by S D Smith
“We know,” Picket said, “that where the woods aren’t cleared back around the wall, the river and lake run against it. There are stout sentinel stations at nine points around the wall, full of wolves and with at least nine raptors, commanded by Lord Falcowit. We know the main station is above the dam, where the river enters the city by way of the levy. The double wall there regulates the flow and helps avoid flooding. We know this levy and the river entrance are heavily guarded and that most of the wolves are housed there in the main fort.”
“If I may,” Lord Hewson said, “Captain Picket, you are right about those details, and the Black Gap has been burned again recently. But the last intelligence we received suggested that the main fort above the dam is the only place where the wolf army is garrisoned.”
“Thank you, Lord,” Picket said, bowing his head quickly.
“So,” Helmer went on, “we need to run our ideas by you to look for weaknesses, just as Lord Hewson now has corrected our understanding of the target. We welcome any and all ideas you have. I’m sure wise minds in this place have been mulling this for years, and we need your help.”
Helmer sat down, and a quiet settled over the room. As the silence stretched on, Lord Hewson spoke again. “Perhaps it would be best if you shared your ideas, for feedback from the council?”
“Yes,” Helmer said, rising. “Well, assuming we can get past the wild wolves—”
“A very generous assumption,” a captain murmured.
“Assuming we can get past the wolves,” Helmer repeated, staring hard at the captain who had interrupted, “we thought of creating a distraction in the far woods, a fire perhaps, while we sneak in, covered in black to pass unseen through the Black Gap. We could then use harpoons to clear the wall.”
“Gendo Bavinson,” Captain Redthaw said, shaking his head.
“Excuse me?” Helmer asked. “What does Gendo Bavinson mean?”
“He’s the last rabbit who tried that, though several did before,” Captain Redthaw said. “He and his team are dead.”
“We could hide in barrels and float through the levee and into the city,” Picket suggested.
“Bill Tollers,” Captain Redthaw said. “Didn’t work. Couldn’t work.”
“We could dump trash in the Black Gap,” Picket said, “and hide among it, hoping to be tossed in the waste hole inside the city.”
“Lieutenant Frale and Jorn Lin,” Captain Parn, sitting beside Redthaw, said. “The raptors dropped a blastpowder bomb on them.”
All around the room, heads went down. Helmer frowned and tried again. “We could use fake uniforms and take boats into the city from the lake to the river, trying to pass by the guards.”
“Emery Dann,” Lord Hewson said, shaking his head. “That was our last attempt. Lord Falcowit swept down on him and his team, tearing them apart while we watched from a distant hill. Horrific day.”
“There must be something!” Helmer shouted, striking the table.
“There might be nothing,” Lord Hewson whispered to Helmer. “We have been at this problem for years, old friend.”
“We have to get in,” Helmer said. “We absolutely must.”
“I have a suggestion.” A soft-voiced rabbit from the far side of the room stood up. He wasn’t sitting at the table but in a chair along the edge of the room, with other attendants to the captains.
“What is it, young Emerson?” Lord Hewson asked. To Helmer and Picket he said, “Emerson is one of our young engineers,” then to the timid buck, “Speak up, lad.”
“Just this,” Emerson said, stepping forward. “The principal problem has not been that the distractions don’t work. They do, in fact. And we have great resources for a deliberate and effective distraction. It’s only that once these distractions are made, there has been no way to get the penetrating team inside with enough speed.”
“That’s true,” Captain Redthaw said, nodding. “So how do we overcome this dilemma?”
“I’m not certain,” he said, “but last night I heard some rumors about the battle at Rockback Valley that gave me an idea.”
Helmer and Picket looked at each other.
Picket smiled. Helmer sighed.
Chapter Nineteen
EMERY’S SON
After the meeting broke up, Picket found the shy buck whose counsel had carried the day.
“Hey,” Picket said, “thanks for what you did in there. Emerson, right?” he asked, extending his hand.
“Yessir,” Emerson replied, shaking Picket’s hand. “I’m honored to meet you, Captain.”
“And I, you.” They walked along together. “Where are you headed now?”
“Back to work, sir. I have so much to do.”
“I don’t want to keep you from your work,” Picket said, “but I wonder if you’d ever have time to show me some of what you’re working on and maybe catch me up on the story at Harbone.”
“It would be my honor, sir,” Emerson said, smiling.
In a few minutes, they were descending into wide passages in the depths of the warren. Picket saw rabbits at work inside room after room on this low level.
“How many smithies does Harbone have active?” he asked.
“Fifty at present,” Emerson answered, “and they are the best of rabbits, led by Master Hame, who is as wise a rabbit as I’ve ever known.”
“I’d like to meet him.”
“I would be happy to introduce you sometime, but may I show you my own work first, sir?”
“Certainly.”
Emerson led him into a cavernous space crammed with tools and equipment, including large complex pieces, many half-finished and others covered in canvas. Picket turned, his mouth open as he gazed at the amazing room. He thought of Heyward and longed to get these two bright rabbits together.
Emerson pointed at one of the canvas-covered objects, off in a far corner, and they moved through the room toward it. “I am honored to have taken part in the team creating this.”
