by Lisa Fiedler
Hopper, rattled and scraped up but unhurt, had lost track of Pinkie in the dust and devastation of the skirmish. But he spotted her now in her elegant golden cape.
She lay still and silent beside the old shoe.
From across the arena he rasped her name . . . Pinkie . . . but she did not flinch. He would run to her if not for the fact that the battle was not quite over.
Only one slinking, hideous beast of a cat remained on his feet, circling the refugees.
Cyclops.
His orange fur was clotted with blood where he’d been stabbed by Firren’s rebels, or scratched, bitten, and stoned by the rodents he had stalked.
Stalked and caught, Hopper noted; a tuft of sand-colored chipmunk fur still clung to the cat’s mouth.
It was clear that Cyclops had been driven mad by fury and pain, and clearer still that he held Hopper and the Rangers all captive; they were hostages in the hunting ground littered with the bodies of his brethren.
They could not move past him; they could not approach him. He was wild, roaring, spitting, flashing fangs and claws.
Cyclops shrieked, an ear-splitting meeeeoooooowwww that seemed to cause the walls to shudder. He raced faster now, circling the group and forcing the Rangers to scatter away from his thundering paws to avoid being trampled.
Hopper and Firren stood in front of the recoiling refugees, struggling to determine their next action.
When at last Clops ceased his crazed spinning, he stumbled, then staggered toward the silver-lined cup. His tail slammed into it and the cup bucked upward, then rolled, spilling its precious contents of Pup and the baby rats into the dirt.
Clops stood above the small creatures, wheezing as a slimy dribble of drool spilled from his mouth.
The mother rat cried out. The father ran to throw his body over those of the innocents, Pup included, but the hissing Cyclops had steadied himself and slapped him away with a bloodied paw.
The rat flew across the arena and landed with a dull thud. His babies wailed in terror.
Hopper told himself to run. Pup was exposed. Unprotected.
He took a step, but one of the refugees grabbed his arm and held him back.
Because a golden blur was sprinting now, away from the shoe, across the arena. The hood had flown back, and Pinkie’s face with the unmistakable white circle of fur around the eye was plainly visible.
She ran screaming with her sword grasped in both paws, high above her head.
Cyclops’s bloody paws went to his missing eye, and he cried out, “Nooooo!”
But Pinkie sprung up from the dirt floor and soared, her sword poised and ready as she rocketed through the air toward the cat’s broad chest. The blade pierced the matted fur and the flesh beneath it, plunging deeply into Cyclops’s heart.
Pinkie released her grasp and fell to the ground but landed firmly on her feet. Above her head her sword remained stuck in the cat’s breast.
Cyclops blinked his only eye, only once. He let out a gurgling whimper that ended in a growl.
And he fell over dead.
The sound of his huge body slamming into the dirt echoed through the hunting ground.
For a long moment no one moved. No one breathed. And then Firren stepped forward and raised her sword in the air.
“Victory!” she cried. The rodents whooped and cheered and cried out for joy. Some fell to their knees and sent up prayers of gratitude to La Rocha.
Some merely collapsed from relief.
But Hopper ran. He broke free from the reveling pack and ran to where Pup still sat, staring up toward where the cat’s face had been. He was quaking with fear but, other than that, could not seem to move. He was in shock.
“Pup . . . ,” Hopper cried, embracing his brother. “Are you all right?”
“Of course he’s all right, you useless fool,” Pinkie snarled.
Hopper looked at Pinkie, nearly ready to retort, when he caught sight of Firren, lingering near the upturned silver-lined cup—the hiding spot that had saved her life so long ago.
He wanted to go to her, offer her some comfort, but before he could do that, there was a clattering commotion as the surviving refugees began to charge the wooden door that led out of the arena; a second later it was pried open and they prepared to scatter.
“Wait!” cried Hopper. “Where are you going?”
“We’re escaping,” said the young father. “We’re going to leave this place and take our chances in the tunnels.”
