother.
“No!” Heather cried.
Father emerged then, pulling himself over the rail with an effort. At the last moment, he leapt between his wife and his brother’s killing stroke. Father’s pickaxe rattled with the force of Garten’s furious strike, but he brought it back around to block a second stroke aimed at his own head. Father ventured a kick at Garten’s middle. The kick went home, and Garten stumbled back, doubled over. A swift recovering stab from Garten caused Father to dart sideways and bring his pickaxe back across his brother’s front. Garten’s sword came up, but the heavy axe snapped the sword and sent Garten back, staggering, to the rail. Another kick sent Garten over the side with a cry.
Heather rushed to the edge and saw Garten clinging to the rail as his dead raptor circled the whirlpool nearby. Round and down it went, the watery pit its grim fate. The ship, whose ruined masts hanging overboard were a drag holding back its descent into the sinkhole, was still nearly to the brink of the irresistible swirling pit.
“Give me your hand!” Father cried, extending his to his brother.
“I’ll not take pity from you!” Garten screamed back.
“It’s not too late, brother! Please, take my hand! Please, Garten. There is a way back! Take my hand!”
Garten’s face seemed to soften for a fleeting moment, then harden again as he snarled. “I would do it all again.”
Garten Longtreader let go the side and dropped into the water. He appeared again on the edge of the twisting pit and soon swirled down and out of sight.
The ship was on the very edge of the whirlpool now, and Heather looked around for any way to escape.
Nothing.
Heather felt her mother’s arms around her as the ship entered the spiraling flood. Father, eyes wide with shock, turned to his wife and daughter.
“I love you both.”
Just as the ship dipped and began its first circling of the swirling pit, breaking apart as it dropped, they heard a faint voice amid the raucous noise.
“Jump for it!”
Heather let go of her mother and ran to the rail. A ship under full sail was racing toward them. Two ropes were launched at them, landing in the water below.
“Come on!” Heather cried.
Mother ran to the edge as Father lifted the slumped form of Dote. They leapt as the ship broke apart. Heather snagged the end of one rope as the whirlpool drew her down. She held fast and reached back for Father, who would not let go of Dote. Mother grabbed the other line.
Father seized Heather’s hand, and she held with all her might. They were pulled free of the vortex by the sudden force of the swiftly turning ship. On the rescue ship’s deck, Jacks and Harmony, together with some others, hauled on the ropes with a desperate effort.
They were dragged free of the swirling sinkhole’s pull and up toward the waiting arms of their saviors.
Once on board, they embraced in exhausted relief, and an on-ship medic went to work on Dote.
“Look!” Jacks said, pointing up to the seventh standing stone.
Heather ran to the edge of the ship, staring in disbelief.
“No!”
Chapter Fifty-Three
THE LAST CHARGE OF PICKET LONGTREADER
Picket turned to the eager band of rabbits rushing behind him, all fastening buckles and checking their partners’ glider packs.
“See them come, the last of our enemies!” Picket shouted, pointing at the foes pouring in. “You are Fowlers now, and you must fight as our founder fought—fall, if necessary, as o
ur founder fell. Say it with me: My arm for the cause and crown!”
“My arm for the cause and crown!” they roared.
“My all for the cause and crown!” Picket cried.
“My all for the cause and crown!” they thundered in reply.
“Come on! Follow me into this last fight, my friends, and let’s together forge a brotherhood of blood that will outlive this battle and stay with us all our days. I will fight beside you!” Cheers. “I will fly beside you!” Louder cheers. “I will die beside you!” They roared as they came on.
Picket leapt from the palace roof onto the long slide and raced down at a thrilling speed. After him came Jo and Cole, alongside Harmon and Lallo, and behind them a countless mass of trained young Fowlers of the R.F.A.
Picket glanced across as Morbin slashed through the city, his vast cruel band in his wake. Then Picket focused again on the long wide slide that had somehow survived every attack on the city so far. Now he reached the curved end and shot up along the ramp, launching high and fast into the sky. In groups of five behind him, the R.F.A., those young soldiers held back against the last need, shot into the acrid air above First Warren to meet the evil armada of Morbin Blackhawk.
