by S D Smith
Ember’s End
Copyright © 2020 by S. D. Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Several raptors were injured in the making of this book, but no Toronto Raptors. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at [email protected].
Trade Paperback edition ISBN: 978-1-951305-03-1
Hardcover Edition ISBN: 978-1-951305-04-8
Also available in eBook and Audiobook.
Story Warren Books
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Cover and interior illustrations by Zach Franzen.
Photo with Author’s Note by Graeme Pitman.
Art on final page by Chris Koelle.
Maps created by Will Smith and Zach Franzen.
Printed in the United States of America.
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Story Warren Books
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For Josiah Clair Preston Smith
Melius ergo est duos simul esse quam unum
habent enim emolumentum societatis suae.
Si unus ceciderit ab altero fulcietur vae soli
quia cum ruerit non habet sublevantem.
PROLOGUE
Massie hurried to the top of the central mountain, where Prince Lander stood amid a ruin of smoking rocks. The stench of death hung in the fetid air.
“Your Highness,” Massie said, dropping to one knee. “The lords await your decision.”
Prince Lander’s strange faraway gaze traced the river below; the forest extended from each bank into an incomprehensible distance. “Captain Massie, this wood … it is great, I think. I look at it and seem to see our kind thriving here.”
Massie rose and turned to take in the spreading forest. “Yes, sir. The wood is vast and uncultivated. It would require tremendous work.”
“It will be my life’s work,” Lander said, unblinking eyes gazing off to the horizon.
Massie passed his hand over his eyes. “Sir, the decision?”
Lander turned to Massie, but his eyes kept their peculiar look. “We must bury the threat and our best weapon against it together.”
“What will we do, Your Highness?” Massie asked, eyes closing tight. “It will be too easy to find.”
“We’ll dam the river, build up our warren, and make this mountain forbidden. We will try to forget.”
“But sir, what if the worst happens?”
“Then one from my line will remember. And when the time comes, he will rise.”
From Prince Lander and the Dragon War
Chapter One
JO, COLE, AND HEYNA
Jo Shanks crept through a tangle of trees on the edge of the Terralain camp. Looking back, he saw that Cole and Heyna Blackstar were still behind him. The jet-black twins seemed at ease, despite the unsettling odds of being only three among thousands of enemies. Jo wasn’t so calm. He absent-mindedly patted his quiver, locked down and fastened tight on his right side, and pressed ahead. He had to be careful of these new arrowheads with their tiny flint-and-fire mechanisms. I don’t need to blow myself up here. He smirked and adjusted his pack, with its ramrod staves crossed in an X pattern poking out behind him.
He paused at the edge of a clearing. Bright blazes from successive sentry fires dotted the way to the camp’s center, splashing dashes of light along a path clotted with guards. Jo frowned.
It will be better if we don’t have to kill any rabbits to get what we came for.
Jo eased past a momentarily distracted sentry and disappeared again into a black patch of shadow, closer now to the elusive center of the camp. He peered ahead, trying to make out—among the shadows shaking in the flickering firelight—which of those tents might hold the answers he sought.
I wonder if Cole and Heyna made it past the last guard yet. Glancing back, he nearly cried out. Cole’s face was inches from his own.
Behind her smirking brother, Heyna smiled. “You seem tense, Jo,” she whispered.
Jo sighed, shaking his head. “I’m prepared to die by getting caught,” he whispered, “but not by heart attack because of you two idiots creeping up on me like that.”
“Which tent is our target, Jo?” Cole asked, peering into the darkness. Jo turned back to the camp.
Heyna quietly swept aside a knot of braided branches to get a closer look. “Where’s a tent that looks like it belongs to a scary old maniac?”
“He doesn’t scare me,” Jo said, unable even to convince himself.
“Not as much as we do, anyway,” Heyna said.
“Shhh,” Cole hissed, as two guards broke off from the nearest fire and walked straight toward them. Jo eased onto the ground, eyes wide. He held his breath.
