by S D Smith
Jo was bleeding badly, stretched out and barely able to move. He watched helplessly as the wolves overcame the small band of rabbits, and he saw every archer fall in turn. Nate was down, both he and Owen lying motionless nearby. Other archers from every citadel, their bows broken and arrows scattered on the ground, lay still beside their Halfwind comrades. The clearing, which had so recently been a scene of a brutal battle, now fell eerily silent. Jo could hear the faint clamor of battle from down the mountain as, gritting his teeth, he checked his wounds.
Jo was no medic, but he knew they were very bad.
Struggling to his feet, he tried to pursue the fight, but he was confused. He stumbled away from the horrible scene, not really knowing where he was going. He staggered painfully, step by slow step, until he could go no farther. He leaned against a tree, trying to regain his balance and focus. Soon he sagged to the ground.
His pain subsided and his mind felt thick. He found it hard to focus. He noticed the leaves on the trees. The forest blurred as one leaf seemed to swell, suddenly plain to Jo in all its tiny details. He smiled, feeling himself beginning to slip down in his mind.
He was falling. Falling down. Down. He was losing his hold on the world as the forest and its astonishing leaves began to slip from his attention. It was replaced by images of his father, shaking his head. Of Captain Frye, Lieutenant Drand, Nate Flynn, and a host of other notables, all shaking their heads in disappointment at him. The images became blurry, even in his mind. He blinked and saw them all better but could not remember why they were there, and soon he didn’t even know who they were. Before things went black, he no longer cared.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Waking at the sound of heavy footfalls, Jo blinked his eyes open and saw a white doe leap over a fallen log, then skid to a stop. She spun, face twisted in indecision. Then he recognized her. Heather Longtreader.
His attention sharpened with a sudden surge of anger. She ran toward him, glancing back down the mountain and then back at Jo. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’ll make it,” Jo answered gruffly. She hesitated a moment, then ran over, examining his wounds before carefully rolling him over and helping him rest his head against the tree. She went to work, tearing some cloth loose and bandaging his wounds. Jo wavered between joy at being helped and anger at who was kneeling in front of him. He began to lose the scene and all meaning again.
“Help!” she cried out, loud and desperate. But he was falling again. Losing himself. “Wounded! Here!”
The forest disappeared in an avalanche of black. “Stay with me,” he heard her say, but it was as if she was calling to him from across a lake. She disappeared for a moment, then was there again, shaking his face.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Jo Shanks,” he said, his attention returning and, with it, the familiar anger.
“Okay, Jo. You have to hang on, all right? Help is coming. My name’s Heather, and I’ve stopped the bleeding. You’ll be okay; just sit tight.”
“Why are you helping me?” Jo asked, voice hoarse. “You’re a Longtreader. The wolves… You betrayed us.”
“No, sir,” Heather answered, bending to kiss his cheek like an older sister might for a sick younger sibling. “Never. But I must leave you now, Jo, and I’m sorry for that. But be strong. Today we strike a blow against our foes.”
It was impossible to doubt her sincerity. How could this be? Jo’s mind was struggling with the complexity of a world where a Longtreader could be a friend, not a foe. “Wounded, here! Help!” Heather Longtreader called again. Then, with one last compassionate glance at Jo, she tore off down the mountain.
Jo was alone again. Still wounded, though Heather Longtreader had said she stopped the bleeding. And her words gave him hope. If it was true, and it seemed everyone would soon know if it was true, then it was possible that the secret citadels could unite against Morbin. Rabbitkind could work together for the cause of the Mended Wood. Heather Longtreader could even be a key to how that might come about. Looking down at his well-tended wounds, Jo found it impossible to believe that a young doe would dash into danger, stop to help a Halfwind soldier, and continue her selfless charge down the mountain if she were in league with Morbin.
Reeling, Jo tried to sit up. He felt a sharp pang of guilt at how he and his fellows had treated the Longtreaders. What if they were all loyal, as Lord Rake had always said? What if Garten really had acted alone? Garten Longtreader was far away, in the Preylords’ High Bleaks stronghold. Wilfred was here. His niece and nephew were here.
Jo felt lightheaded, but he focused all his energy and tried to stand. He tottered and, leaning against the tree, was able to find his balance again. He knew getting back to Captain Frye and the Savory Den was impossible, but his friends were nearby, hurt or worse. If they were still alive, he had a duty to help them. He was desperate to help them.
Jo struggled forward, resting every five or ten steps against a tree, then walking on, slowly making his way to the clearing where Nate and Owen had fallen. It was an awful sight, but he scanned the field for his friends. So many soldiers down, and broken bows scattered on the ground. Not all the bows were broken, however, and arrows were everywhere. Hanging the best bow he could find over his neck and shoulder, he gathered up as many nearby arrows as he could and filled his quiver. I have to find Nate and Owen.
