The Last Archer: A Green Ember Story

by S D Smith

  “Kent got hurt in the cup final, and I need someone to replace him, even if it’s just for a little while. He can’t make the trip, so I want you to stand in for Kent and go with us as one of the Bracers.”

  Jo just stared at Nate for a while. “Nate,” he began. Then he looked down. “I don’t deserve it. I missed the big shot! And anyway, I’ve been so wrong about you. I’ve always assumed that everything’s been easy for you, since you’ve been so successful. I haven’t been fair to you. I’m sorry.”

  “We’re on the same side,” Nate replied. “We’re not rivals.”

  “Not anymore. Thanks, Nate.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Flynn now,” he said, smiling. “I was made an officer, and the Bracers have been folded into Captain Frye’s company.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jo said, coming to attention.

  “We leave in an hour,” Lieutenant Flynn said, then spun to head for the door. Over his shoulder he called, “And clean your sword!”

  “Yes, sir!” Jo called, smiling wide.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  An hour later they were on the road to Cloud Mountain. Jo had had little rest and less food that day. They traveled through the night and reached their destination by morning, marching uphill as the rising sun sent long beams of light breaking through the mist. After Lord Ramnor spoke to the hidden sentries in green garb, they passed into the fog-shrouded entrance to Cloud Mountain. In neat teams under their assigned leaders, the selected Halfwind soldiers crossed through a thin trickling waterfall and into a long cavernous passage, issuing at last into a small clean cave set with tables and chairs. Beside it, beyond a wooden wall with an ornate door and a wide serving window, a large kitchen swarmed with workers. A stout rabbit wobbled around the kitchen, shaking his stirring spoon at a cadre of rabbits who cut vegetables, fed fires, and sweated over steaming pots of delicious-smelling concoctions. The squat chef harangued the workers between swiped bites of bread and hurried sips of soup.

  Lord Ramnor rushed through another door while their guide, a tall lieutenant named Pacer, introduced them to the cook. “You’re welcome here at the Savory Den,” the cook said, motioning for them to crowd in. “I’m Gort, the proprietor of this establishment. I believe half of you are set to make camp while the other half sit to breakfast. If those prepared to dine would take their seats, I’ll have you all served in a moment. I hope you approve of our preparations.”

  Captain Frye gruffly thanked Gort, then led the half set toward their camp through another door, while Lieutenant Kout oversaw the remaining half. The food was brought out, and Jo devoured his quickly. When he brought his bowl to the large window, he was met by Gort.

  “Would you like more, lad?” Gort asked.

  “I would love more, sir,” Jo answered.

  Gort reached inside the window and motioned for a portion of the simmering soup to be ladled into Jo’s bowl. Jo thanked him, turned to hurry back to his seat, and collided with Lieutenant Drand. His soup sloshed over the lip of his bowl and sprayed Drand across his chest. The soup dripped down onto the floor as Jo’s eyes widened. “Lieutenant! I’m so sorry!”

  “Just get out of the way, Shanks,” Drand said, his face pinched in disgust. “What are you even doing here? You weren’t selected.”

  “I’ve replaced Kent Halmon in the Bracers, sir,” Jo answered.

  “Then I’ll need to have a word with Nate,” Drand said, stomping toward the kitchen.

  Jo turned to ask for something to wipe up the mess he’d made, but Gort came beside him and motioned him back to this seat.

  “Don’t worry about that, lad,” the stout proprietor said. “No harm’ll come of a little spilled soup. Just you eat what you have, and I’ll bring you more.”

  In a few minutes, Gort, true to his word, brought Jo another bowl of soup and some extra bread. The other Bracers looked on with envious expressions.

  “Thank you, sir,” Jo said. “This is really wonderful.”

  “I’m honored you think so,” Gort said, passing his hand over his mouth to hide his wide smile. “You bolt that soup like you’ve never eaten before.”

  “I haven’t ever eaten anything like this, that’s for sure! It’s true, I’ve missed a few meals, but I think I’d ask for more of this no matter how full I was.”

  “Well,” Gort said, beaming down on Jo, “you need never go hungry here. Come to the Savory Den at any hour, and we’ll be sure you’re fed, lad.”

