by S D Smith
“Don’t kill him!” Uncle Wilfred shouted. Jo, adjusting at the last moment, sent the arrow into the buck’s leg just as he reached the tree line. Ikker scampered after him, red knife raised.
“Hold!” Uncle Wilfred called, and his voice was so commanding that Ikker, enraged as he was, cast down his blade and settled for screaming at the buck amid wild blows.
“You killed my family!”
“I did my duty,” the buck cried, defiant.
“Okay, Ikker,” Picket said, pulling the furious buck off of the enemy while the rest surrounded him. “We’ll deal with him.”
Helmer motioned for the captive to be propped against a tree. “What are you? Are you part of Daggler’s force?”
“I’m from the High Bleaks … from Akolan,” he said, eyes darting all around. “I’m a Longtreader, serving Morbin’s ambassador.”
Picket and Uncle Wilfred exchanged glances. Wilfred spoke. “You’re an assassin, not an ambassador. Why did Morbin attack here and not First Warren?”
The captive laughed, cruel and haughty. “Lord Morbin wanted you to suffer. He means to end your feeble rebellion, but he wants you to feel the cost of your folly in resisting him. It hurts, doesn’t it?” He smiled sickly at Ikker. “We came and made our way in, under guise of aid from First Warren. The fools let us in, and we brought in wolves, then Preylords too. Together, we unleashed destruction below in your dingy tunnels. I enjoyed it.”
“You don’t even know to be ashamed,” Cole said.
“We’ll win,” he replied, “and that’s what matters.”
“When does Morbin mean to attack First Warren?” Uncle Wilfred asked, setting his blade to the prisoner’s neck. “Be quick to answer. You’ve condemned yourself by your own testimony, kinslayer.”
“We aren’t kin!” he spat. “I’m a Longtreader!”
“That’s my name too,” Wilfred said, and the killer seemed to finally see the resemblance between this buck and Garten.
“And mine,” Picket said, adding his blade to his uncle’s at the traitor’s neck.
“Ambassador Garten’s personal guard was called in for this mission. But Lord Morbin’s plans for First Warren are known only to himself. Well, I should say the timing is unknown. The plan is settled. He will come in wave after wave with the Six, bringing with him the ancient great wolf king himself. First Warren, and every hunkering hole like this across his lands, will be razed and erased from history. Every enemy rabbit will be killed. Their young, those that survive the purging, will be removed to Akolan and … repurposed.”
“How have you become so comfortable with the mass murder of your own kind?” Cole asked, eyes aflame.
“Oh, those killed are the lucky ones,” he replied, laughing. He looked at Ikker. “I was doing your family a favor when I killed them.”
Ikker lunged for him, but Picket held him back.
Helmer said, “Be silent, or I will silence you.”
“I’ll never be silent—” the prisoner began, but Helmer knelt over him and drove a fist into the murderer’s face. The prisoner cried out in pain, then raged at Helmer, trying to bite and scratch him. Cole and Jo held him down till others came to help bind him. Still, the uniformed buck spat as he spoke, blood dribbling down onto his red collar. “He comes, and none will survive! Blood and thunder. Terror and death. It came for this citadel, and it comes for everything and everyone you love!”
The fire of the fight was over, and Picket felt his energy ebbing away. Along with his high spirit, his hope seemed to be draining out in pints. He hated all the rogue buck said, but he had a fearful certainty inside that everything he was saying was true.
Picket turned and walked off a few yards, finding a tree to lean against. But no tears came. Finally, he heard Jo speak up from behind.
“You okay, Picket?”
“I think so, Jo. Just tired.”
“Picket!” the prisoner cried, straining his neck against the grip of a burly buck. “Picket Longtreader?”
Picket turned to face the wild-eyed buck. “I’m Picket Longtreader.”
The prisoner laughed loud and long, convulsing in hacking coughs as his bloody smile showed a crazed contempt. “I know your uncle. Ambassador Garten is a great leader. He’s bold and—”
“He’s a coward,” Picket barked, stepping forward. “He betrayed his family, his king, and his kind. Their blood,” Picket said, tears starting in his eyes as he pointed to the fallen forms being tended by weeping survivors, “is on his hands.”
