by S D Smith
“I’m fine, Blackstar,” Smalls said. “Just disappointed to find the camp abandoned.”
Picket looked around. He was glad to be alive, gladder still that the prince was going to be all right. But a deep disappointment settled on him. To come so far, only to fail! He groaned.
“What about you, Ladybug?” Helmer asked, bending to examine Picket’s wounds. “Looks like you’ll have a keepsake from today.”
“I’m all right,” he answered, wincing as Helmer wiped at the long gash. “It’s just, I thought...”
“I’m sorry, lad,” Lord Blackstar said. “I know this is a hard blow, not finding your family here. But stay on the job, son. Do the next right thing.”
“What is next?” Picket asked, stooping to the ground and breathing deeply.
“A winter war against birds like these,” Smalls said, indicating the two bodies his soldiers were examining in the wreckage.
“An impossible war,” Helmer said, applying a field dressing to Picket’s neck and back.
“A hard one,” Lord Blackstar said.
“How can we fight a war against such creatures?” Picket asked. “It took forty of us to defeat one.”
“Or,” Lord Blackstar said, “it took two to defeat two.”
“It was blind, crazy luck,” Smalls said, shaking his head.
“He’s right,” Picket agreed.
“Then, Your Highness, we shall have to figure out how to be lucky more often. And we shall have to be blind to impossibilities,” Lord Blackstar said. Then, laying a hand on Helmer’s shoulder, he added, “I think we have the crazy part covered.”
Chapter Four
HEATHER’S PLACE
Heather should have been happy. She had finally been approved as a doctor in training and had received the badge of her accomplishment, a medic satchel. Halfwind’s version of a calling ceremony was different than Cloud Mountain’s. This was a citadel of war but at the same time a place brimming with serious, even pious, devotion. Here, the votaries held a ritual for all guilds in Leapers Hall.
Heather loved the ceremony and felt pride in her calling. She had hopes of being assigned to assist Emma. Her friend, now a full doctor, led the team of healers at Halfwind Citadel. Emma had risen quickly in the medical ranks when an outbreak of blue fever at Harbone Citadel carried off many of the doctors who had come to help. She had gone there, done wonders, and survived, earning a reputation for bravery and excellence.
Heather herself had been widely celebrated as the Scribe of the Cause, a vital asset in the emerging war. Her account of the victory at Jupiter’s Crossing, read and spread widely, had helped to galvanize the opposition to Morbin’s Lords of Prey. She had purpose. She had a place. So why was she unhappy?
“Are you having those dreams again?” Emma asked as they walked the winding dirt-walled passages that served as Halfwind’s secret citadel. “The vivid, troubling ones?”
“No,” Heather answered. “Well, yes,” she corrected. “I am still dreaming more and more. Yes. But that’s not what’s bothering me.”
“You’re thinking of your family,” Emma said, laying her hand on Heather’s shoulder. “You wish your parents could see what you’ve become.”
“That’s true,” Heather said, dodging a hurrying soldier. “I’m pleased to be here with you, with Picket, and many of our friends. I’m grateful for how you’ve helped me in my training.”
“But nothing can quite replace the part of you that needs to feel your father’s arms around you, to hear your mother’s reassuring voice again.”
Heather nodded. “It’s worse for Picket, I think. He acts brave, but he’s hurting. I know it. Down deep. He was so helpless that day when the wolves came. He had to watch while our family was taken and our home burned. He’s changed so much since then, and he wants to act! He hates doing normal things while they’re still out there, enslaved—or worse. He’s haunted by the promises he made to Jacks. Lord Ramnor’s refusal to sanction another rescue attempt has him fuming.”
“But you know Lord Ramnor is right, don’t you?” Emma asked, nodding to a blue-robed votary as he passed. They came to a section where three hallways merged beneath a series of ornate stone arches. They waited for a tutor to pass through with her small collection of young students.
“Of course,” Heather said as they moved on. “He has so many rabbits to think of and great strategies to implement. But I sometimes feel like no one can understand this kind of pain. As much as I love Lord Ramnor, he doesn’t understand what it’s like to lose your family. He doesn’t know what Picket and I are going through.”
“Perhaps not,” Emma said, looking down.
