by S D Smith
Moonlight lay stretched on the ground, and Daggler loomed over him with a craven leer. He raised his sword to finish the job. Moonlight was wounded badly and lay motionless on the stone.
Picket and Cole finally reached the edge of the clash, and Picket leapt in, head over feet, sailing over several soldiers to land a crushing kick on Daggler just as he was about to drive home his blade. Picket fell hard as Daggler was sent clattering to the ground.
Picket sprang up. He had been prepared for the impact, while Daggler slowly dragged himself to his feet, shaking his head. Meanwhile, Picket was pressed by Daggler’s guards, and he had to roll back and rip free his sword to block an assault by two soldiers.
His side was still outnumbered, though Cole was making a swathing circle, driving back and cutting down many enemies. Still, Daggler’s band regained the ascendency, and Daggler himself, though jarred and likely injured, swept back into the battle with renewed rage.
Picket was pressed back, fighting for his life, and unable to do anything to help his fellows. He had just gotten his footing again with the two rabbits who were on him when a third joined his enemies, and he was driven back. He knew he couldn’t hold out much longer. He glanced at the center of the battle, where Cole was facing Daggler, and he longed to help his friend. Cole was one of the best fighters he knew, but Daggler was dominating the encounter, and Cole was already bleeding from several wounds.
Picket’s heart went out to his friend, and he rushed forward, taking a brutal wound to his hip but surprising his enemies. He sidestepped another mortal strike, then kicked down one opponent and struck another so that he would never rise again. Cole was on his back, desperately defending against Daggler’s relentless assault. Picket didn’t wait to deal with the third opponent but sprang away, painfully, to try to reach Cole. He lunged ahead, desperate to get to his friend in time. But he felt a blow and searing pain in his knee as he was knocked hard to the ground and rolled over and over.
The third of his opponents hadn’t let him escape but had struck out as he tried to spring away. Now this enemy rabbit, a massive white-furred monster, rushed to finish Picket off, bringing his blade down in a powerful strike that Picket only just dodged, rolling over in agony. Grimacing, Picket tried to stand, but he crumpled immediately, his injured leg giving way. He forced himself up, balancing his weight on his good leg. Then another thundering strike fell, and he just caught it on his blade. But the blow sent a numb shivering up Picket’s wrists that made his hands cold and almost useless for a moment, while his enemy rounded back with a kick to his face. This sent Picket spilling backward, and he rolled over again, barely holding on to his sword. He recovered just in time to bring his blade up to block the next killing stroke meant to end him, and he risked a glance over to Cole.
Cole was on his knees, swordless and wounded badly, while Daggler poised his blade over the defenseless rabbit.
Picket could do nothing to help.
Chapter Fifty-Three
A TRAITOR’S FATE
Picket couldn’t even cry out, so desperate was his own situation. On his back, he watched as the blade came round on Cole. Then an amazing collision, and Daggler was struck hard by the falling form of a black rabbit.
Helmer!
Helmer had leapt from the balcony and smashed into Daggler, and now both lay sprawled on the ground. Cole sagged and fell, and Picket’s massive opponent, arrested by the same sight that had so distracted Picket’s attention, rushed toward his own captain. Picket himself rose, putting his weight almost all on his good leg, and limped as quickly as he could, stumbling several times, toward Helmer and Cole. But the big white rabbit reached the scene first, and all Picket could do was call out a warning.
Helmer, hearing Picket’s call, looked up at once and just ducked a strong slice meant to take off his head. Helmer sprang up then, an angry scowl displacing his shocked expression, and he rounded on the attacker. Picket hobbled on, reaching Cole just as Helmer sent the big white rabbit to his end. Picket knelt by his friend, checked his wounds, and stood guard over him. “I’m with you, Cole. I’ve got you. They’ll have to get through me to get to you.”
Helmer, fresh from overcoming the last opponent, turned toward Daggler. Daggler was on his feet and staring across at Helmer with intense hatred. Helmer was wounded, limping, and tired, but there was a fire in his eyes.