“And what of the others?” Hopper demanded. “Your fellow refugees who are still being held at the mercy of Titus and Felina? Will you simply leave them there in the camps to rot? Or to be sacrificed later on?” He raised his arms in a gesture of invitation. “Fight with us! Make a stand. The tunnels will provide. Broken glass, heavy stones . . . anything you can carry can be a weapon. We have a chance to defeat this evil regime, and that chance only increases with each one of you who chooses to join us.”
The rodents exchanged doubtful glances; a murmur went through the group as they debated in whispers. Hopper knew what they were doing; they were weighing their options, testing their mettle.
His mind swirled with thoughts of Zucker, who was still being held at the evil hand of General Cassius. It was bad enough that the royal army knew the rebels were planning to attack the camp, but if Titus’s guards had somehow gotten word of the siege at the hunting ground, who could say what action they might take? Hopper wanted nothing more than to help his friend and to free the other refugees. He would go to their rescue alone if he had to.
He only wished he wouldn’t have to.
At last the powerful-looking squirrel who had challenged Zucker’s authority back in the barracks stepped forward. “You’re right. We can’t just run. It is our duty to fight, and so we will.” He inclined his head to Hopper in deference. “If you will lead us, we will follow.”
Hopper nodded. “Excellent,” he said, and marched toward the door.
Firren joined him, trailed by the Rangers. Pinkie followed, cradling Pup in her arms. When the refugees gathered behind, it was quite a tired and ragtag little army they formed.
But it was an army. And that was the important thing.
“We march!” cried Hopper.
Determined, they set out for the camps.
The group halted a short distance from the fence that encircled the camp; the quiet of the grounds, unnerving. Inside, Hopper could see that because he’d so stupidly warned Titus of the rebel raid, the number of active guards had been doubled, their ranks reinforced with members of the royal army.
Outside the fence, however, a steadfast legion of Mūs soldiers had assembled; silent and stealthy as smoke, they waited patiently in the shadows.
Pinkie handed Pup to a chipmunk. “I’ll prep them,” she muttered, and stalked off.
“Do you think they’ve heard about the hunt?” Hopper whispered to Firren.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Firren said. “But it won’t be long before they do.”
Hopper turned to see Captain Garfield and Pritchard approaching. Hope burst in Hopper’s chest. Maybe the prince had escaped Cassius and sent for them. “Did Zucker summon you?” he asked.
Pritchard shook his head. “That’s the problem. We received this peculiar missive, saying that Prince Zucker was being held captive.”
Hopper quickly explained what had transpired before he and the other refugees were marched off to the hunting ground. “I don’t know where Cassius took him,” he ended, his voice a desperate squeak.
“That’s just the point,” said Garfield. “We do.”
The captain held out a scrap of paper to Hopper. Hopper thought he recognized the scrawling, but at the moment he just couldn’t recall where he had seen it before. He read the message:
ZUCKER IS BEING HELD IN THE SOUTHERNMOST BARRACKS. TITUS HAS YET TO BE ALERTED.
Hopper’s eyes snapped up from the missive. “Who brought this to you?”
Pritchard shrugged. “Just a small
beggar mouse. He wore a hood and kept his face averted, speaking not at all. Simply handed us this note and scurried off.”
“So what are we waiting for?” Firren was already heading south along the fence. “Let’s free the prince and get this party started. I’ll just slip in through one of our easements and—”
“No,” said Hopper, pointing to her bloody tunic with the distinctive red markings. “They’ll spot you a mile away.” He indicated his own attire—the peasant’s clothing he’d put on that morning, back at the palace. “I look like just another refugee. I’ll be the one to go in first.”
Firren hesitated only a moment, then nodded.
“I’ll set Zucker free, and then Firren, you lead the Rangers, the Mūs soldiers, and Zucker’s troops in a full-scale assault. But I’ll need a signal to let you know when it’s time to begin the attack.”
Smiling, Firren removed the hollow chunk of bone from where it hung around her neck and handed it to him. Hopper was touched at such a show of trust. And respect.