The guards’ faces were masked in shadow, but their forms, dark against a blaze of fire behind, were distinct. One seemed average size for the Terralains—still quite tall and strong by Jo’s reckoning. The second was, even by Terralain’s outsized standards, truly massive. Their words, too distant and quiet to be heard at first, grew distinct as they came closer.
“… always understood. And anyway, we won’t get a chance to even prepare for the festival.” This was the larger soldier. “We’ll never get home on time.”
“I know why you want to get back for the festival, Tunk.” The shorter guard was speaking. “Just you focus on the battle coming. We knock these betraying bucks on the head; then we head home to the revels.”
They stopped ten paces from Jo, Cole, and Heyna.
“I’m focused, Dooker,” the giant Tunk said. Jo saw now that the rabbit had grey fur with a white ring around his right eye.
“Stay sharp. See you at next shift,” Dooker said. Tunk saluted, and Dooker hurried on past them, peering into the woods as he worked his way up to the next sentry fire.
Jo didn’t move. Tunk turned, his back to the forest, and gazed around, back and forth. Seeing none of his comrades, he took off his helmet and scratched his head. “Itch all day …” he muttered. Tunk replaced his helmet, cocking it more comfortably on his head as he pivoted, his eyes thinning to slits, and peered into the forest. Jo closed his eyes, hoping the hulking buck’s vision wasn’t sharp. After an agonizing minute, Jo opened his eyes and saw that Tunk was turned away again and seemed to be gazing at the distant fires and the moon, alternately. Jo glanced over at Cole, then Heyna. Both twins nodded. It’s time to move on. Jo rose to his knees, then carefully found his feet.
Tunk began humming, and Jo froze. Then the great buck’s hips began to shift, and the humming grew louder. Jo exchanged a worried glance with Cole and Heyna. Then all three looked over at Tunk, whose hips were now moving back and forth while his foot began tapping.
“Come, ye fine …” Tunk began, mumbling at first. Then, finding his melody, he sang softly as his dancing grew more assured.
“Come, ye fine does,
And look upon me!
For I move like a moonbeam,
On the swaying trees.
Come, ye fine does,
And look upon me.
My limbs are all nimble,
My heart is all free!
Come, ye fine does,
And look upon me!
If you like my dancing,
Why, then I’ll dance with thee!”
He danced as he sang, leaping and sliding, with such swelling energy that Jo’s mouth dropped open and he had to be pulled away by Heyna, who followed her brother along the edge of the forest, closer still to t
he center of the camp.
Jo glanced back, fearful that they had been heard, but Tunk’s song continued, along with his dance, until a noise from the sentry station further back caused him to stop, stiffen, and set his helmet straight again.
They were much closer now, and Cole pointed to a large pavilion just outside the big central fire around which rested many soldiers. Jo followed his gaze and nodded. Then Cole pointed past the pavilion to a section of readied catapults surrounded by blastpowder barrels.
“Okay,” Jo whispered, and the Blackstar twins nodded.
Cole shifted forward, and Heyna squeezed Jo’s arm. He smiled and saluted, and his friends disappeared into the shadows.
Jo, alone now, turned to the pavilion, scanning for a way in. Five Terralain soldiers were stationed outside the entrance to the large tent, each with a red shoulder shield. These bucks were a different breed than Tunk and Dooker. He remembered them from their days at Halfwind Citadel. An elite guard for Prince Kylen. They never spoke, only peered about them intently, their bodies calm but alive to every motion.
How am I supposed to get past them?
The central fire burst with an explosion.
Jo knew at once what had happened. Well done, Blackstars!
In the smoke, the red-shouldered guards darted ahead, drawing swords and arcing out in a practiced advance toward the direction of danger.