“I bet your family is proud,” Picket said. The buck’s face fell at his words. Picket grimaced. He should have known, in this world of a thousand orphans, how painful comments like that could be. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“No, sir. It’s all right. Mother was proud,” Emerson said, smiling through his tears. “Her name was Myrtle Dann. She died last week, in an attack from the wild wolf pack. She was trying to get much-needed medicine for the hospital.” He coughed and wiped at his nose and eyes. “I miss her.”
Picket put his hand on Emerson’s shoulder. “My family’s gone too. I don’t know if any of them are alive or dead.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Captain.”
“Call me Picket, please.”
Emerson nodded as they reached the corner of the room where his project lay covered. “I threw myself into this work after Father died several years ago. He was Emery Dann, and Lord Hewson told you how he was killed trying to get into First Warren. Falcowit, that tyrannous villain, did it. Father was a good rabbit.”
“A hero,” Picket said. “It will not be so…”
“In the Mended Wood,” Emerson finished.
“Quick come the day.”
“Yes. And since Father’s death, even though I was and am young—like you, Picket, if I may say so—I’ve dedicated myself to the cause with everything I have. I’ve been working on trying to get rabbits inside First Warren. I’m glad that Lord Hewson is willing to try again.”
“Me too. Lord Hewson and my master, Helmer, are old friends.”
“Lord Hewson has been a wonderful leader. Following in Lord Hews’ steps, he has done so much: prepping and maintaining the assets in our battle burrows, helping find workarounds when the smithies don’t have all they need, supporting the innovative engineers, and working tirelessly himself for the cause of the Mended Wood.”
“What are the battle burrows? And what assets do you mean?”
“The battle burrows are underground caches, positioned as close as we dare to First Warren. The
y’re bunkers stocked with weapons and other assets. Harbone hasn’t been on the front line of the recent battles, but neither have we been idle. May I show you one of those weapons?”
“Please,” Picket said.
Emerson pulled off the cover to reveal a large bow, its stout string drawn back by a smaller catapult crank and held by taut cords. There was a mount for easy loading of the large arrows that were stacked neatly on the weapon’s platform base. The impressive device stood twice as tall as an ordinary rabbit.
Picket whistled and grinned. “Does it work?”
“Yes, though we’ve never tested the bowstrikers in battle.”
“A bowstriker? It’s incredible,” Picket said, stepping onto the platform to get a closer look. “The range must be unbelievable. How do the arrows work?”
“We call them blastarrows. The arrowhead is basically a hard jar packed with blastpowder—”
“Blastpowder?”
“Yes,” Emerson said, smiling. “It’s an encased arrowhead, and the tip is fitted with a flint kit, so when the impact comes—”
“Boom!” Picket finished, eyes wide.
“Exactly.”
Picket shook his head. “This is a breakthrough! I’ve been in many of the recent battles. We need these in the field!”
“We don’t have many, yet. But we’re doing all we can.”
“Your father would be very proud of you, Emerson,” Picket said. “Your mother, too.”
“I believe you’re right, Picket,” he said, smiling through fresh tears. “I have only one desire in these painful days, to see my work matter for the mending. I know I help invent things that destroy, but they are aimed at the darkness. And I hope that, when they have blown a hole in that darkness, the light pours in.”
Chapter Twenty
IN HARBONE’S HEART
They rested and planned for days. Picket, guided by Harbone’s old librarian, Mistress Gilfersnodden, studied the best maps and read the most reliable intelligence reports Harbone had on First Warren. He read the Third Citadel Congress report wherein the task of staging arms for an eventual assault and retaking of First Warren was accepted by Harbone’s then leader, Lord Hews. As Emerson had said, Lord Hewson had carried on his father’s scheme with diligence, seeing to the routine maintenance of the larger assets, prone to moldering in their battle burrows, as well as the continual manufacture and supply of new arms. Harbone’s fifty smithies churned out weapons by the hundreds each day. They had run low on supplies of late but had found workarounds and carried on, waging their quiet war of preparation.
Though reluctant at first, and still gravely doubting the plan would succeed, the Harbone Citadel’s personnel and resources were now fully committed to the scheme of getting Helmer and Picket inside.
Helmer spent much-needed time resting his leg, which he grudgingly allowed Doctor Wim to treat. Picket also rested, and he took several pleasant walks around the warren. It was like Halfwind, though it felt more old-fashioned. The warren was dark and deep, dirt-lined, with little stone. It was like going back in time to their ancestors’ communities. But inside many of the dens, amazing work was being carried out. He saw potential innovations for the battlefield that made him wish to spend a month there, learning. He again wished Heyward could come there. His inventive friend would fit right in with these Harbone engineers.
Picket thought of all his friends, of Heyward, Jo, and Cole. Of Heyna, and Emma. He thought of Captain Frye, Mrs. Weaver, Gort, and Master Eefaw. He missed them all and hoped they were okay.
And Heather. Where was she now? Would he, like Master Helmer, be separated from his sister for years? Would he be left to wonder what had happened to her without ever having an answer? He missed her intensely. He loved her very much and was proud of what she had done to save Emma. She had traded her life for the hope of the cause. For the Mended Wood.