  Jo smiled and thanked him, while behind Gort a door swung open and a rabbit bearing seven trays, each level stacked with a bevy of mugs, stumbled inside. The mugs were lovely, an elegant mix of ornate and sturdy, with rabbit-eared handles and shining glaze. But the precarious way they slid from side to side as the bearer overcompensated back and forth made Jo think they were all doomed to tumble at any moment. Jo half-stood, looking around as others did the same. The top trays slid to the right, while a jerk back by the bearer sent the bottom trays shifting leftward. The stacked trays of mugs began to make an S shape, and the watching soldiers inhaled sharply. The bearer seemed unconcerned, even smiling while waving and exchanging a few words with the diners nearest the door.

  Gort heard the groans and saw the concern on Jo’s face. He turned his head, with some difficulty, to see what had distracted Jo from his delicious food. He gasped. “Not again, Eefaw Potter!” Gort cried, huffing as he frantically began to waddle over. Jo stood, wincing as the trays lurched farther back and forth and seemed certain to tumble at any moment. “Master Eefaw, hold still!” Gort cried, picking up surprising speed as he tottered back and forth in a wobbly sprint toward the clueless potter.

  Just as Gort gained maximum speed, he slipped on the spilled soup and pitched backward, sliding into Eefaw Potter’s thin legs. The potter fell forward and threw up his arms, sending the seven trays of mugs sailing into the air. Jo winced as the beautiful mugs fell amid a bedlam of desperate diving efforts to save some. The mugs crashed down, shattering in fantastic shards amid the din of anguished cries from Gort, Eefaw, and the watching soldiers.

  When it was over and silence fell again on the Savory Den, Gort sat amid the ruins of the seven trays of mugs, holding, in each hand, a saved mug. Eefaw Potter, his wide face stuck in a stunned expression, held two mug handles. The mugs themselves were shattered to bits. Master Eefaw recovered from his stupor, stared around at the sea of shattered pottery, and frowned. He laid his two mug handles down—slowly and carefully, for some reason—then gazed up at Gort’s hands. The last two mugs of the batch. Jo smiled as he saw the relief on the old potter’s face at seeing the two saved mugs.

  “Well done, Gort!” Eefaw Potter said, slapping his friend so hard on the back that the mugs were jostled free of the harried cook’s grasp and fell to the ground to shatter amid the horrified gasps of all present.

  Gort’s face seemed stuck between fury and sadness, and his left eye twitched as he rounded on Eefaw Potter. “You…” he began, but he choked on the words.

  “Well,” Eefaw Potter said, carefully getting to his feet and waving self-consciously at the astonished diners, “looks like I’d better head back to the wheel. Don’t worry, Gort, I won’t charge you for these. And I’ll send my apprentices to clean this up.” Gort’s eyes seemed to be bulging out of his head. He sputtered but still could not find words. “Okay, then,” Eefaw went on, backing up slowly and picking his way carefully through the far-flung mess, “I’ll just be heading back to work. Back. To. Work.”

  Jo finished his meal while the staff, unwilling to allow the soldiers to help, cleaned up the aftermath of Gort’s bowling down the odd potter.

  Jo was tired, and when they made their way through the secret door, down the long passage, and up the high stairs, he felt sleep overtaking him. He stumbled through a beautiful sunlit garden that stood out beside a wood-walled building and walked past a statue of two heroic rabbits, then through another door and down another long passage. Jo struggled to keep his eyes open as they passed through what Nate, who march
ed just ahead of him, called Hallway Round. Next, they passed through a door that stood beside two large blastpowder kegs and walked out onto a green beside a large garden on their right.

  They walked through the green, seeing several rabbits working in the garden and others heading toward Hallway Round, bearing all manner of tools for their various trades. In the distance, Jo saw a neat village of cottages and, beyond them, a rocky outcropping that seemed to circle, in jagged peaks and dips, the edges of this mountaintop. On the far side of the green, he saw a tree thick with dangling ropes and all sorts of strange constructions attached to the ropes and set on the grass. Amid the mess, a tall black rabbit and a smaller gold-grey buck were fighting with wooden swords. He heard the smack of their parried blows and watched them as he walked on, following Nate along with the rest of the archers. Jo was no expert with a sword, but he saw that they were both very good, especially the master.

