by S D Smith
Another breath. Picket felt a new presence behind him, another teammate gliding in to perfect the attack, while he focused on the final obstacles. Three swooping enemies and an impregnable fortress. But not this time. This time they would take it down. He focused on his approach, preparing to vault over a wooden wolf bristling with blades.
He was struck hard from behind. “Ahh!” He fell forward, nearly colliding with the wooden wolf, then jerked back and, overbalancing, tumbled and fell. He was high up in the tree, so he panicked, grasping for anything he could reach. He snagged a branch, flipped wildly, and struck several other branches on the way down. He landed at Helmer’s feet in an inelegant crash.
Helmer bent, checked him for injuries. “Are you okay, Picket?”
Picket nodded. “I think so.” He looked up and watched each member of his team stumble in turn, failing to reach the target. Each one was knocked from the sky in a series of painful collisions. Heyward, whose graceless entry had spoiled the attack, fell hard in a nearby bramble.
Heather rushed in and pulled Heyward from the bush, checking him carefully for injuries. She made him stay down and then ran to each of the other rabbits, finally ending with Picket and Helmer, who stood scowling.
“It was closer than ever,” Heather said. “Don’t be too discouraged.”
“Close won’t do, Heather,” Picket said. “You know that.”
“I understand, Picket,” she said, touching his arm. “But even Helmer’s elite Fowlers can’t be perfect.”
“We can be more perfect than we are,” Picket said. He couldn’t keep from glancing at Heyward as the others approached.
“And we shall be,” Helmer said, nodding. He rose slowly and crossed to where Heyward sat beneath a tree.
“Please do forgive me, Captain,” Heyward said, rubbing his face. “I will be certain to do very much better next time.”
“I’m sorry,” Helmer said. “The stakes are too high right now. Every day we’re closer to an attack. Every day we’re closer to battles with wolves and birds of prey. What Picket did at Jupiter’s Crossing, how he flew and fought, it was extraordinary. The ordinary rabbit won’t be capable of anything like that. But sometimes, some will have to be.”
“I understand that,” Heyward said. “That’s why I’m here. That’s why I left my hedges to come to this brambly patch and train. That’s why I care so very much about the Fowlers. If we can do what Picket did, we can turn a battle—”
“But it’s not for everyone,” Helmer interrupted.
“What do you mean?” Heyward asked, rising.
“You did well when you helped me design and build the Fowlers’ course. I’m glad you came with us to Halfwind. But I have to tell you, Heyward, that you’re not fit to be in this unit. The Fowlers must be the very best, rabbits of extraordinary courage and daring. I’m sorry, son.”
“So, I’m out? I’m out of the Fowlers?”
“Yes.”
Picket noticed that Heather was about to speak, so he gently put his hand on her arm. He shook his head, imploring. She frowned but stayed quiet beside him.
Heyward wiped at his eyes. He looked as if he would speak again, but he finally closed his mouth and nodded. He fingered the patch on his shoulder, and Helmer looked grave. The patch bore the same symbol as did the pommel of the sword Prince Jupiter had given to Picket. It was round and featured in its middle a leaping, sword-swinging rabbit, behind which were spread wide wings that might be a wild cape. Heyward tore the patch free and offered it to Captain Helmer.
“Please report to Captain Frye and ask for another assignment,” Helmer said, taking the Fowlers’ patch.
Heyward disappeared, head down, into a hedgerow path.
“That was hard, but necessary,” Captain Helmer said. “Now, let’s review—”
“Was it necessary to do in front of everyone?” Heather asked. She stormed off after Heyward.
Helmer scowled. “Whose idea was it to assign us a medic?”
“Lord Ramnor, I think,” Picket said. “It was right after you asked him if you could try to destroy,” he coughed, “I mean, train some of his most promising young soldiers.”
“You believe you are promising?” Helmer asked.
“Perhaps we’re the only ones mad enough to say yes to this assignment?” Perkinson said, rubbing his shoulder and smiling wide. “So, we have a kind of mad promise. And you are always promising us pain.”