“He’d be pleased to get credit for their blood,” the buck said, snickering with the look of a wicked child with a delicious secret. “That’s not all the blood he’s pleased to have spilled. There’s more and more, and some you would be grieved to hear about.”
“Shut him up!” Jo cried, stepping toward him with his fists clenched.
“Wait!” Picket said, sending out an arm to block Jo’s progress. Looking into the prisoner’s wild eyes, he asked, “What do you mean? Whose blood?”
“I saw it myself, his stained sword.” The villain laughed, prolonging Picket’s agony.
“Out with it,” Helmer said, raising his fist again.
Picket knew what was coming—knew it was true—and the blow still struck his heart like it had never been struck before. Pierced and pounded all at once. Worse than any wound of war.
“Heather Longtreader,” the prisoner said, red teeth grinning. “Garten killed her with his own blade and buried her in a desolate place. There was no one there to even mourn her end. She died alone, and it didn’t even matter. She’s gone, and you’re all next.”
Chapter Thirteen
SATCHELS AND STONES
A hooded rabbit dashed between districts in the dark. Passing the ash-covered gap in haste, the shadowy figure ran toward the first home and dug into his satchel. He grabbed a stone and hurled it into an open window, then hurried on. He ran to the next house, and the next, hurling stones.
At the end of the block another form joined the first, and together they ran to another cluster of homes, both throwing stones from satchels into the ash-covered homes of Akolan. For the first time in living memory, there had been no sweeping during daylight, and clouds of ash were kicked up around the city. The two forms sprinted up the side stairs of a tall house and crossed the rooftop to its edge. Gazing out across the night, they saw ash rising from every district. Their confederates were everywhere.
“Will they all come, Whittle?” Sween asked, pulling down her hood.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “I hope most do.”
“Do we have room for them all?”
“We’ll make room.”
“I can’t imagine many inwallers will come. They’re too far gone, I’m afraid.”
Another rabbit, robed like them, appeared at the top of the stairs. “Father Tunneler,” he said, “the captains report that the districts are alerted. What now?”
Whittle Longtreader looked at his wife, Sween. She nodded, pulling up her hood again. “Is that you, Dote?”
“Aye, Tunneler,” Dote replied.
“Pass the word then,” Whittle said, striding toward the stairs, “to rally at the wall.” Dote darted down the stairs and could be heard conferring with another rabbit.
“Shouldn’t you return to District Seven, Whittle?” Sween asked, catching up to him. “It’ll be risky, and there’s so much to do.”
“You’re one to talk,” he replied with a smile, “after you risked getting the last assessment from the Commandant.”
“I was suited for the job,” she said, crossing her arms. “And it was worth it.”
“It was.” Whittle Longtreader shook his head. “It’s hard to believe what they mean to do with … well, with all rabbitkind. They truly are monsters.”
“Will they really do it?” Dote asked, swiping at the ash kicked up by his return to the rooftop.
“Yes,” Sween answered. “I’ve listened to them in their lairs, stood mere steps from Morbin
himself—massive on his throne—as he spoke of rabbitkind as a disease that needed curing. He’ll do it. These last actions of ours have been all the provocation he’s needed. He’s in earnest, all right, and the Commandant can’t be underestimating it.”
“Then all the more reason to warn the inwallers too,” Whittle said.
“But they’re Morbin’s pets,” Dote said, scowling. “So what if they suffer for their years of collaboration? I won’t be sorry to see them skinned.”
“They’re rabbits, still,” Whittle said. “And if they turn back to us, we’ll welcome them with open arms.”
“I know what you’ve suffered,” Sween said, crossing to lay a hand gently on Dote’s arm. “I know it well. But we must think of them not only as they have been but as what they might become.”
Dote frowned, then nodded. “I know you’re right, but it will be hard to forgive them.”
