by S D Smith
“Let us go to fight for our own!” Emma shouted, eyes wet and face grim; “Otherwise, kill us now. There’s little difference, since you’ve killed thousands with your treacherous plots and doomed us all!”
Picket strained to reach Kylen, but Helmer held him back and spoke. “Let’s go, Picket. We have a duty to our own. If these kinslayers want to put arrows in our backs, let them.”
Picket stopped straining and nodded. With a last glance of profound malice at Kylen, he turned and followed as Emma’s company quit the tent, hurrying into the darkness. An explosion rang out from miles away, and they turned north to see an orange glow, wrapped in a grey haze, in the distance. Terralain soldiers, only moments ago intent on these six interlopers, stared and pointed.
“What’s over there?” a young soldier asked.
Picket knew. Harbone Citadel. The place where they had sent their most vulnerable for safety. Picket felt his strength drain away. His legs, especially his injured knee, felt too weak to keep him on his feet. He sagged.
“Report!” Emma snapped at Lallo as they gazed on in horror.
“Your Highness,” Lallo said, “our scouts picked up a signal from Harbone.”
“The warning?” Emma asked. “From that direction?”
“It was both the warning and the signal for under distress.”
“What does it mean, Helmer?” she asked, eyes wild. “For us, now. What should we do?”
“Since I know I can’t convince you to flee to a secret location, it means you and Lallo go back to First Warren,” Helmer said, “and the Fowlers go to Harbone. We’ll be back as soon as we’re able.”
Emma’s head sunk low, and she closed her eyes. “I never should have left. I promised not to leave until Morbin was defeated. And I came here for what? To enrage that poisoned prince even more?”
“We have to go,” Helmer said. “Up a tree, all of you. Lallo, stay close to her.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wait!” someone called from behind. Picket turned to see Naylen running toward them, sword in hand.
Picket bristled. “This time, I’ll not be so kind,” he said, fists clenched.
“No,” Naylen said, extending the weapon, hilt first. “You never took back your sword. Kylen said to return it. Here it is.”
Picket accepted his blade and sheathed it quickly. “We have to go.”
Jo stepped toward Naylen. “Check under your brother’s throne. I left a note for him there recently when I stood over him while he slept.”
“You want me to believe you got past our guard?” Naylen said, smirking.
“I could have killed him.” Jo drew a jeweled blade to display. Naylen’s eyes widened slightly. “And if you don’t do something, Tameth Seer will kill him … and then you’ll all kill thousands of rabbits you should be fighting beside.”
Naylen looked down, eyes thinning to slits.
“Let’s go,” Helmer growled.
“One more thing,” Naylen said, raising his hand. “Three days.”
“What?” Picket asked, jaws clenched.
“Kylen has said you have three days.”
“Until he attacks,” Helmer said in a low rumble. Naylen nodded, head down.
“Tell Morbin’s minion we are ever so grateful,” Picket said bitterly. “Enjoy picking over the bones of children when you come, princeling.”
Chapter Ten
HORROR AT HARBONE
As dawn broke behind them, Picket ascended. Having climbed the highest trees they could find, they leapt to glide away, Emma and Lallo back toward First Warren, and the Fowlers to Harbone Citadel.
Picket outpaced Helmer and Jo, while Cole nearly kept up with him. The fire in the distance made for a foreboding sight, like a second sunrise, and Picket squinted against the drifting smoke. Closer, and closer, and he saw a swarm of shadows in the sky. Morbin’s attack squadron.
They were doomed.
He flew on, determined to do what he could amid the ruin.
Nearer now, ash and embers streaked through the air. The skyborne squadron of Preylords was moving away. They had already come and were going. Leaving what?
He could hardly imagine.
Cole shouted at him. Picket couldn’t hear the words, but he saw the questioning gesture and knew what it meant. Should we go on or turn back to First Warren?
Picket checked the direction of the unnumbered host of Morbin’s Preylord raptors. They didn’t appear to be heading toward First Warren at the moment. They seemed to be returning north of Grey Grove. Picket pointed forward, toward the ruin of Harbone.