The clashes came at once, and the Fowlers threw themselves into fierce fighting. Picket saw Lallo struck by a raptor’s blow, then plucked out of the air in the beast’s talon. Picket banked hard in pursuit, correcting course to intercept the fast raptor. Lallo sagged in the enemy’s grip, and Picket bent his flight to come at the raptor in the sun’s eye, appearing beneath it from a blurry brightness.
Disengaging his glider, Picket drew his sword and sliced the raptor’s talon clean off, sending Lallo plunging below. The bird twisted in fury and sped at Picket with a long cleaving strike of its blade. Picket engaged the glider again, caught an updraft that sent him just clear of the slice, and then, banking sharply, killed his glider again so that he fell like a stone toward the city. Lallo, he saw with great relief, was being helped to a rooftop by two of his fellow Fowlers.
Picket felt the raptor’s pursuit hot behind him. He turned back and saw the one-clawed fowl bearing down hard. Picket twisted into a spin, corkscrewing down by engaging one side of his glider, then disengaging it in quick succession. The raptor screamed behind him, beating its wings in a furious trail. Breaking the corkscrew, Picket rotated both wrists and came up in a sudden rush. Twisting to disengage again as he rose suddenly, he whipped his sword out in a slashing strike that cut deeply into one of the raptor’s wings.
Just holding on to his sword, Picket spun away as the raptor, flapping madly, crashed into the east wall and then down into the flood.
Rising in a sharp upward climb, Picket banked back to survey the scene.
It was a nightmare.
Nearly all the young flyers were trying to get to Morbin. None succeeded. But they all saw what he saw: If Morbin wasn’t defeated, this battle—this war for all Natalia—would never end.
Picket sped toward Morbin but was forced to watch the massive and agile raptor rip through rabbit defenders with murderous potency. The gliding rabbits flew at the massive hawk, swarming him in their desperation to defend their liberty and loves. Few made it through the shrewd and bloody skill of Morbin’s warring work. But some did, and Picket winced to see them break steel on his impenetrable breastplate, then die by his cunning strikes. Picket watched the young Fowlers fall, torn and sundered, victims of Morbin’s scything swipes of death. Still, the brave defenders flew at him, falling away in fragments, divided remainders of heroic souls.
Picket gazed at the standing stones in front of Morbin. A small white rabbit in a golden breastplate was leaping ahead with a flashing black sword.
Smalls? Smalls!
Against all hope, it was the prince. Alive. More than merely alive, fighting! Aiming now for their forbidding foe, bravely racing toward the ancient enemy.
Picket could hardly believe it, but he focused all the more on going straight at the monster just above the seventh standing stone.
Smalls leapt from the first standing stone to the second, stumbling as he went. Picket’s heart swelled to see him, the prince in action, advancing towards impossible combat with their evil adversary. Picket willed the wind to carry him faster. The R.F.A. was shattered, breaking on Morbin like water on an ancient rock. The last airborne Fowler fell as Picket neared. Smalls leapt from the third to fourth stone with a cry.
Morbin brooded on the seventh standing stone, his eyes finding Smalls as the prince paused before him on the fourth. Morbin recognized Smalls and cackled loudly, a rattling laughter bursting forth from deep within his battle-poised frame. Picket sped on, aiming at the blackhawk’s heart, hoping his foe remained distracted by Smalls.
Nearer. Nearer. And Smalls cried out, “Now your dominion is ended, Morbin! I am the son of Jupiter Great, descendant by blood and heir of Flint Firstking! I am Smalden Ender Preybane, and your doom has come.”
Morbin laughed again, but his mirth was tinged with indignant rage. “You puny princeling! You’ll join your fathers in death, and such a death as dwarfs all theirs. Your end is an end to all rabbitkind. Well done, Small Prince. You mean to win for a mending, but you die in its ending.”
Then Morbin, his face still set in a scornful smile, turned suddenly, seeing Picket sail in. But too late. Picket soared straight for Morbin’s heart, and the Preylord quickly clawed across his middle to defend against the speeding buck. But Picket bent his approach at the last moment, shooting up at Morbin’s face. Talon slashed, meeting air. Beak snapped, just missing Picket’s fleet form. The buck barely evaded these deadly perils and reached the iron helm. Picket plunged his blade into an unprotected eye, driving it inside with a ferocious cry, to finally extinguish its light.