“No doubt Doctor Heather will be valuable in the field as you hopeless maniacs flit from tree to tree,” Helmer said, his lip curling. “But till then, I’m stuck listening to her.”
“She’s saved my life once already,” Jo Shanks said, “so I’ll defend her to the end.”
Picket nodded. “Me too.”
“You don’t need to protect her, you collection of witlings,” Helmer said. “You need protection—from me!” And he launched into an attack on the three of them, knocking them down with subtle tricks and swift kicks.
Why, Picket thought as he struck the ground, oh why did I not expect that?
Chapter Seven
A WALK IN THE BRAMBLES
Heather stomped into the thicket, coming alongside Heyward. “It’s all right, friend,” she said. “I’d be happy to ask them to give you another chance.”
“No thank you, Heather,” Heyward said, his head hanging. “The fact is, they’re right. I’m not at all suited for the Fowlers. They will do great things, I have no doubt. They will fly, as Picket did at Jupiter’s Crossing. And I will dream of hedges and homes, of bridges and dams, while the world burns down.”
“You’ve always wanted things straight,” Heather said. “And there are few things more crooked than war.”
“I just wish I wasn’t so useless,” he said. “I know I could be very silly indeed about my hedges. I see that quite plainly now. But I knew my place at Cloud Mountain and felt I offered something of value to the community. You know, Heather, I even kept the hedges in the forsaken acres on the plateau behind the caves, where the old standing stones had become almost a ruin. I tended the grounds, and the few secluded brothers thanked me. Even if no one else seemed to notice, they did.”
“You’re not useless, and you will do your part, Heyward. We’re all still trying to find our place in this warren.”
“I hate this war. It’s unmaking the world.”
“Morbin is unmaking the world. The war is our only answer to his unmaking.”
“I suppose so,” he said.
“But it will not be so...” she began.
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “Of course. That old song. I had almost forgotten.”
She stopped and let him go on, and he disappeared around a brambly corner. She stood in the path between the Fowlers’ course and the warren that was Halfwind Citadel, sadness burrowing into her soul. She reached for her necklace, a gift from the prince. Touching it sometimes swept away her sadness in a wave of hope. It was a simple charm, bearing the sign of a burning flame, and she loved it.
She had written those words, words that so many now clung to.
The Green Ember burns; the seed of the New World smolders.
Healing is on the horizon, but a fire comes first.
Bear the flame.
What a noise she had made with her tale! But it was quiet there, among the paths of grass with tangled thorns and brush for walls. In many places it formed a canopy, so the roads in and out of Halfwind were like a maze to the untrained. After many weeks of being here, she was finally learning her way around. It saddened her to see Heyward, who loved to keep hedges neat, wind through this untidy maze after such a blow.
She thought of home, not Cloud Mountain but Nick Hollow, where her parents and baby brother had been captured. Her memories were a weight, and she felt like buckling beneath all the sad, hard parts of her story. Of everyone’s. When will we be free? There among the thorns, the Mended Wood felt like a far-off dream.
Then she heard her name, called softly from behind, and
she turned to see Prince Jupiter Smalls approaching. The future king. The rabbit who had rescued her. Her dear friend. She wanted to hug him, but she let go of her necklace, bowed quickly, and waved. A bright smile replaced her pensive frown.
“Have I interrupted you?” he asked, returning her smile.
“Yes, you have,” she said, “thankfully.” He crossed to walk beside her, and they wandered slowly through the tangled paths, saying nothing for a little while.
They walked into a clearing, past a patch of grass where bucks only a little younger than Picket played a vigorous game of Bouncer. They watched as a brown buck punted the ball aloft, and, when it bounced, all of them piled in to snatch it in its rebounding arc. But only one could win it. The ball-winner, eyes wide as his fellows chased him, wound his way toward a circle in the grass, where he touched the ball down with an exultant shout. Then he was kicking the ball high once more, and the chase resumed.