Reverently, bravely, he took the horn. Then, without another word, he slid into one of the Rangers’ secret entrances and headed for the south barracks.
chapter twenty-seven
HOPPER’S BLOOD THRUMMED THROUGH his veins as he crept across the camp, eluding more guards than he cared to count.
As he approached the barracks where Zucker was imprisoned, Hopper saw two sentinels. In an instant he flung himself under a cart loaded with chunks of ripe fruit. He held his breath and listened as they advanced toward the cart, complaining about the rebel insurgence and helping themselves to the fruit.
The seconds ticked by, and still they gorged themselves. He would have to distract them if he was going to get inside that dormitory.
But how?
It came to him suddenly and vividly. He would do what Zucker did that very first day when they’d had to hide from Firren in the tunnel. Strange how Hopper had once feared the graceful warrior with whom he was now fighting right alongside.
Quietly he plucked a pebble from the dirt and tossed it in the opposite direction of the dormitory door, just as Zucker had done. The stone landed with a dull thunk several yards away.
“Did you hear that?” one of them asked.
“Better go check on it.”
The sentinels hurried off, and Hopper darted from his hiding place for the barracks. He leaped in through a half-open window.
Zucker was seated on the splintery floor, bound and gagged and propped against the wall. He looked up when Hopper scampered in through the window, and his eyes seemed to sparkle with relief.
It took only moments for Hopper to chew through the ropes that secured Zucker’s paws. Then he tore off the gag.
“Hey there, kid,” said Zucker, leaping to his feet. “Glad you could make it.”
“Well, you know me,” Hopper replied, beaming. “I just hate to miss a good rebel attack.”
“Ready to cause a little trouble, kid?”
“I was born ready, Zuck-meister.”
Together they burst out the barracks door and strode to the middle of the camp. Hopper raised the signal horn and blew, the sound ripping through the charged stillness of the camp. Hopper’s declaration of war.
The Mūs army led by General DeKalb poured into the hidden portals, chanting. A hundred voices became one voice, echoing through the camp.
Zucker’s troops arrived bringing the might of their military training, while Firren and her Rangers dominated the enemy with grace, speed, and ruthlessness. The refugees who could fight did; the human trinkets and gadgets made a fine arsenal against Titus’s soldiers. Several of the camp’s buildings had been set aflame, throwing off heat, sparks, and smoke.
Hopper sprung along at Zucker’s heels, fighting as proudly and as skillfully as the prince’s soldiers. Zucker moved like lightning, confidently and with great purpose, his fight an act of penance for Titus’s sinister treaty.
Suddenly the prince froze in his tracks, his eyes focusing on the guardhouse by the main gate. His whiskers began to twitch. He sniffed the air.
“What is it?” Hopper shouted above the din of clanging metal and howling voices. “What scent are you catching?”
Zucker’s eyes blazed. “Fear,” he snarled. “I smell fear.”
Zucker took off quickly, and Hopper shadowed his every move, avoiding the burning barracks and flames that lit the darkness until at last they reached the guardhouse. Zucker flung open the door, nearly ripping it right off its hinges.
Hopper gasped. Inside, General Cassius cowered on the floor in the relative safety of the wooden shelter while war waged outside.
Hopper’s fur stood on end as a guttural growl emerged from Zucker.
“Spare me, good prince!” the general begged, covering his face with his paws. “Please. Let me go.”
Muscles tensed, teeth bared, Zucker loomed above his enemy. The sword in his grasp shone like a promise. Hopper could only guess what the prince was thinking—if he plunged that sword into Cassius’s breast, he would be more than justified.
He would be right.
Zucker raised the sword above his head. “For my friend,” he whispered.
Hopper held his breath, gaping. But the prince did not strike. Not yet. Above his head he swung the sword in tiny circles, the blade catching the glow of the fire, throwing off shadows.
“Please!” Cassius cried. “Spare me!”
“Spare you? From what? Justice?”