“Even if you take this city today,” Daggler said, beginning to circle like the raptors he served, “it will only be for a moment. Morbin will bring such an avalanche down on you from the High Bleaks that you’ll wish you had stayed in your cave.” Helmer said nothing, only slowly stepped in the rhythm of the circling standoff, bearing his blade before him and moving carefully. “But you won’t be around to see it—to see these weak fools finished off by Morbin himself and his hosts. I’m going to cut you down, gimp,” Daggler went on, smiling wildly, “just like I did your niece. With this very sword.”
Helmer’s form didn’t change, but Picket saw his eyes narrow into thinner slits. He waited and seemed calmer and calmer, while Daggler’s eyes grew wilder still. Finally, Daggler screamed and charged.
Helmer met his charge, deflecting the series of strokes in the aggressive complicated attack. Daggler was half-mad but masterful. He wasted no stroke and fought with intensity and intelligence. Helmer concentrated on defense, blocking and gaining a better position with each new offensive from Daggler. Picket kept watch on Cole, but the clash all around seemed to stop while all gazed at Helmer and Daggler battling in their midst.
Daggler came at Helmer again. Helmer deflected stroke after stroke, sending only a few counterstrokes back at Daggler. Daggler grew more and more angry, and his thrusts came harder and faster. He was gasping for breath while Helmer breathed easier.
Finally, after a series of glancing blows, Daggler lunged for Helmer’s middle. Helmer sidestepped and tripped Daggler, causing him to stumble. Daggler twisted back, off-balance, to deflect Helmer’s slicing strike. Daggler overcompensated from the stumble and came too close to Helmer, who then struck up with his pommel, catching Daggler’s chin and snapping his head back in a crunching blow. Having dazed his foe, Helmer wasted no time. He spun on his enemy and brought his cleaving blade around with fury.
Daggler fell dead with two thuds.
Picket’s heart leapt, and he stumbled to his feet, waiting for the next enemy to come. But seeing their captain fall so decisively, Daggler’s band fled. Picket saluted his master, and Helmer nodded back grimly. They met near Cole, who was sitting up drinking water offered by a medic. Wait. A medic?
Picket looked around the city for the first time in a while. He had been so engaged in this skirmish with Daggler’s band that he had been unaware of what was happening elsewhere. But the scene was remarkable. The wolf army was all but beaten, and several raptors lay dead on the ground.
Princess Emma rushed in, flanked by Vandalia Citadel’s recently-elevated Lord Morgan, Lord Blackstar, several other lords and captains, and an exhausted Captain Frye. “Picket!” she shouted, and they embraced. Heyna Blackstar, who had been right beside Emma, ran to her brother. Then, seeing he was wounded, Emma hurried toward Cole.
“Your Highness,” Lord Morgan called, “the medics will see to him. We must get you to the balcony to rally the city. We almost have them!”
“He’s right, Your Highness,” Lord Blackstar said, checking his son over. “Cole will be fine. I’ll stay with him till he’s safe. Heyna, go with the princess.”
Emma nodded, “You’re right. Let’s go,” she called, hurrying toward the palace.
Heyna squeezed her brother’s hand, then followed Emma and the entourage as they left the square. Picket hobbled along for a little while beside Helmer, who was also limping, though not as badly. Then Picket collapsed, unable to put weight on his leg anymore. Emma saw and went to his side.
“Your leg,” Emma said, examining his wounds. “It’s bad, Picket. You need attention, now.”
“Go, Emma,” Pi
cket said, gritting his teeth. “Get to the balcony.”
Emma glanced back and forth from the palace to Picket, frowning. “Bring him!” she called. “Lord Morgan, Captain Parn,” she commanded, “carry him up with us.”
They obeyed, grabbing Picket between them and rushing on. As he was carried along, Picket saw, through a gap in the fighting, a clear view of the west wall and its blasted gap. The last of the reinforcements were charging through, and strong rabbits were pulling a cart into the city. His view was blocked again as Emma reached the palace and they hurried inside behind her. Picket saw in bobbing glimpses the changes to the palace from that morning. It had been a settled, orderly, fortified stronghold. Now it was as open as an abandoned shack.
