Ember Falls (The Green Ember Series Book 2)

by S D Smith

  * * *

  Picket raced through the trees, turning at intervals to track the wolf pursuit. Some rabbits were being overtaken, but most were far enough ahead to bring off their harried escape. Cutting through the familiar forest, the bands of rabbits came together to form one fast fleeing army. Helmer and Picket fell into a sprinting stride together; the older rabbit hobbled slightly but did not slow the retreat.

  A soldier nearby cried in panic, “They’ll catch us!”

  “Press on, Mitchell,” Helmer shouted. “Keep your eyes ahead, bucks!”

  The rabbits reached the forest edge and poured into the clearing where they’d camped the night before. This was Rockback Valley, a long, narrow field blocked at the rear by the sheer base of Cloud Mountain. There were several easy paths up the mountain, but this wasn’t one of them. Here the mountainside was high and rocky, a difficult ascent, even for small groups of rabbits. For an army, it was impossible. The rabbit camp was settled in this way, blocked behind by the towering mountain and flanked beside by the forest, which now teemed with attacking wolves. Before the camp lay the long, narrow valley that led to the small plain where Morbin’s forces massed.

  The fleeing rabbits had run into a trap.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  THE BATTLE OF ROCKBACK VALLEY BEGINS

  Picket and Helmer led their battle-tested force into the camp, moving behind the lines of fresh rabbits, now formed in rigid ranks. They passed line after line of ready soldiers armed with bows, arrows, and swords. The waiting troops nodded with respect to the returning bands.

  Re-forming in the back of the rested troops, the gasping rabbits caught their breath, and some received treatment from medics. Picket’s band settled in near the catapults and blastpowder barrels that lay along the rock wall. Rockback Valley’s namesake cliff was a menacing feature. There was no going any farther back.

  The cold wind felt good on Picket’s face as he cleaned his blade and accepted a swallow of water from the young buck who’d taken his baggage earlier. Picket thanked him, then noticed blue-robed Heyward, doing his part to crank down the arm of the nearest catapult. The massive arm lowered slowly with a persistent click and a rattle. He could see the wood straining under the pressure as a blastpowder keg was placed in the sling.

  A field medic came to stitch the gash on Picket’s arm, another to wipe the wound on his face. Helmer had crossed to confer with the catapult captain. Nodding to the captain, the old black rabbit held up his hand and scanned the tree line.

  “Hold!” he commanded, his teeth set in a snarl.

  There was no enemy in sight, but sounds of scuffling and snarling issued from the cover of the trees. The wolves seemed to be gathering into attack formations. Picket gritted his teeth while the medic began to stitch his wound. He watched as the other two catapults were prepped and loaded with blastpowder barrels, each with a cloth stuffed in a hole at the top. Rabbits with torches stood by, nervously eying Captain Helmer and the dark edge of the forest. Picket focused on the forest.

  Waiting. Watching.

  The wolves came in packs, howling and barking. They broke through the trees and charged the poised rabbits.

  Helmer cried out, “Fire away!” and dropped his hand.

  The barrel cloths were lit and the catapult slings tripped. Each of the great arms leapt forward, slamming into their corrals as their cargo flew far and high toward the enemy. The wolves looked up in time to see three barrels sailing toward them. One exploded in the air, sending a shattering echo through the valley. The flame from its blast caught the other two barrels just as they struck the enemy line. They shattered in a death-dealing spray of fire and shrapnel.

  The rabbit lines sent up a shout, their fists in the air. But the steady archers in front made careful aim. At Captain Frye’s rasped command, they loosed a volley of arrows on the advancing wolves.

  Now a new kind of howling sounded from the wolf ranks. The attack slowed as the wolves looked back to see the damage done. They skidded to a halt, torn between their ravenous hunger for battle and the reality that they were, for the moment, cut off from support. Some came ahead, meeting eager opponents who dispatched them efficiently. Many turned back.

  The rabbits shouted again as the bulk of the wolf force tried to re-form behind the tree line. Picket knew there were great numbers of wolves coming from that side. Still more would come, far more than they could handle. He looked ahead, to the open valley, peering into the distance with keen eyes.