He heard a low moan nearby, and he swiveled to see a soldier wincing in pain, lying on his back. Jo slowly made his way over and saw by the buck’s bloodstained tunic that he was from the Forest Guard of Cloud Mountain. The wounded rabbit had a quiver of arrows at his side. An archer, then.
“It’s going to be okay, soldier,” Jo said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. He knelt beside him with a grimace. “Help’s on the way. I just came from up the mountain. The medics are coming.” This was a little more optimistic than honest, but it wasn’t a lie. They had to be sending help. The medics would be coming soon.
“I won’t make it,” the soldier said. “I won’t ever see the Mended Wood.”
“Hey,” Jo said, chiding in his best schoolmaster tone, “I just got word that we’re reversing this whole attack. Today we strike a blow against our enemies.” I hope that’s true.
The soldier smiled weakly while Jo tried, weak as he was, to bind his wounds. His hands were shaking, but he did the best he could. The soldier fell silent, and Jo, with a long sigh, settled down to rest a moment. But there would be no rest.
A band of wolves entered the far edge of the wide clearing, their wild eyes frantically scanning the scene for fresh prey. They hadn’t seen Jo yet.
Then Heather Longtreader broke into the clearing, sprinting up the mountain.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Heather couldn’t see the wolves. She was splitting the center of the wide clearing, and they were on the far side, just emerging from the forest.
Jo’s heart sank. Five fresh wolves against one doe, who was unaware of their presence, and two half-dead bucks on the other side of the clearing. Jo glanced at the Cloud Mountain archer. He wasn’t moving. One buck, then.
One buck. One bow. One quiver.
Jo was the last archer.
The wolves saw her, and the first four snapped into action, tearing after her. The last wolf readied his bow but found that his quiver was empty. The wolf archer began to search the ground nearby for an arrow. Heather kept her gaze ahead, and Jo noticed that her arm was bound by a makeshift sling. She was already hurt. Jo did not know why, but he felt in that moment it was absolutely essential that she be protected. He felt it with a sudden urgent certainty that seemed to surge up from deep inside. He had no choice but to act.
The wolves came in a frenzy as Jo rose, inhaling as he did. He nocked his first arrow and blew out a ragged breath as he fired. The arrow caught the foremost wolf on the shoulder, and it went down, howling in agony. It scampered off as Heather sped on. The second wolf fell by Jo’s more steady shot, never to rise again. Jo’s confid
ence rose, though he could feel, with intensifying pain, that the binding on his wounds had unraveled and he was bleeding freely again.
No time for that. He nocked his next two arrows at once, aiming carefully as the ravenous pair surged desperately close to Heather’s heels. He breathed out, ignoring the tearing pain in his side and shoulder, and fired his brace of arrows. The third and fourth wolves fell with mournful howls.
Agonizing pain coursed through his side, and his shoulder felt on fire. Still he nocked another arrow, this time raising it to trace the last enemy. The archer wolf had found his arrow. When Jo raised his bow, the wolf released his own arrow, aimed right at Heather.
It seemed to happen in slow motion: Heather, rushing up the mountain. Jo, raising his bow as he saw the wolf aim his. Too late! The wolf ’s arrow racing toward Heather’s unprotected back.
Jo didn’t have time to think. He snapped his arm along the darting path of the arrow and fired his own with a force and concentration he had never yet used. His arrow burst forward, aimed not for the wolf archer but ahead of the speeding arrow the wolf had shot.
Jo tracked the path of his desperate shot as it sped through the air between the wolf and Heather. He watched, eyes wide, as his arrow’s sharp tip split the center of the wolf ’s speeding shaft, snapping it in half.
Heather dashed into the cover of trees, unharmed. She had escaped, and Jo had accomplished the most incredible bowshot imaginable. The only one who had seen it was the archer wolf, who stood staring across the clearing, uncomprehending. Jo reached for another arrow and, when he raised it to aim, saw nothing there. The wolf had retreated into the forest.
Jo sagged to the ground, wounds torn open by his extreme effort and a weight of exhaustion pressing on him. His strength was gone, and the fresh blood flow meant he was in grave danger once again. He closed his eyes and settled onto the ground, fading into a half-dream.
No disapproving voices haunted his vision, nor were any angry faces shaking their heads at his shame. Jo believed he was dying, but a weary smile played across his face.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jo Shanks awoke in the Cloud Mountain hospital, again. After surgery, he had been nursed through days of weakness and fever that left him feeling sluggish and confused. He had dreamt, but not of disheartening failures or impeded glories. He saw no vision of his father or Captain Frye, looking down on him in disappointment.
When he opened his eyes, fully awake at last, Captain Frye was looking down on him. The surly old soldier was clearly making his rounds to see the Halfwind wounded, though he was badly wounded himself. His arm was fitted with bandages and bound to his body by an elaborate wrap. Frye was flanked by Lieutenant Drand and Nate Flynn. All of them looked battered but reasonably well, considering what had occurred.