Jo saw his chance. While the guards moved toward the fire, Jo sprinted across the clearing and dove at the tent’s bottom. He hit the ground and tried to slip under the edge but found it was sewn closed. He drew his knife and sliced across the seam, splitting it in time to slither between the wall and floor. Inside, he lay still. He could hear the waning noise outside. It was quiet in the tent.
The space was ample, but not vast. It was a leader’s tent, provisioned with arms mounted along its canvas wall and a desk strewn with papers. Maps lay stacked on the desk’s edge, and a wooden throne stood on a slight platform raised midway before a long solid curtain that hid the other half of the inside area. Around the room the banners of Terralain—a black field dotted with silver stars—were displayed on modest mounts hung with lanterns.
Jo listened a moment longer, then rose slowly. He was creeping toward the desk when he heard loud voices just outside.
“Stand aside!” a confident buck cried.
Jo dove behind a banner, then rose to peer around it as two figures entered. One, a stout young buck with a worried expression, had his sword drawn. The other was a lanky old buck with beads and jewels braided into his fur.
Tameth Seer.
“Your Highness,” Tameth Seer said, his voice at a strange high and grating pitch, “I sense no danger to your brother’s life from assassins.”
Your Highness? Brother? Who can this be? Jo looked on, fretful.
“But what about Captain Vulm?” the stout buck asked quietly, gently dividing the inner curtain to gaze inside. Satisfied with what he saw, he stepped back.
“Of course, yes,” Tameth said. “That was very sad indeed. But he had not the protection Prince Kylen has. Please, my dear Prince Naylen, trust me—as your father, King Bleston, did. As your brother does even amid his affliction.”
Jo’s eyes widened. So Kylen’s brother is here.
“Father is dead, Master Seer.” Naylen gripped the armrest of the wooden throne. “My brother seems near death.”
“Do not worry, my prince.” Tameth stroked the young buck’s shoulder. “Picket Kingslayer and the Red Witch will pay for what they have done. They will pay for it soon.”
“Ought we attack them?”
“Yes, of course,” Tameth replied. “With the forces you have brought with you, we will crush them and seal our pact with Morbin. We shall rule the rabbit lands, and Morbin shall rule those of the raptors. It is settled.”
“You believe, honored seer,” Naylen began, “that Morbin would honor a pact?”
“I do, yes,” Tameth Seer said. “Has he not honored it with his ambassador? Garten Longtreader stood before us and swore it on the bloody edge of his blade. On his own niece’s blood.”
“He killed his own niece.” Naylen grimaced.
“Ambassador Garten killed their Scribe of the Cause. He cut down one of their leaders. This is war. He did what he had to do in service of his lord. The important thing is that Heather Longtreader is dead.”
Chapter Two
A FAMILIAR STRANGER
Jo’s heart sank. It can’t be! Not Heather.
“I wish Kylen were well,” Naylen said, gazing back with concern at the thick curtain, behind which rested Kylen.
“Trust me with this diplomacy, my prince, and prepare yourself to reap the revenge you so justly deserve! Avenge your father’s betrayal and murder by Picket Longtreader.”
Jo focused in. This was what he had come for, specific intelligence, and to gauge the will of the Terralains.
“I should very much like to meet Picket on the field,” Naylen spat. “But the rest … they are rabbits, like us.”
“Do not think of it as attacking fellow rabbits who simply oppose Morbin,” Tameth said, guiding Naylen to sit on the wooden throne, “but as avenging your father and establishing your brother’s rule. It is what your father wanted—to establish Kylen’s throne.” Tameth Seer hunched at Naylen’s elbow. “Of course, my prince,” he said, quieter and with a significant tone, “your brother may fall, and the throne may come to you.”
Naylen closed his eyes a moment, lost in worried thought. Then he leapt up, shaking his head. “Forbid it.”
“Do not worry, Prince Naylen. We will see to your brother’s curing. I have seen his coming in battle. I have seen a flood sweeping his enemies away. I have seen it.” The old buck’s eyes seemed to glaze over, and he tottered.