  “They’ll come,” Cole said. “We’ll be overmatched ten to one and backed against the cliff.”

  “Have some faith,” Picket said, glancing at the medic who was still trying to close his long gash.

  He looked at Heyward and saw the catapult teams repositioning two of the machines. The turning went slowly, so Picket called for help and, ignoring the protests of the medic, fell in beside Heyward, straining under the effort of moving the great machine. After more help arrived, Heyward stepped back, eyeballing the orientation of the catapult in relation to its intended target.

  “Hold!” Heyward cried, and the rabbits stopped.

  “Brother Heyward,” Picket said, clasping hands with his old friend and nodding to the flaming wreck in the forest to their right. “I think you’ve found your calling.”

  “I can help with this, to be sure. But I’ve worked on other things,” he said. “I wish we had more time. I’ve made something I’d love for you—”

  He was cut off by a growing murmur in the ranks. Picket pointed ahead. The forward force of Morbin’s army appeared over the near hill. The army was huge, its ranks swollen with marching wolves. Over it, the sky was dark.

  The Lords of Prey had come.

  Picket couldn’t say if Morbin was in their number. He hoped he was.

  “Okay,” Helmer said. “We’ve done our part. Now if Bleston will do his, we may have a chance.”

  Chapter Forty

  THE TENTH WINDOW

  Heather and Emma followed Lord Rake and his attendants as they quit the foggy porch, leaving Mrs. Weaver at her vigil over the secret door. Lord Rake gave orders to Pacer, who nodded and ran into the great hall. He turned to Emma.

  “The battle is on, Your Highness,” he said, “but you still have some time to do what you will before the first wounded arrive. Everything will change after today.” He looked into her eyes, and his voice quavered. “I have tried, my dear, to do the best I could for you. I never wanted you to find out this way. I wanted it to be happy news after the war was won, with your brother on the throne and you a princess in the Mended Wood. I’m sorry it could not be so. But know this,” he said, “I shall always love you like my own. Today I fight for the Mended Wood, and for the community I cherish. But no cause is greater than my love for you. I fight because you are in my heart.”

  “My father,” she said, rushing into his arms.

  Nothing more was said. After a long moment, Lord Rake turned and, wiping his eyes, hurried through the door.

  Emma and Heather were left in Hallway Round, alone but for the guards at the blastpowder barrels. Then doors opened and groups of busy rabbits hurried through. Urgent noises filled the hallway.

  Heather turned to Emma. “What can I do for you?” she asked. “What do you need?”

  “Perhaps a private place,” Emma answered, sniffing, “a quiet place for just a moment’s peace.”

  “Follow me,” Heather said, taking Emma’s hand.

  In a moment they were entering Lighthall. Heather checked to see if anyone was inside. When she saw no one, she hugged Emma and headed for the door. “I’ll be out here, whenever you’re ready.”

  “Stay. Please,” Emma said, and Heather nodded, following her inside.

  Lighthall was a lovely rounded room, wood-walled with colored light shining through ten enormous windows. The light spread over the polished wood floors, and bright beams appeared in columns from overhead ports. The windows that surrounded the wondrous room told tales of King Jupiter�
�s storied reign. Heather had first thought of this place as the Room of Ten Tales, and in fact each window had several scenes, one large and central, with others surrounding it. Here were murals marking the golden age of rabbitkind, the zenith of the culture begun by Flint and Fay in the Blue Moss Hills, carried on through the centuries on Golden Coast, and then finally here in Natalia. King Jupiter’s coronation and early battles were depicted beautifully, and all was glory until the ninth window revealed a horrific scene. The fall of King Jupiter. The afterterrors. Emma walked past it.

  Heather looked up at the images and, seeing Morbin Blackhawk perched triumphantly over the slain body of King Jupiter, she was seized by indignation. She stared, thinking of all the faithful who had fallen since that awful day at Jupiter’s Crossing.