The great room was empty, and Picket winced as they made for the stairs. Emma was in front, flanked by a Harbone soldier and Heyna.
One of the royal guards appeared from a secret door behind a wall and rushed at Emma with frantic eyes and a drawn sword. The attacker cut down the Harbone soldier before he was seen and lunged at Emma with his blade.
Heyna struck out with a deft kick to the attacker’s wrist, sending his sword clattering to the ground. She balanced quickly, then spun and kicked the guard hard in the face. He fell back, dazed a moment, and by the time he was able to try again, he was subdued by strong rabbits in Emma’s retinue.
Emma, eyes wide and scowling, hurried ahead. She ran, hand in hand with Heyna, to the stairs.
They rushed up the stairs, then raced through to the balcony. They stopped, seeing Prince Winslow sitting on a chair in the corner of the balcony, watching the battle play out with tears in his eyes. Whit stood beside him. Whit turned, saw Emma, and smiled, reaching for the mask he almost always wore. But it wasn’t there.
“Your Highness,” Helmer said, wheezing, “this is your brother, Whit. A noble rabbit without whom we…would not have had a chance in this battle.”
Whit bowed to his sister, and then kissed her hand. “My sister, and my future queen, welcome to your home.”
Emma kissed his forehead. “Thank you, brother,” she said, squeezing his hands. “I’m so glad to see a brother who has kept faith. I hope we’ll have time to speak soon. For now, we must finish the job here.”
“Of course,” Whit said, and he led the way to the edge of the balcony. “Your forces have routed the wolf division below, and there are two raptors left.” Lord Morgan and Captain Parn sat Picket in a chair on the edge of the balcony, where he could see well.
“I see Falcowit,” Emma said, pointing to the white falcon flying high above the city, “but where’s the other?”
“There!” Whit said, pointing to the west wall, where a lone archer stood atop the wall, firing arrows as a massive raptor swept down on him like lightning.
Picket’s eyes widened.
“Jo!”
Chapter Fifty-Four
THE LAST SHOTS
Picket’s heart sank as he watched Jo’s heroic stand. Jo Shanks was Picket’s loyal friend from Halfwind Citadel, a comrade who had fought by his side through dark days. Jo had left his elite archer unit, the Bracers, in order to follow Picket and join Helmer’s Fowlers.
Whit explained that the archers had been battling with the raptors since ascending the wall, and all the rest had apparently fallen in the fight. Picket could see the broken tops of the wall where raptor attacks had devastated the brave archers.
Now Jo would be next. Jo would be last.
Picket winced against the pain in his leg, but he wasn’t worried about that now. Jo was firing over the lip of the wall, ducking back under to nock another arrow, then emerging to fire again. The attacking raptor dodged as he came, but still Picket saw shafts bristling from his body where Jo’s arrows had hit.
The raptor was done dodging now. Beating his wings, he bore down on the lip of the wall, preparing to shatter all with his massive talons. Picket groaned as the raptor rushed ahead.
A murderous glare. An awful screech. A frantic beating of wings, and the massive bird was there.
Picket cried out in anguish. “No!”
At the last moment, Jo leapt onto the rim of the wall, and then, as the talons swiped and the crushing attack came, he sprang high into the air. The raptor tore through the wall’s edge, shattering stone and sending a spray of mortar all around. Jo seemed to hang in the air a moment as the terrific collision hit. The raptor’s momentum took him through the lip of the inner wall, and then, bursting stone once more, he smashed through the outer rim of the wall, sliding out of the city and into the air beyond, disappearing from Picket’s sight.
Jo landed on the rubble left behind and lost his footing. He slid down the outer lip remnants and nearly plunged from the heights. He snagged a brittle tangle of bricks, still somehow attached atop the ruined wall.
The rabbits on the palace balcony were in agony, but Picket saw that Emma was calling out orders, listening to suggestions from her advisors, and working hard to rally the various forces into a unit. Captain Frye was busy trying to get archers from the field to the west wall and had quit the balcony to help the effort himself. Lord Morgan of Vandalia and Captain Parn of Harbone were overseeing the tactical assets on the ground, desperately trying to get weapons in place to help. Helmer stood by Emma, with Whit on her other side, keeping a side-eye on Winslow. The brittle rabbit was a wreck and posed no apparent threat.