Jo scowled from his hiding place. Tameth shook his head and then refocused on the young prince at his side. “But know this. One must either sacrifice for great accomplishment or sacrifice great accomplishment. It does not come cheap. There is death for heroes in all tales and history, and they buy the glory that follows with blood. This war will be no different; so be steadfast and shrink not away from your destiny.”
“Can you ever see me in your futures?” Naylen asked. “Or is it still hidden?”
“What I may see, I may see, but what I have not seen, I cannot say.”
“Your riddles used to amuse me.”
“Your future is an untold tale,” Tameth said, and Jo thought the old soothsayer was angry at his blindness concerning the young buck, “so you must be bold to write it yourself.”
“I just want Kylen to rise and lead us to glory.”
“Come now,” Tameth said, motioning toward the slit in the tent through which they had come. “Let’s away. We must speak to our captains. We must finalize the attack plan.”
Naylen nodded, then stepped to the curtain to take another look at Kylen. The young buck frowned, his expression soft with sadness. Then his face hardened to anger and he strode out of the tent alongside the tottering seer.
Jo leapt from his hiding spot and hurried to the desk. He scanned the papers and snagged those he deemed useful, stuffing them into his pockets. Finally, he took fresh paper and pen. Dipping the pen in ink, he wrote a note, blew on it, folded it, and raced across to the throne. Jo reached beneath it, then sprang over to the curtain and parted it to look within. There, sickly and thin, slept Kyle. Jo wanted to drive his fist into the wretch’s face, but he settled for a mumbled curse as he spun to rush out.
Jo tripped as he turned back, tumbling roughly off the platform and into a mounted lantern, which spilled and broke on the floor beside him. He quickly smothered the flames, but a groan sounded from the other side of the tent and he heard cries from outside. Jo scrambled to his feet and darted for the side of the tent—the opposite side from where he had cut his way in—and dove for the edge. The noise grew louder as he reached for his knife. It was gone! He must have lost it when he slithered into the tent. He thoug
ht of pulling his sword free but saw a fine blade with a jewel-encrusted handle mounted among other arms along the tent wall. He snagged it and stabbed and sliced his way out of the canvas just as the red-shouldered guards burst in.
Outside again, he glanced back and forth, then turned to race toward the section of readied catapults. He slipped his new knife into his old sheath and sprinted ahead. A Terralain guard turned as he approached and made ready to give the alarm, but the soldier was silenced by a devastating kick from Heyna. She spun and checked the guard, then motioned for Jo to follow.
He followed, rushing past several bound and gagged sentries, as he and Heyna weaved their way toward Cole. Cole was just ahead, sword flashing in the moonlight as he hacked away at the taut rope binding a giant catapult arm.
“They’re going to use all this against us!” Jo said, withdrawing the staves from his backpack. He locked them in place and slipped his arms through the straps. “They’re going to attack First Warren. Soon!” Heyna, already fitted with her pack, helped Jo secure his buckles.
“They’re coming,” Cole called.
“Get in!” Heyna cried. Cole nodded and abandoned the thin unbinding line as he leapt into the catapult’s massive bucket.
A swarming band of soldiers rushed at them. Jo and the Blackstars hadn’t been seen yet, but that would soon change. “Now, Cole!” Jo cried.
Cole swiveled, drew a long thin blade from its sheath, and hurled it at the taut rope that was holding the catapult back. The knife sliced through the remaining rope, breaking the tension to release the catapult arm in a rapid lurching launch that sent the three friends skyward at a nauseating pace.
Jo recovered first. He spun and drew out his bow, bending to secure its string with expert ease. Reaching his flight zenith, he unlocked his quiver and dragged out a mini blastarrow in one smooth motion. As he began to fall, he nocked the arrow, aimed, and released the string in one deft motion. The heavy-headed arrow zipped away as Jo secured his bow and sent out his arms wide to engage the glider.