“It’s always hard to forgive, but it’s never not worth it.” Sween put her arm around the younger rabbit. “We’ll help each other.”
“We’ll have to,” Whittle said.
“I’ll follow you, Father Tunneler,” Dote said, “and do as you say, even if that means forgiving these villains.”
They heard a whistle from the foot of the stairs.
“Let’s go,” Whittle said.
They hurried down the steps and turned northeast, joining up with hundreds of runners like themselves, all wearing makeshift satchels stuffed with stones. The ash billowed out in their tracks as they made for the massive wall at the city center.
“Father!” some called as they saw Whittle Longtreader, and he smiled at them and waved. “Tunneler!” they said, and “It’s the Tunneler and the Truth!”
“Father,” a young buck said, rushing up to him as they made for the wall. “I’m proud to be in your company. My uncle says you’ll be the greatest Tunneler in history and will lead us all to freedom.”
“We’ll do it together,” Whittle said, and the young buck fell into rhythm with the rest, marching on.
“Father,” another young buck said, hurrying up, “I bet I can throw mine farther than you.”
“Jacks?” Whittle asked, peering into the darkness at the figure. “Is that you, son?”
Jacks nodded, pulling down his bandana and hood. “It’s me, Father.”
“Where’s Har—” Sween began, scowling, but a young doe spoke up.
“I’m here,” Harmony said, pulling back her hood and jogging up. “I never took my eyes off him.”
“Good,” Whittle said. “And to answer your question about if you can throw a stone farther than me? No, of course not.”
“I’m not so certain,” Jacks said, punching his father’s shoulder playfully.
“You’re getting to be a big lad, Jacks,” Whittle said, raising two fists in mock seriousness. “But anytime you want, I can show you the difference between a big young buck and little old buck.”
“Maybe after we survive this?” Sween asked, nodding at the wall ahead, which was surrounded by uniformed guards with high pikes and stern expressions. “If we survive this.”
Whittle gazed ahead and raised his arms. All of the approaching rabbits halted and, making a wide circle around the wall, backed off from the guards. A silence fell.
“Causers and insurrectionists!” called an officer, stepping forward. He wore a red collar and wings on his left shoulder. His right sleeve was ringed with gold bands. “Your doom is near! Meanwhile, do not try to enter District Six. The inwallers want no part of your rebellion and disease. If you attack, we will be forced to destroy you.”
Whittle stepped forward. “Wrongtreader Captain, we mean you and your soldiers no harm. We come armed only with truth.” He reached into his satchel and drew out a stone. “A hard truth.”
Each rabbit rounding the guards drew out a stone and held it, poised to throw.
“I am Captain Tram, and I have served Ambassador Garten for many years,” the officer said. “Your stones don’t frighten us. You’ll only give us cause to engage and end you all.”
“Morbin wants us all dead, Tram,” Whittle said. “We all know that now. Even the inwallers won’t escape his anger—not now that the end’s come. I know you soldiers fear infection from us.” Tram glanced back at his officers and soldiers, some of whom fidgeted nervously. “We do come with an infection. And we want to pass it on to you.” Some of the soldiers stepped back, and Tram stepped forward, urging his officers ahead. Some followed, but others hung back.
“Come no closer!” Captain Tram called. “Away with you all, back to the Leper’s District where you belong. You’ll infect us all!”
“We are as well as you are. Just look at us. We are no threat to you. It is Morbin who will kill us all,” Whittle said, “and he’ll use first your hand against us, then another’s against you, until we’re all gone.”
“Causer lies!” Tram cried, but he didn’t sound convinced.
“I am no liar,” Whittle cried. “I am the Tunneler and the Truth!”
“He is the Tunneler and the Truth,” the rabbit host repeated followed by a unified solitary stamp.
“We have no wish to fight you,” Whittle continued. “Our attack—our infection—is only this.” He raised his rock and, showing it to Captain Tram, tossed it across so that it fell at the agitated captain’s feet.
Tram bent to examine the stone and saw words scrawled across it. He held it up carefully with a gloved hand in the dim moonlight. And he read it.