Picket’s attention was all on Jo. His dear friend was clinging to a shabby section of a crumbling wall. Picket felt helpless.
He glanced down at his leg. It was bleeding badly, and he could put no weight on it now. He hated being out of commission at this crucial point in the battle. Then a thought struck him hard.
You don’t need legs to fly.
He hobbled up to the edge and looked over at Helmer. Helmer saw the determination in his eyes and hurried to Picket’s side. He lifted Picket to the balcony rail and steadied him as he, balancing on his good leg, bent and launched into the air.
Picket sent out his arms to engage the glider, caught the quickening wind, and rode it up in an arc toward the west wall. He was aiming for Jo, who struggled to get a grip on the debris crumbling on the edge of the west wall heights. Picket began to believe he would reach his friend in time.
Then, beyond the battered wall, the raptor rose into view.
The Preylord was banking back for another attack. Picket willed himself ahead, but he could see he would not make it in time. He would only be closer—close enough to see the end clearly. And powerless to stop it.
The bird bore down, building momentum again and setting his talons to tear Jo to pieces.
Jo heard the shrieking screech and made a last effort to climb the crumbling rubble. Though the bricks gave way in alarming near misses, Jo managed to scramble up the side and regain the height again. He staggered around, searching for something. Then he reached down and raised his bow. He unlocked his quiver and drew out his last arrow.
Massive beating wings and a gaping beak. Talons, razor sharp and slicing through the air. The raptor came.
Jo sagged. Then, taking a deep breath, he raised himself to his full height and nocked his arrow. Stretching back his bowstring, he calmly waited for the racing raptor to raise his head again.
And he did. So close that Picket cried out in desperate fear for his friend, the raptor raised his head and bellowed as he readied his awful talons for the strike. But Jo, aiming carefully, let fly his arrow. It sped away, and for Picket the time seemed to slow. The arrow was true, and it found the raptor’s throat. It pierced the bird, silencing his ominous screech, and the life left his angry eyes. He sped on, dead weight hurtling toward the lonely archer’s high perch of rubble.
Jo had no time to leap over his attacker. He didn’t even have time to lower his bow. Picket was close enough to see the dead bird’s wrecking fall. Losing little of his attacking speed, the raptor collided with the wall just below where Jo was perched precariously, shattering the peak of the wall entirely. Jo fell, amon
g a hundred bricks, spinning down into a chaotic plunge.
Picket saw the bursting bricks, the rain of ruined stone, and the spray of mortar. The death-dealing debris fell, and his aching body called out for him to bank away and save his own life.
Then he saw Jo.
Picket flew into the shower of stone, diving into the murderous chaos of the crumbling wall. Jo was there, falling just beyond what was left of the west wall. Picket swept in, dodged a series of shattered stones, and reached Jo just as he was halfway down.
Picket tried to plan for what came next, but there was no way to do this well. He disengaged the glider, grabbed Jo, and tried to secure him on his back as he reengaged. But the glider plunged, unable to bear the added weight, just as a hail of stone fell all around them. Desperate, he somehow wrestled the glider into softening their landing as they rolled and rolled along the outskirts of the crashing debris. Stone rained down around them, sending up a cloud of dust amid a terrific rattling din. On the ground, Picket tried to leap to cover Jo, but his leg gave way, and they merged together in a heap. Picket covered his head and Jo’s as best as he could.
As the dust cleared, Picket saw that Jo wasn’t moving. He called for help, trying to find a medic. Picket’s own pains were beyond what he could process. His ears rang. His vision blurred. He saw the battle, but it made no sense.
At last help arrived, and Picket stumbled out of the ruins of the wrecked wall. Medics went to work on Jo, and several soldiers came along and helped them get clear. They headed back toward the square, Picket’s leg giving way so badly that the soldiers finally carried him to the edge of the square. There he met up with Heyward, who was with Emerson and a team settling the bowstriker in place. Picket came awake as they pointed at Falcowit, who was streaking away overhead.