Seeing Nate, tears started in Jo’s eyes. They had survived the first battle of the war.
“Back in bed, Jo?” Nate asked. “Back in the hospital? You’re no sage, that’s for sure.”
“Owen?” Jo asked, voice hoarse.
“Alive,” Nate answered. Jo smiled and let out a relieved breath.
“Shanks,” Captain Frye said, “it’s good to see you awake. We were… concerned.”
Jo sat up, too quickly he found, as his shoulder erupted in agony and his head swam. He managed a wincing salute as Captain Frye scowled. “Lay still, soldier,” he said. “You nearly had your arm torn off.”
Jo nodded, the battle playing out in his mind in vivid detail.
“We found you in the clearing, after the battle,” Lieutenant Drand said. “It looked like a horrific struggle.”
“I got knocked out, Jo,” Nate said. “I don’t remember much.”
“Reports of what happened in the clearing are sketchy,” Drand said. “Did you see much?”
Jo remembered everything. He had been a hero. He had saved Heather Longtreader with a shot he would never have believed could happen unless he had seen it himself. Done it him-self. Here was an opportunity for glory unlike anything his father could have ever dreamed of for Jo.
“What happened out there, soldier?” Captain Frye asked.
“Nothing much, sir,” Jo answered, glancing down at his carefully bandaged wounds. “We were engaged with the enemy, and I was hurt in the battle.”
Captain Frye stared at him a long moment, then nodded. Then he and the other officers moved on to the next wounded soldier.
A few minutes later, Emma came in, a wide smile on her face.
“Awake at last,” she said, feeling his head. “No fever!” She listened to his heart and asked him to breathe deeply. “Stronger. Very good, indeed.”
“Thank you for saving me,” Jo said.
Emma smiled at him and then dug into her bag. “I brought you something to read.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a book that’s setting the whole of Cloud Mountain on fire,” she said, beaming with excitement. “Copies are being made, and the scribes can’t keep up! It’s going to inspire the cause all over Natalia.”
He took the little book in his hands.
“Who wrote this?”
“Heather Longtreader,” Emma said, then added with pride, “my very best friend.”
“Heather Longtreader?” he asked, gasping.
“Yes,” Emma answered, beaming. “The Longtreaders saved Prince Jupiter Smalls.”
“Smalls? The prince?”
“Yes, that little white rabbit is Jupiter’s heir. Everyone is talking about him. Prince Jupiter Smalls!”
“I’m amazed,” Jo said. “And this is Heather Longtreader’s story?”
“Yes! It tells what Picket Longtreader did—Jo, he flew! The book says it all, but one problem is that it doesn’t say much about how brave Heather was. She rallied the soldiers to save the prince after Picket rescued him. I’m amazed she survived at all. She was right in the thick of it. I don’t know how she made it.”
Jo smiled, tears starting in his eyes. He wiped them away and began to read.
The End
S. D. Smith meets fans at an Author Event
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Hello there. I’m Sam. I hope you enjoyed reading The Last Archer as much as I enjoyed writing it. Writing is very hard work, but while I write I love to imagine you reading and enjoying a new adventure. That keeps me going. (That and chocolate.)
I have so much respect for you as a reader. I hope that shows. The time I spend creating stories in The Forge is well spent if it means you receive the gift of a little bit of light and joy and hope. I believe in the power of stories. I believe that when they hint at a rebuke to the darkness, when they whisper to us that a hero may rise to set things right, they tell the truth. So, in a way, these stories are true. My friend Heidi Johnston says that the best stories “are not an escape from reality, but an escape into reality.” I believe that. And because I believe that, I made this for you.
God bless you and keep you.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
S. D. Smith is the author of The Green Ember Series, a middle-grade adventure saga. Smith’s books are captivating readers across the world who are hungry for “new stories with an old soul.” Enthusiastic families can’t get enough of these tales.
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When he’s not writing adventurous tales of #RabbitsWithSwords in his writing shed, dubbed The Forge, Smith loves to speak to audiences about storytelling, creation, and seeing yourself as a character in The Story.
S. D. Smith lives in West Virginia with his wife and four kids.
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Chapter One
THE SLAVE WHO SANG
Heather closed her eyes, wincing as she lurched forward. She was shoved roughly toward the hangar at the far end of Morbin’s lair, held at knifepoint by her uncle.
“Now you’ll join the slaves,” Garten Longtreader growled. “You’ll see what it means to defy Lord Morbin.”
Heather did not answer her uncle. Barbed retorts formed in her mouth, but she swallowed them down. I need to stay alive now.
Morbin Blackhawk’s lair was in an uproar. A slave had sung a song of defiant beauty in the dark heart of the Preylords’ kingdom. Lord Gern was scouring the palace for her. For the slave who dared to defy them.