  “Who is that, Lieutenant Flynn?” Jo asked.

  “I don’t know,” Nate answered. “But I wouldn’t want to fight the black one.”

  As they watched, the black rabbit rose and kicked the sword free from his student. Jo thought the contest would be over, but it wasn’t. The black buck ran at the younger, chasing him around, striking him with his wooden sword while the younger dodged and tried to dart away. Finally, the student turned and leapt into a kick. The older buck stepped sideways and drove his shoulder into the younger buck, sending him sprawling. When he was on the ground, the black rabbit kicked dirt in his eyes and then leapt on him, striking him again and again.

  Jo saw a white doe emerge from the Hallway Round door and walk slowly toward the tree. She stopped while still a long way off and watched the battling bucks, a concerned expression on her face.

  “Who’s that?” Jo asked. “She’s beautiful.”

  “I still don’t know anyone here,” Nate answered, shaking his head. But he stopped and gazed at the doe as a surly-faced soldier from Blackstone passed them, heading the other way.

  “That’s Heather,” the soldier said, scowling. “Heather Longtreader. They’re all traitors, if you ask me.” He shook his head and moved on.

  Jo’s expression changed in a moment. “The lovely traitor,” he said, eyes thinning to slits. “What a shame.”

  “Let’s go,” Nate said, and they hurried to catch up with the rest.

  Jo’s company reached the caves beyond the village, and they followed Lieutenant Kout into an opening in the rock. They carried on through the tunnel until it issued onto a large plateau. The area was lined with catapults and held many camps of soldiers from various citadels. Jo recognized the divided-shield crest of Kingston. One side bore a circle of nine red diamonds surrounding one large green one in the center, and the other side, a simple black star. He also saw soldiers from Harbone and Blackstone, Vandalia and others, spread out over the plateau. Looking right, however, he saw there was one area the camping soldiers kept clear of. There were seven standing stones near the edge and a few old votaries kneeling at the base of the seventh.

  Jo looked up to the top of the seventh stone and saw a solitary rabbit silhouetted against the sky. He seemed to be gazing into the distance. Jo followed his line of vision and saw nothing but the drifting fog. But Jo knew what lay beyond the mist. The Great Wood. First Warren. Occupied territory.

  Jo looked up at the lone rabbit once again, and then Nate called for him to catch up, so he jogged ahead to make camp with the Bracers in the area Captain Frye had designated for them. The old captain was leading his half of the weary bucks back toward the Savory Den and their long-awaited meal.

  “We muster and train at the evening bell,” Nate told the small band of archers. “I don’t intend to waste our days here being idle. After our company muster and drills, we’ll do more on our own. Any questions?”

  “Nate,” Junder began, then corrected himself. “Sorry, Lieutenant Flynn. When does the congress begin, and when are they going to put those Longtreader traitors on trial?”

  “I don’t know either answer, Junder,” Nate replied. “I only know that we want to be ready when there’s trouble—inside or outside this place.”

  “Should we have a class on keeping our swords clean?” Owen, a tall white rabbit with red eyes, asked. They all snickered, and Jo rolled his eyes.

  “Set up your tents,” Nate said, and they all went to work. Jo and Nate set up their tent. They would share one, since Kent had always roomed with their leader and, for now, Jo was taking his place.

  When the work was done, Nate ordered them all to get some sleep. Jo didn’t need to be told twice. For the second time in two days, he fell asleep with his sword buckled on.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jo woke, bolting upright at a noise outside his tent. Loud shouting and the clash of steel.

  Battle sounds.

  Hurried footsteps signaled an urgent approach. He stood up in the small space and ripped free his sword as the tent flap opened and Nate’s head poked in. Nate immediately drew back, an alarmed expression on his face.

  “What are you doing, Shanks?” he cried. Now Jo could tell that the sounds outside were simple drills being carried out energetically, probably by another citadel’s soldiers.