Be free. It’s time. Last chance. District Seven by dawn.
As Tram read, Whittle signaled, and all of his company cast their stones at the feet of the soldiers opposite them. Slowly they lifted them up and read, and some crossed at once to friends among the free rabbits. Some argued and seemed ready to fight.
“Archers!” Captain Tram cried, and a team of archers hurried to his side. He pointed at Whittle, who did not move. More archers from down the line of soldiers stepped forward. Some were uncertain, but all nocked arrows to strings and aimed. “Fire on my command.”
Captain Tram raised his arm, poised to order death for the ragtag band of satchel-and-stones rabbits. At the last moment, a buck appeared on top of the wall, holding high a torch. His scarred face and eyepatch were notorious among all in Akolan, even were it not for the high rank displayed on his neat uniform.
“Hold,” the Commandant said evenly. “Captain Tram, your bucks will stand down. These rabbits may enter and fulfill their task.”
“But, Commandant!” Tram cried, disbelieving. “They’ll infect us all … our families! Sir!”
“Hear me, my soldiers,” the Commandant shouted in his authoritative rasp. “My last brief to you is this. There is not now, nor has there ever been, a single actual leper in Akolan. It was always a ruse to hide the truth of District Seven, where rescue awaits us all—inwallers too—if we will only be brave and humble-hearted enough to receive it.”
“Sir,” Tram screamed, “please don’t—”
“My last command, officers and soldiers all,” the Commandant cried above the swelling din, “is this … it is really an appeal, an invitation.” He dropped to one knee, kneeling before them. “Be free. It’s time. Bring your families to District Seven, on the other side of the so-called Leper’s District. Follow our Father, the Tunneler and the Truth!”
Cheers.
“Now friends,” Whittle cried, nodding gratefully to the Commandant, “let us enter in peace.” He walked toward the gate, and the rest of his company filed behind him. Captain Tram blocked his way, drawing his sword and planting himself in front of the gate.
“You’ll have to go through me to enter this city,” Tram said, gritting his teeth.
Whittle glanced around. Few soldiers stood with Tram, and many were now hurrying back inside the wall, rushing to their families.
“You cannot bar me, Captain,” Whittle said. “I am the Tunneler and the Truth.”
“He is the Tunneler and the Truth!” they all
shouted.
“What’s your truth?” Tram spat, “but a sack of stones and a band of ragged lepers?”
“I’m sorry,” Whittle said, walking up to the tip of Tram’s sword.
“Sorry for what?” the agitated captain cried, ready to strike out at any moment.
Whittle slid the rock-filled satchel off his shoulder and spun, swinging it in a swift strike that stunned and toppled the captain. “For that.”
Sween took Whittle’s hand, and she, Harmony, Jacks, and all the others marched through the gate.
In the distance, stark against the moon, winged shadows swelled.
Chapter Fourteen
SATCHELS AND STONES AND WATER
Heather jerked awake, intense pain upsetting the blissful oblivion of sleep. Eyes closed tight with agony, she tried to calm her rapid heartbeat. She listened.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Where am I?
She was aware then of the hand she held, had clasped so tightly even in unstoppable sleep, and her strange ordeal came flooding back.
I was taken by my uncle in Akolan and brought to Forbidden Island. Uncle Garten stabbed me—she winced at the memory—and kicked me into a pit. This pit. In this pit, doomed to die in a hopeless, dank, dark tomb, I saw light. Light above, a mere mote of brightness. And him.
And his heart beat.
She opened her eyes, afraid it had been one of her surreal dreams. So much of it seemed a seamless continuation of her visions in the night.
But he was there. Smalls. The one she loved. His hand in her hand. His heart …
Painfully, Heather levered up on her elbow and placed her head on his chest once more.
Still beating. But so, so faint.
“How have we come together like this?” she whispered, and her voice was hoarse, her throat dry. “And how have you survived these many days?”
Heather was desperate for water—water!—and knew whatever she needed, Smalls likely needed more.