Cassius whimpered. “From all of it. The blade. The fire.” He flicked his panicked eyes to the flames licking closer and closer to the outer walls of the guardhouse. “Oh, it’s like hell out there. Surely this is hell.”
“Well.” Zucker snorted, sword still poised aloft. “Then I guess you’re exactly where you belong.”
Hopper eyed the snapping tongues of the encroaching flames. He could feel the heat as the blaze leaped and danced, drawing nearer. He, like Cassius, understood that one swipe of Zucker’s sword, one thrust with the steely weight of it, would end the general for good.
“It is my right to avenge him,” Zucker said, his voice trembling.
“Who, Zucker?” Hopper squeaked. “Avenge who?”
“Your father!”
Hopper stumbled backward, the words hitting him like a feral’s swipe. Cassius had killed Dodger.
When the prince spoke again, Hopper wasn’t sure if he was speaking to him or to the quivering general on the guardhouse floor. Perhaps he was talking to himself. Or maybe, just maybe, he was speaking to the past, to someone he used to know.
“I can end it all right now. With one fell swoop I can quell the pain I’ve been carrying. I can repay hatred with hatred.”
Hatred?
Hopper jumped; the word—hatred—had seemed to come out of the smoke, out of the blue-hot core of the fire itself. Had it been an actual voice or just the roar of the fire? Was it a whisper from deep within a dream? Or was it real?
Hopper couldn’t say, but he knew with absolute certainty that he had heard it.
And Zucker had heard it too. He lowered his sword ever so slightly and pricked up his ears, listening in disbelief to see if the voice would come again.
And it did. Low and steady, words rippling through smoke. Close and far away at once. A voice, but whose?
It was never supposed to be about hatred.
Hopper’s eyes darted this way and that, but through the billowing blackness it was impossible to see anything beyond Zucker in the guardhouse doorway and Cassius huddled on the floor.
It was never supposed to be about hatred. The words repeated, igniting in Hopper’s ears, then melting into the fire.
“Hatred,” Zucker repeated, his shoulders sagging with shame. “Dodger had no use for that emotion. And neither do I.”
Hopper watched as the prince slowly lowered his sword and stepped out of the doorway.
The general was still curled in a trembling ball on the floor. When Zucker addressed him, his voice was little m
ore than a rumble from his throat. “I’d tell you to run, Cassius, but I’m pretty sure you don’t have the guts.”
The prince turned his back on the coward, just as the first flames began to nip at the old, dry wood of the guardhouse.
chapter twenty-eight
IT WAS OVER.
Titus’s guards had fled. The rebels had triumphed.
Zucker directed his troops to see to the wounded and put out the fires. Hopper scanned the area for Firren; he spotted her leaning against the fence on the north side of the camp.
Zucker saw her too.
Hopper couldn’t believe how suddenly shy Firren looked, glancing in their direction and quickly averting her eyes.
“Look who it is,” he whispered to Zucker.
“Think she saw me?” The prince’s voice wavered as his paw smoothed the fur between his ears.
“Doesn’t matter if she saw you.” Hopper grinned. “She can smell you, remember?”
“Yeah, kid.” Zucker smiled. “I remember.”
Now Firren took a deep breath, squared her dainty shoulders, and came to join them in the middle of the camp.
“Prince.”
“Rebel.”
“We meet again.”
“We sure do.”
Hopper looked from one to the other and decided they needed a moment to talk in private. With a little nod he excused himself and made his way to the camp’s main mess hall, where all the refugees, including the ones from the hunt, had assembled.
Pinkie had collected Pup from the chipmunk and was attempting to soothe him. Hopper approached his siblings and declared without preamble, “I’ll take Pup back to the palace with me.”
“What palace?” Pinkie asked. “That Atlantian monstrosity? Pup goes there over my dead body. He’s coming with me, to live among the Mūs. After all, that’s what we are. Mūs. Half, anyway.”
“No,” said Hopper. “We should stay with Zucker. We have so much to do now that we’ve exposed Titus’s lies. Pup will love living in Atlantia.”