  “Um, I was, um…” Jo began, searching for an excuse as to why he had nearly taken off the head of his commanding officer. He spied a rag hanging from the tent’s support and brought it down smoothly across his blade. “I’m just wiping down my sword, sir. Getting it, uh, just very, very clean, sir.”

  Nate frowned at him, then shook his head. “Listen, Jo,” he said, slipping into the tent. “Captain Frye has already cautioned me for bringing you along. He doesn’t think you’re ready—that you have what it takes. So my first official interaction with the highest officer in our citadel after becoming an officer was listening to him express his intense displeasure at my first-ever decision as an officer.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jo said.

  “Don’t be sorry,” Nate replied. “Be good. Be worthy of my trust. Be the best.”

  “How can I be the best when you’re here?”

  “I keep telling you, Shanks,” Nate said, reaching for the flap, “that we’re on the same side. Harbone has the field now. Our muster’s in an hour.” He disappeared and closed the tent flap. Jo took a deep breath and let out a groan.

  “Great start,” he said aloud. Then he proceeded to actually clean his sword. When he was done, he believed it was cleaner than any sword ever presented at any muster. He knew this virtually guaranteed it would not be examined, but it had to be done.

  Jo saw to his bow and quiver, straightened his uniform, then split the tent flap and walked out into a gorgeous evening on the plateau. The sun was descending amid a carnival of color, pink and purple and every shade between, swirling in vibrant patterns that glowed in the misty sky. Jo breathed in the evening air and then walked toward the towering stones. Seven of them stretched high into the sky to honor the heritage of their ancient ancestors Flint and Fay and all of the Leapers. Jo was a devout rabbit and had considered joining the brother votaries ever since he was young. But when his father had died in debt, passing on to his son his own worst fears of failure and ruin, Jo had dedicated himself to a military life.

  Jo’s stroll took him past the open area where Harbone’s soldiers were training and to the foot of the seventh standing stone. He knelt and touched his ears, eyes, and then his mouth. He rose and began to ascend the stairs, always looking up and off at the enchanting sky. As he neared the top, still distracted by the beautiful view, he ran into a rabbit starting to descend.

  “I’m sorry!” Jo said, reaching out to be sure neither of them fell. “I was distracted.”

  “Me too, friend,” the other answered. He was a short white rabbit, young and very strong. Jo could feel the strength of his grip as they helped each other, stepping back to safety.

  “I think I saw you here this morning when we arrived,” Jo said. “Are you considering the contemplative li
fe?”

  “It was me,” the other rabbit answered. “Though you’re far easier to see than I am, as tall as you are. I’ve always been, well, a bit closer to the ground. I come up here most mornings and evenings, when I can. It helps me feel connected to the past and,” he said, motioning vaguely toward the Great Wood in the distance, “the future.”

  “I’m Jo Shanks,” Jo said.

  “I’m Smalls,” the white rabbit answered.

  Jo noticed there was no citadel’s symbol on the short rabbit’s chest or shoulder. “Have you been here long?” he asked.

  “I haven’t been anywhere long,” Smalls sighed, looking out over the rolling mountains and the wide forest far ahead. “How about you, Jo? Halfwind? Is that your home, or are you just stationed there?”

  “I’m from Halfwind,” Jo answered, slowly settling down to sit atop the standing stone. “At least that’s where I’ve been ever since I can remember. Father brought me up there, but he didn’t live too many years after the king fell.”

  Smalls sat beside Jo and nodded, a pained expression on his face. “I’m sorry about your family, Jo. So many of us are orphans now. What kind of buck was your father?”

  “He was a mason, but he wanted to be an archer. He’d been an archer in the old army and was a crack shot. But his foot was crushed in an accident, and he was dismissed from the service at Halfwind. Captain Frye sent him away, told him he’d have to find another path. So he became a mason. But he wasn’t very good with his pay, and he made some bad decisions. Really, his friends said he was never the same after Mother was killed in the afterterrors. Father suffered intensely from losing her, and he was always angry about those who betrayed the king. He became a… well, he was not at his finest as I grew up. He died very disappointed in himself and deep in debt.”

  “I’m sorry for that. It must have been hard.”

  “It was that. Debt and dishonor are a heavy burden for any buck to bear, young or old.”