  She didn’t want to look at the tenth window, but she did. Emma was already kneeling beneath the breathtaking scene. It showed Smalls, as he would have been, crowned and glorious, reigning over the Mended Wood. It was a vision of hope, expertly crafted, imagining the glories of a new world. Hot tears came. Heather fell to her knees beside Emma.

  Neither said anything for several minutes. Heather thought of all that was lost in a world without Smalls. Her own sorrows, great as they were, must be dim in comparison with Emma’s. She draped an arm around her friend and felt the sobs beginning to shake the princess. Heather clasped her tighter, reaching to hold Emma as she wept.

  “I will come through this,” Emma said. “But I had to walk into it and feel the weight of it all.”

  “Of course, Emma,” she said. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

  “You can imagine it, Heather. That’s why I’m so grateful to have you by my side.”

  “I will never abandon you. Commoner or queen, I am your friend. For life, or death, I’ll be faithful.”

  “Thank you, Heather. I know you had hoped for more, that my brother meant so much to you. You knew him far better than I.”

  “We had been through a lot together, and I had hoped there were more adventures ahead. He was a great rabbit,” Heather said, staring up at his heroic image.

  There was a scuffling commotion behind them—hurried footsteps, the twang of a bowstring. An arrow sped overhead, shattering the glass of the tenth window. Heather screamed. Emma jumped back as the idyllic scene fell in a crystal cascade. Heather leapt to cover Emma, to protect her from the falling glass.

  Wide-eyed and terrified, she spun to see who had done this.

  On the other side of Lighthall, Bleston lowered his bow.

  Chapter Forty-One

  STEPPING FORWARD

  Picket watched them spill over the ridge, and his breath caught in his chest.

  Morbin’s army was enormous.

  They marched in time, sharp and imposing. Picket knew that wolves naturally lacked discipline, that their bloodlust often overcame their self-control and ability to follow orders in a strategic battle plan. This was a vulnerability wise rabbit commanders would use against them. But under Morbin’s banner, marching in concert beneath a sky of hawks, eagles, and more, these wolves moved in tight, restrained units. As they marched closer, he could see the bloodlust in their faces. They were the same wild and vicious enemies, only harnessed to attack with military precision.

  The untested troops in the front of the rabbit army seemed to wither at the sight. But Picket funneled his dread into grim determination, then a furious resolve. The exasperated medic ran up to him and set to work on his wounded arm again.

  “We’ll be slaughtered!” a soldier said. “There are too many,” another added. A grumbling spread through the ranks. These soldiers were brave, but not stupid, and the menacing force massed against them made for an impossible contest. They knew it. The feeling was spreading. “We can’t win!”

  Picket frowned. Shaking free of the medic, he marched forward. His face was set, his eyes hard, and all his movements sure. Step by step, he passed the whispering, fearful, murmuring ranks. Many rabbits recognized him and whispered. “Picket Longtreader, the hero of Jupiter’s Crossing. The youngest lieutenant in the army, and Prince Smalls’ particular friend.” Scores of clean-clothed soldiers watched as this dirty, sweat-drenched rabbit, blood trickling down his cheek and soaking the fur of his arm, walked purposefully to the head of the army as Morbin’s forces came on.

  Cole and Jo fell in behind him, bearing their own wounds, and other soldiers from the early fight followed. As they pushed ahead, the complaints died down. Picket reached the front of the army and kept going, moving well ahead of the front line.

  His fellows fell in behind him, bloody marks of their earlier battle plain. The medic had followed Picket and now came for him, trying to finish the job stitching his arm. Picket turned once, and his withering glare sent the medic hurrying back to his place. Picket turned to face the enemy.

  His face was set like steel, his body composed in a clear, rock-hard resolve.

  Now the rabbit ranks fell silent. The silence stretched over seconds. Then an old sergeant on what had been the front line, a grey campaigner of many wars, began to laugh. “All right,” he said, smiling. “All right, bucks!” And he walked forward. Soon his fellows were joining him, and the lines of troops, embarrassed by their distance from Picket’s ragged band, rushed to form up just behind them. Row on row, the rabbits advanced. A different sort of murmur swelled, and soon the call of “All right, bucks!” was bouncing around the army.