Focusing again on their destination, they could now easily see the ruin. The gate, which he and Helmer had escaped through not so long ago, was smashed, and smoke poured from the black, gaping hole where it had been. Wounded rabbits fled from the ruin, rushing in every direction in terror. He focused on a nurse, her apron more red than white, fleeing with a child in one arm and the other arm extended to hold the hand of another. The children were screaming, and the nurse was running through the smoke and debris, tripping amid the scattered ruins. Then the nurse found her feet and rushed clear of the broken gate. She ran for the relative safety of the nearby woods but stopped suddenly, her horrified scream reaching Picket’s ears even through the riotous clamor.
Picket followed her gaze and saw them. Wolves. The wild wolves he had first seen when he and Helmer had barely escaped into Harbone, those wolves responsible for killing Lord Hewson, Captain Redthaw, and so many other brave bucks. They were leaping into the ruin of Harbone and preying on the survivors.
Picket felt his anxieties retreat, replaced by a now familiar feeling. A certainty of purpose. Nothing else mattered now. Head down, he sped toward the nurse, who trembled in the midst of several slathering attackers. In his periphery he could see that others were in danger, but for the moment there was only her, those children, and the enemy.
Disengaging the glider, he sped ahead. Faster and faster he fell, until he was ten paces from the pouncing pack. He reengaged the glider, felt it slow him somewhat, then used the drag to keep him just off the ground as he drove into the first wolf. The crunching kick sent the foremost wolf flying and had the same result with the next several as Picket plowed through in a cleaving gash that scattered the astonished wolves. Landing as he unsheathed his sword, Picket sent it slicing at the next nearest enemy, striking down two before they could regroup.
But regroup they did, and they attacked again. Picket rushed back, forgetting his limp as best he could, to stand guard over the kneeling nurse. She had the children hidden beneath her, shielding them as they screamed.
The next wolf leapt, and Picket wanted to twist and let him fly past, but he couldn’t let the beast reach those he protected. He gripped his sword with both hands and launched off his good leg, meeting the leaper with a brutal thrust that ended the attacker and knocked Picket back to the ground. As he regained his feet, more wolves rushed in, howling as they attacked in fury. Picket pivoted to protect, but there were so many of them.
The wild host had diminished since his and Helmer’s first encounter with them. They seemed weaker, these surviving wolves, and some were wounded. Lord Hewson had killed a great quantity before he fell, but there were still many. Too many for Picket.
Cole glided in, landing nimbly beside Picket and ripping free his sword. Then came Jo, who drew his bow upon landing and sent a single three-arrow shot into the batch of attackers. The next wolf found swift steel from Cole and Picket and died with an agonized cry. Jo kept up a steady fire, finding hearts and heads and leaving dozens dead.
More and more survivors from the smoldering ruin of Harbone hurried to the nurse and children, until the Fowlers finally protected hundreds as the dead wolves piled in heaps around them. Many survivors joined the battle and struck out at the wolves or helped the Fowlers in the fight. Still, it wasn’t quite enough. The wild wolves, though fewer and fewer, still pressed in. Picket saw, in snatches between dispatching attackers, a small
slice of the horror suffered here. Badly wounded bucks and does in shock at the grisly things they had seen—and were seeing.
And children. Wounded and screaming. Dead and silent. He saw it all amid the smoldering ruin of Harbone Citadel.
Helmer landed and leapt in at last, his furious rally putting final flight to the few remaining wolves of the wild pack. His rage produced a rampage that hit the last attackers with grim results.
Picket winced and fell to his knees, breathing hard and wiping his face with his shaking hand. His master ran after the last wolves, the few remaining attackers scattering in the forest. Helmer turned then, his furious expression fading to a shocked revulsion, and he walked slowly back. Nearing the gate, he collapsed to his knees.
Helmer wept.
Picket got to his feet and turned around and around, looking for the nurse he had rushed in to save. He needed to see her and the children she protected.