Picket would gladly trade his own life to see her safe now.
* * *
On the second day, Lord Hewson introduced him to the master smith of the Harbone forge, Hame.
“I am very pleased to meet you, Master Smith,” Picket said, bowing.
“And I, you, Captain,” the smith said, returning the bow. He was a large rabbit with strong arms and coal-black fur. “My wife tells your stories to our littles at night. Tells them how you defeated Redeye Garlackson, and now we hear of higher feats still.”
Picket bowed again. “May I ask what you’re making, sir?”
“An ordinary sword,” he said, “though it’ll be a strong one.”
“Master Smith is modest,” Lord Hewson cut in. “He makes no ordinary swords. He is the best swordsmith in all Natalia. In fact, I understand he made the sword at your side.”
Picket blinked and looked from the sheathed weapon, a gift from Prince Smalls, to the smiling smith. “The prince?” he began, absently feeling for the black scarf at his neck.
The smith nodded. “Aye. He and I were friends, as odd as that may be. The best of rabbits, he was.”
Picket’s head hung low. “We’ll never see better.”
“He sent me instructions for that one,” Smith said as Picket drew the blade out and laid it in his hands, “and I see it has had some use. That’s good. I hope it holds up well no matter at what heights you fight.”
“Master Smith comes from a long line of the finest crafters in our history. His ancestors were making arms for the last kings of Golden Coast,” Lord Hewson said.
“Aye,” Master Smith said. “We go way back. But the prince, he was kin to the original smith.”
“The original smith?” Picket asked, puzzled.
“Aye, Flint was the first smith,” he answered, rubbing his chin. “You know of Flint’s stone sword?” Picket nodded, and he went on. “Some say it came to him that way, and Fay’s book the same. Some say they fell from the sky—that it came from the stars. But in our craft lore, we remember that Flint forged the first sword. It did come from the stars, but it came as a falling star made of unbreakable steel. Of this substance, the sky sword was made—the stone sword of legend.”
“If it was forged from this falling star,” Picket asked, “and it was unbreakable, then how was it forged into a sword?”
“It’s a matter unsettled in our lore,” Smith answered. “Some say Fay dreamed a way, and Flint followed her counsel. Some say the sword was there from the fallen star, and Flint merely broke away the rock around it. Some say he was so strong he broke the unbreakable steel and made the blade through fire unknown to any forge before or since.”
“And what do you believe?” Picket asked.
“I don’t need to know every detail of how,” the smith said, smiling as he handed Picket’s sword back. “I know that Flint forged a sword and that he fought the first foe with it. I know it was handed down for generations and that all those who follow our craft see Flint as our father, in more ways than one. To us, he is doubly father. I am a smith, and Flint was a smith. That’s enough for me.”
Picket nodded. “What became of Flint’s sword?”
“It was lost sometime after the crossing,” Lord Hewson said. “We know Whitson had it and that Lander saw it. But I never heard for certain where it landed. Many say it’s in the bottom of the river, that after Whitson’s wreck they never recovered it. Some say it was carried off by Lord Grimble and held in his followers’ warren, then lost when their renegade settlement failed. Others say Lander hid it with the dragon seeds, though none know where.”
“What do you think happened to it, my lord?” Picket asked.
“I believe it was lost,” Lord Hewson said, “and we don’t know where. So we made up stories to comfort ourselves.”
“The smiths believe it was recovered by Lander and stored in the dragon tomb,” Master Smith said, “so that it might never be lost again. And the heirs have the key.”
Picket felt again for the scarf at his neck and thought of Smalls, then Emma, and all that was lost when their father fell.
*
* *
On the third day, on one of his long walks, Picket ventured near the school. There he found rabbits his age playing a game called hoopvolley. He watched as two players stood on opposing sides with a hoop in between so they could see one another through its opening. Picket smiled as the first player rolled the ball gently with the bottom of her foot from a starting point ten steps away from the hoop, then attempted to kick the ball through with her second touch. Once the ball was through the hoop, the opposite player tried to kick it back through in two touches or less. Picket watched them try and fail, then succeed, back and forth. He tried to determine the score, but they seemed to be adding their points in a strange way.
“Who’s winning?” he asked, walking up as they took a break.
“We play together,” the doe answered, “and we try to beat our last high number.”
“I see,” Picket said. “It looks like fun.”
“Come and join in,” the buck said. “I’ll take a break.”
“Oh, thank you!” he said, itching to try it out. “I’m Picket, by the way.”
“You’re famous, Picket,” the buck said. “We know who you are.”
“Yes,” Picket said, “I’m famous throughout Natalia as a wrecker of games and interrupter of conversations. I butt in with legendary rudeness.”
“I’m Harmon.” The buck laughed, shaking his hand. “And we’re thrilled to have the world’s most celebrated game-crasher ruin our perfect afternoon!”
“I’m Dalla,” the doe said, smiling. “Let’s see if you’re as good as everyone says.”
“Well,” Picket said, stretching dramatically, “I’m not famous for being good at games, only for interrupting them.”
“More of a negative force,” Harmon added, grinning.