  Picket never said a word, only drew his sword and pointed it at the oncoming army.

  The wolves in the fore stopped, eyes flitting from their commanders to the rabbit host. Trapped rabbits. Vulnerable rabbits. Easy pickings. Some of the wolves made to advance, but a harsh bark from their commander held them in place.

  Overhead, the Lords of Prey circled. The sky teemed with winged warriors, their breasts armored, their feet gripping cruel blades. These raptors were ready for battle. Picket regarded them. They were close enough now that he could make out their faces and hear their brash calls.

  The wolf commander looked up at a circling eagle. He was white-furred and muscular, clad in black with a black shield. The shield was old-fashioned, possibly an heirloom. It was wooden, painted in black and bearing the sign of a bright red fang jutting from a deformed diamond. It was a mockery of the rabbits’ cherished Whitson Stone. The eagle above was brown, with a splash of white showing around the edges of his black helm. In his feet he bore weapons—a sharp short sword and a spiked mallet.

  “At Lord Gern’s command!” the white wolf shouted. His eager soldiers, tongues lolling, shivered with anticipation.

  Picket nodded. Gern, Morbin’s chief lieutenant. The architect of the afterterrors that ruined the Great Wood. He eyed the bird with careful attention, marking all he could in the few moments he had. Then Picket looked back at Captain Frye, a question in his young eyes. The old soldier nodded, an understanding clear between them. Picket looked up at Gern, then over at the wolf commander. The white wolf raised his shield, awaiting the signal.

  Picket didn’t wait.

  He broke into a sprint, surprising even Cole and Jo, who followed quickly with their bloody band of brave rabbits. The first ranks of the army followed fast, crying out as they came.

  The rabbits, trapped in an impossible position, outnumbered and without a chance, were charging the wolf and raptor army with defiant shouts.

  Picket watched as Gern banked suddenly and let loose a piercing call, then swooped to the back as the wolf commander cried out, “Attack!”

  But they were being attacked. Picket’s band clashed with the edges of the wolf army as the birds of prey descended.

  “Away!” came another cry, then an explosion overhead. Two more explosions. The blastpowder barrels had blown in the air, shielding the rabbits from the swooping raptors. These fell back, while wolves and rabbits clashed below the smoke and fire.

  Picket ran straight for the wolf commander. In the white wolf’s face he saw disbelief, then alarm, then an ea
ger anger. His soldiers had moved ahead of him, but he drew up his spear and howled.

  Picket charged the front lines at top speed, and, spying the white wolf behind a packed band of warriors, he leapt.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  THE EMPTY RIDGE

  Picket’s leap took the wolves by surprise, but they rallied, aiming their spears at the foolhardy soaring rabbit. Then Cole was there with an eager band, and they cut down the first wolves in a furious assault. Arcing over the front line, Picket bore down on the white wolf, who swiveled his spear toward Picket as he descended. But a speeding arrow found the spearhead and knocked it aside. Picket crashed onto the stunned wolf’s shield, breaking it in two with a shattering kick.

  Jo reloaded his bow and fired again.

  Picket blocked a return thrust from the white wolf, then fell on him with a fury. They went to the ground in a swirling dust storm, but only one rose to his feet again.

  Seeing their commander slain, the wolves went mad with rage.

  Picket swiveled, finding new foes and more work for his deadly weapon. Cole was struck from behind and crashed hard to the ground. Picket leapt in front of his friend, but the frenzied wolf knocked him on his back.

  “Lieutenant!” came the shout, as Lallo and three of his fellow soldiers sailed into the wolf. They beat him back as more rabbits poured in from behind. Finding his feet, Picket took a moment to survey the scene. The brave surge from the foremost rabbits had disrupted the wolf attack, but more wolves flooded in from the woods. The small band that met them, commanded by Captain Frye, could not last long. The main line was turning, and Morbin’s army had every advantage. The sky was clearing of smoke. Raptors descended on the rabbits behind the lines, and, hard as the rabbits fought, they had no defense.