Wearily, he moved through the stunned survivors. Amid the shocked, vacant expressions, the hysterical tears, and the angry faces, he walked until he came to one of the many black craters, on the edge of which stood two weeping children.
The nurse lay at their feet, dead.
Chapter Eleven
CRUEL RUIN
The next few hours were a nightmare, as Picket and others moved through the devastated remains of the citadel, searching desperately for survivors. After hours of looking through collapsed caverns and burned-out halls, they found only one old doe alive. After two of the searchers were killed in cave-ins and several more wounded, Helmer ordered the search ended.
Picket emerged from the smoking pit that used to be an entrance to Harbone Citadel. It once was a stalwart station for faithful rabbits who waited and worked for the Mended Wood. What his eyes saw now was the farthest thing from the mending. Here, in these ashes, it was hard to believe it could ever come. In his arms he carried the blackened banners once displayed on walls within the citadel. Picket coughed, feeling he might never be rid of the grisly stench of that smoldering dungeon of death. He laid the banners down carefully, stretching them out in the sunlight. A green field bearing a white tree with yellow stars for fruit. Smoke wafted over him, and he coughed again. Looking up, he saw a once beautiful tree, green and glorious, burning yellow-bright while survivors stumbled past, too burdened to even see it. Picket looked down at the banners again. Another that once read “Remember. Resist. Retake.” Now it only said “Remember.” The rest was burned black.
I’ll never forget. He limped into the daylight and met the hopeful looks of the survivors awaiting news of loved ones left inside. He shook his head.
Devastation. Shock. Horror. And more tears. His own tears were spent by now, along with his strength and spirit.
Picket sat on a toppled tree and accepted water from a young buck. “Thank you,” he said, drinking deeply. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Ikker.”
“Are you from Harbone, Ikker?”
“No, sir. I’m from First Warren. Lived there my whole life.” Tears came as he continued. “I was … excited to leave. I’d never been beyond the walls. I came here yesterday, with my … family.” He couldn’t go on.
“Are they all gone, now?”
“Yes, sir. All gone. My little sister, sir … I took care of her. I used to hide her from the Preylords and Daggler’s band. They didn’t know about her. I hid her hundreds of times. I was her protector! But now …”
“I’m so sorry, Ikker,” Picket said, his heart aching with the pain. “Did you see them fall?”
“No,” Ikker said, “but I was near the gate, and the guards forced me into the forest when the attack came. They wouldn’t let me go back in. I think Morbin’s rabbits were inside, along with wolves. I know I saw many rabbits in black wearing red collars striking down our rabbits alongside those wicked wolves. And the birds. Some raptors got inside. They were so big!”
Picket’s face formed a snarl. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Fresh tears. “It doesn’t … feel like that’s true.”
“I know, Ikker. But it is true. Don’t lose heart, or all hope—though it’s right to grieve. Maybe your family made it.” But Picket had just come from inside, and he had little doubt about their end. “My own sister and brother are lost as well. Parents, too.”
“I know about your family, sir,” Ikker said, smiling through his tears. “You’re Picket Packslayer himself. If only you had been here when they came. If only …” Ikker’s words trailed off, and he took his water to another nearby band of survivors waiting by the old gate that had become a gaping hole leading down to destruction. Picket winced.
Cole and Jo came and sat beside Picket. None of them spoke. Helmer finished a conversation with the most senior of the survivors by the pit, then crossed to join them, sitting on an overturned cart opposite the three friends.
“We wanted to soar in the sky and save lives, we Fowlers,” Helmer said, “but we root in the depths among ruins and find only death. I’m sorry, lads, that you had to do that.”
Helmer’s sleeve was torn, and Picket saw a long white scar wrapped around his master’s arm. Picket had never seen the scar before. It spoke of a brutal past battle and was crossed today by fresh wounds.
“We aren’t sorry to do our duty, Captain,” Cole replied. “But it was truly awful, and I’ll never forget it.”
“Where will they go?” Picket asked, nodding to the survivors, now gathering for a conference on the edge of the wood. But no answer came.
They heard a sudden thrashing in the forest, and Uncle Wilfred broke through the tree line and ran to them, his eyes wide. “They’re coming back!”