Heather smiled. “I would like to play this game sometime.”
“Picket tells me you are very fast,” Smalls said as they walked on, rejoining the path that bent toward the citadel entrance.
“I used to beat him at an old game we called Starseek. But that was in Nick Hollow, what feels like ages ago.”
“Rabbits our age should still be playing games,” he said, a heaviness coming into his tone. “Not trying to unite an alliance against a slaving monster’s forces.”
“Is it true you are going to Kingston?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said. “Lord Blackstar arrived today, and he’s managed to arrange a meeting with all the remaining citadel lords who are holding out on...well, on recognizing me as king.”
“Then of course you must go, Smalls—I mean, Your Highness,” she said.
“Please,” he said, “call me Smalls. It’s how my best friends have known me these last few years.”
“But my sinister spies have learned that your given name is Prince Smalden Joveson,” she said. “Is that true?”
“I’m afraid so.” He laughed. “It actually is. But if I’m crowned, I will be able to choose my ruling name.”
“Have you decided what it will be?”
“No,” he said. “There’s too much to do to think of such things now.”
“I’m eager for your coronation, Smalls. It will be such a happy day.”
“I hope so. When the war is over and I’m crowned at the First Warren, I’ll be able to do many things I wish I could do now.”
“Yes,” she said, looking down. They walked on, finally coming to a path that led to the entrance of the citadel.
“Heather, please come to a meeting in Lord Ramnor’s rooms at sunset. And bring Picket. Even here there is a need for secrecy, and I need all my most trusted counselors and friends present.”
“You can be assured, my prince, that I will be faithful.”
He smiled, bowed slightly, and moved toward the gate. She took a deep breath and turned back toward the Fowlers’ course. She stopped when she heard a noise behind her. Smalls raised his head. His hand found the hilt of his sword.
Footsteps. Pounding toward them. Just around the bend in the briar path. Panting. Wheezing. Urgent footfalls.
Smalls drew his sword and stepped in front of Heather.
Heather braced for an attack. Her heart was pounding.
Then, around the bend, Captain Frye appeared, wheezing and breathless.
“Oh, Captain,” Smalls said, returning his sword to its sheath, “I thought it was an attack.”
“It might—” Captain Frye panted, “be.”
Chapter Eight
FATEFUL DECISIONS
Soon they were all in Lord Ramnor’s ready room, spread around a large square table. Maps and other papers littered the table and nearby benches. The door was closed and guards were set. Heather felt conspicuous. Why were she and Picket present? Why wasn’t Emma here? Why the Longtreader children? Well, we aren’t exactly children any more. But we’re not lords or captains.
The only other young rabbits present—other than Smalls—sat on either side of a silent Lord Victor Blackstar, who had just arrived. One of his companions was a beautiful coal-black doe and the other a black buck with a white patch who might be her twin. Both were around the same age as Heather and Picket. They were all silent.
Uncle Wilfred, Captain Helmer, Lord Rake, and Lord Ramnor were also seated at the table. Smalls paced apart, while Captain Frye summarized the intelligence just received from his scouts.
“We have no way to account for this,” he said. Captain Frye’s voice was deep and menacing, full of rattlings. “But there is an...well, an army encamped about a day’s march from here.”
“An army?” Uncle Wilfred asked, rising. “So close? How did they get here so fast? We’ve watched all the routes.”
“Not this route,” Lord Ramnor said. “This is from the southwest.”
“Morbin has no assets there; we would have known,” Lord Rake said, running his hand through the fur between his ears. “How could he have hidden an army of wolves in such a desolate place?”
“Not wolves,” Captain Frye said. “Rabbits.”
A wave of anxious gasps sounded through the room. Heather didn’t understand. She started to ask one of the many questions that flooded her mind but remembered she had been invited by Smalls, and she thought it best if she just listened. She saw that Picket was also struggling to keep silent.
“How?” Smalls asked. “How is it possible?”
“Your Highness, we don’t know,” Lord Ramnor said. “Our scouts—and they are reliable—have tracked them for days and have only just now gotten word to us.”