Morbin screeched, and Picket was thrown off by a violent convulsion from the stunned raptor. Picket spun, then sent out his arms, regained control, and glided back around. There was a raucous shout from the rabbits around the center of the city, from building tops to ships below. Picket banked and aimed again at Morbin’s shimmering breastplate. At the last moment, he broke again to Morbin’s face, aiming for the second eye.
Morbin saw and knew. The raptor flapped his wings and rose, twisting away from Picket’s strike. The blackhawk swung his scythe, and, as Picket turned desperately, the weapon found the outstretched sword arm of the defiant buck who had blinded him. Picket’s right arm, with glider-wing and sword, fell spinning toward the flood below. Picket reeled and spiraled into a diving crash that ended on hard stone.
He lay bleeding on the far lip of the sixth standing stone.
Sudden pain and shock. Gasping. He blinked, eyes wide, then gazed up at the huge looming monster ahead. Behind him, he heard Smalls rushing to leap and land.
“Hold on, Picket!”
But Picket stood and looked up at Morbin, defiant here at the end. Hearing Smalls, he knew his duty.
“My blood for yours …” he whispered.
Swordless, Picket Longtreader ran and leapt at Morbin.
He heard a cry from behind: “No!”
Morbin’s talons shot out, raking Picket in an upward thrust that at once sliced and tossed aside his feeble foe.
The claws cut deep trenches in Picket’s fur and skin, and he cried out in pain. The force of the blow flung Picket up and away. He flipped, then leveled off in midair, looking back in agony at the scene behind. The raking gesture had exposed Morbin’s middle. Morbin cackled, his surviving eye following the cast-off rabbit who had dared to blind him, as he readied his scythe to slice Picket in two.
But Smalls leapt then, from sixth to seventh stone now. He seemed to veer right, then correct—somehow, midair—as the starsword shined black in the sunlight. Morbin, blinded on that side, saw too late the leaping form of Jupiter’s son.
Picket fell, lower and lower, descending toward a watery end. But he watched on, looking up while his last strength held, to see the prince’s final stand. Smalls sailed through the sky, gl
owing gold in the brilliant sun, as the Green Ember glimmered at his neck. The starsword bit into that—until now—unbreaking breastplate, cleaving it open and exposing the blackhawk’s heart. Smalls drove the old blade in as Morbin’s scream echoed in the air above the city.
Picket’s vision clouded, but he saw the old sword break inside the final foe. He saw Smalls land on the seventh stone as Morbin reeled back and spun down, descending toward the pit. Through a spray of black feathers, Picket saw Smalls standing, holding aloft the hilt and shard of the starsword.
Picket’s vision went black then, its last sight the ultimate fight in all Natalia. The death of the final foe. The war’s definitive end, and the beginning of the mending.
Chapter Fifty-Four
THE BEGINNING
One Year Later
Heather had made the bread with help from hundreds. Gort came, with his army of cooks, and all the old citadels’ cooks helped. This was to be a feast for the ages, and all ages were here. She gazed out over the tables and marveled to see among the endless sea of rabbits thousands of happy children. Babies strapped happily to mothers’ backs and toddlers tripping in the grass. The world was alive with life, and sunlight shone on a happy host, all clad in white.
“Pardon me, Your … uh, Your, uh …” Gort said, fretting in front of Heather.
“I’m not ‘Your Anything’ yet, Gort,” she said through laughter. “I’m Heather, and we’re old friends.”
“Beg your pardon, Heather,” he said, smiling, “but I think the last of the loaves is out.”
“Good.”
Smalls had made the wine, new and dark blue with infusions of those flowers growing all around the surrounding country. These blooms grew from seeds of those flowers found in the ancient glade. Firstflower. True Blue. The Pilgrim had brought them as a gift for the prince, and they had been planted in the days after the battle. Aunt Jone and Emma, with help from the Pilgrim, assisted the prince in its making.