Chapter Twelve
A LONGTREADER CAPTIVE
Up, bucks!” Uncle Wilfred shouted. “Up and protect the last lives of Harbone. Come on!” He, joined by several young soldiers bearing the symbols of the free citadels, ran past them and stood before the cowering survivors on the edge of the smoldering crater that led down into the ruins. He turned and drew his sword.
The Fowlers were running again, rushing to join Wilfred’s small band in protection. Arrows arced overhead as rabbit soldiers in black wearing red around their necks burst from the cover of trees. Jo fired and caught the first two quickly, bringing them down with deadly precision. Soon there were too many for Jo, and the band broke into the clearing and clashed swords with the exhausted defenders.
These traitors were a part of this!
Picket was tired, but the first clash of steel—blocking a powerful strike by a skillful swordsbuck—woke him, and he hammered back an answer that rattled the wrists of his attacker. Dropping low to duck a slicing strike, Picket kicked out to sweep clean his opponent’s feet, knocking him down. He did not hesitate with his blade. He felt immediate danger and sidestepped an overhead stroke that ended with his enemy’s blade point in the ground. Picket leapt up and kicked out, snapping the buck’s blade in half, before spinning to bring his own blade in to finish him.
Now Picket was free to assess the contest, and he saw that the uniformed attackers, those same rabbits that had caused such chaos and enacted so much murder within the citadel, were not so many. Wilfred had several bucks with him, though Picket saw that one was dead and another was on the ground, clutching at a wound. His Fowlers were four, so the defenders, backed against the smoldering pit, neared ten, and the attackers twice that.
“To me!” Helmer shouted. Picket turned and saw his master being overwhelmed by five renegade bucks, with several helpless Harbone survivors behind him. Picket leapt in his direction, then stumbled suddenly as his bad knee gave out. He recovered and slammed into an enemy before he could pin Helmer. Two more fell by arrows from Jo, who, having taken out the enemy archers, was quickly leveling the odds of the encounter.
Picket didn’t have time to count combatants now. As soon as he had smashed down one enemy, another’s blade snipped the edge of his neck as he skipped backward. Cole’s certain stroke ended that attacker, and P
icket’s first toppled foe sprang up with a scything swipe at Cole’s head. Picket deflected the blow and brought his blade back at the buck’s neck. His own stroke was deflected by yet another enemy, and the four battlers traded strikes and blocks in a delicate dance that ended when Jo sent an arrow between Picket’s ears and inches from Cole’s arm to halve the attacker’s strength. As his partner fell dead, the Preylord ally swept his blade across both his opponents, but Picket blocked his blow with ferocity, and Cole drove home his sword in the enemy’s middle.
Picket spun to scan the scene and saw Uncle Wilfred battling alone against two foes to protect several survivors. Jo had thrown down his bow and, sword flying at his foes, was engaged in close combat. Picket, seeing that Cole and Helmer had their attackers at even odds, ran for his uncle. Again his leg gave way, but he mastered it faster this time and, drawing close, leapt into the fight by Wilfred’s side.
One-on-one now, Uncle Wilfred quickly overcame his enemy. Picket, drawing back to block a sword stroke, tripped on a blackened slab of broken brick and, trying to recover, put too much weight on his bad knee. He crumpled and fell back. His enemy pounced, kicking him in the face, then driving down his blade. Picket just managed to evade the sword, which stuck into the ground. He kicked out at the buck’s feet but missed as the attacker leapt up, ripping free the sword and slicing down with a certain killing blow.
Uncle Wilfred’s blade crossed in front, deflecting the strike. Wilfred sent a swift kick into the attacker’s side, and the enemy crashed hard into a pile of debris. There, Ikker loomed, knife poised.
Picket winced at the ending.
Uncle Wilfred helped drag Picket to his feet, and they hurried to aid Helmer and Cole. Ikker joined them. They quickly ended three enemies, but one last buck ran for the woods in desperate flight. Jo, having snagged an arrow from the field, raised his bow.