“Your scouts have been wrong before,” Uncle Wilfred said, glancing at Picket and Heather. She looked down. He was alluding to the mistaken intelligence that sent Picket and Smalls, along with many others, on a fruitless rescue mission. Some Longtreaders were believed to have been there. But when the rescue team arrived, they were nowhere to be found.
Heather saw that Picket’s hands were clenched in a fist. Just over his collar she could see the edge of the scar that still stood out on his back. A souvenir from that failed rescue.
“We’re sure this time,” Captain Frye said. “Gathering intelligence is my responsibility. My mistake with the mining camp was most unfortunate, tragic even. But this information stands on far more solid ground.”
“You own the mistake, though the mistake wasn’t your own,” Prince Smalls said. “You’re a good leader, Captain Frye. I take your word that this is reliable. The question remains. Who are these rabbits, and what are they doing marching on this place, prepared for battle?”
“That is the question, Your Highness,” Lord Ramnor said, turning to the others. “As the prince says, they are fitted for battle, marching beneath a banner that is strange to us. It’s a black field with silver stars. Our chief scout says they look bigger, stronger, more terrible than any rabbits he has ever seen.”
“Tall, terrible rabbits from the southwest, marching beneath a banner of stars?” Lord Rake said, rubbing his head. “I cannot even begin to understand.”
“We have to assume, I think,” Uncle Wilfred said, “that they are in league with Morbin.”
“Agreed,” Smalls said. “What now?”
“We can make preparations here, moving our scouts and advance units southwest. It would leave us more vulnerable elsewhere, but I don’t see that we have much choice,” Lord Ramnor said. “We will make our stand and bear the flame.” He smiled at Heather.
“I could send word for reinforcements from Cloud Mountain,” Lord Rake said. “But they might mean to attack there.”
“What about Blackstone Citadel?” Captain Frye asked. “It’s the next nearest.”
“They are still very reluctant,” Lord Rake said. “Lord Ronan might even see it as a trap. I’m ashamed to say that he still does not quite trust Wilfred; nor does he yet acknowledge the prince.”
“We are hoping to see him in Kingston,” Wilfr
ed said, “to help him understand the truth. But at the moment we still have a few citadels holding out, and Blackstone is one of them.”
“For now we should prepare here,” Smalls said. “Send word to Blackstone to let them know what we know. We must treat them as allies. Lord Rake and Captain Helmer should return to Cloud Mountain and organize a defense. More catapults must be prepared on the plateau. Wilfred and I will stay and aid Halfwind.”
Heads went down, mouths pursed, and brows furrowed. Lord Blackstar looked down and began to write something. Silence brewed, uncomfortable and long.
“May I speak, Your Highness?” Picket asked.
“Of course,” the prince said, motioning for Picket to stand.
“Sir, I believe your counselors would all agree that you must go on to the conference of lords at Kingston.” Heather thought how hard this must be for Picket to say. He must know that it would make his hoped-for mission to find their family all but impossible.
“But I can’t leave you all here in danger,” Smalls said, glancing at Heather.
“You must,” Heather said, rising quickly to stand beside her brother. “The citadels must be united. You have to persuade them to join you. If you are never king, then this will never end, and we’ll fracture into a hundred helpless bands. I don’t know who these tall rabbits are, or what they mean. But I know Morbin plans to thwart you, to ruin us all and make us his slaves.” She pounded the table.
Lord Blackstar stopped writing and looked up, a smile forming on his stolid face. She stopped a moment, almost sat down. But she stood tall again and went on. “I want to be free! I want my king. You should go to Kingston, Smalls. Your Highness, go with Uncle Wilfred and Lord Blackstar. Forge an alliance that can bring an end to all this woe. If war comes to us while you’re away, we will bear the flame for you.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Picket said. “Heather’s right. We will do whatever you command, all of us, to the end of the world. But you should go.”
The prince looked down. “It is a hard thing to go to safety when you will be in peril.”