“What am I saying?” Heather said, shaking her head and grabbing Emma’s hands. “Emma, you’re so kind. You have felt that ache your whole life, dear friend. And here I am whining like the world’s most unfortunate soul. I beg you to forgive me.”
“Never apologize, dear,” Emma said, nodding to another passing rabbit, this one a doctor on her team. “You knew your family, so it’s far worse for you. I never knew my parents. I do feel the ache of longing, the missing place in my heart where my father’s blessing should be. I wonder about my mother, think perhaps I would be a different kind of a rabbit—a better rabbit—were she around. But you had that, and you lost it. And it’s okay to be sad.”
“You sound like the great Scribe of the Cause, not me,” Heather said, linking arms with Emma as they walked.
“And you sound like the great Babbler Without Pause,” Emma answered, nudging Heather with her hip so that she almost collided with a passing soldier.
“Sorry!” Heather said, bursting into laughter.
The soldier spun and winked at Heather, bowed dramatically, then turned and continued on his way.
“With friends like you, Doctor Emma, Lord Lady Physician of Secret Citadels and Shover of Apprentices,” Heather said, “who needs Morbin Blackhawk?”
“May Morbin melt in his nest!” Emma said, pretending to toast Heather’s invisible glass with her own invisible glass.
“May he molt in his vest!” Heather replied.
“May he revolt in his rest!”
“May he be tolt he’s a pest!”
They walked on until they came to Lord Ramnor’s ready room. Heather stopped and looked through the open door. She saw a crackling fire beneath the huge painting of Flint and Fay, those noble parents of rabbitkind, and the citadel lord huddled over a map-strewn table. Lord Ramnor’s face was haggard, consumed with worry. She knocked.
Lord Ramnor looked up, a weary smile replacing his anxious stare. “Please, Doctor Emma,” he said, “and Miss Longtreader, come in.”
“Sadly, Lord Ramnor, I cannot,” Emma said, bowing slightly. “My duties bear me away. But I leave the fate of my apprentice to you. I would assign her a place in the farthest, smelliest army, if I were you. But I’m just a doctor, so you do what you think best, my lord.”
Heather smiled. She knew that Emma had recommended that Lord Ramnor keep her here and assign her as her own assistant.
“I shall do my best to oblige you, Doctor.”
With a playful flourish of her hand, Emma disappeared, and Heather walked into Lord Ramnor’s room and crossed to the fire. She had grown very fond of Lord Ramnor. He shared her love of stories and had lent her volume after volume from his vast personal library. She put out her hands to the blaze, enjoying the heat after the drafty corridor. Winter loomed, and Heather felt its chilly fingers beginning to stretch out.
“I’ll do anything for the cause,” she said, not turning around. “I know Emma has recommended I stay with her, but I don’t want special treatment.”
“But you are a very famous rabbit, Heather,” he said. “Scribe of the Cause and sister to Picket Longtreader, the bane of birds.”
“The brain of birds, more likely,” she said softly to herself, smiling. Then more loudly she said, “I am a doctor in training in the army of Prince Jupiter Smalls. I will go anywhere I’m asked
to serve. I will do anything for the prince’s good.”
“That is reassuring. I don’t think your brother is very satisfied with his assignment with the Fowlers,” he said.
“He loves being in the Fowlers. But he is, lord, bothered that he hasn’t been allowed to search for our family.”
“By the Leapers, I am too,” Lord Ramnor said, and he seemed to sag as he reached toward the fire, rubbing his hands together. “But I’m planning for a war, and those plans can’t include losing our best assets in another futile effort to save a few slaves—however precious they are. If we did that for everyone in the same position, we wouldn’t have an army. And besides that, what Helmer and Picket are doing is essential to our efforts.”
Heather nodded. “Both of us know our duty,” she said. “We accept that it’s not our choice.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Heather. Because I have decided to alter your assignment. You will not be an assistant to Doctor Emma in the hospital here.”
Heather’s eyes widened. Her talk of serving anywhere was sincere, but it shocked her that Lord Ramnor would be that bold. It was widely known that she was close to the prince, that her Uncle Wilfred was the prince’s dearest ally and friend. So, while she was sad that she’d be separated from Emma, she admired Lord Ramnor’s courage. “I’ll go anywhere,” she repeated.
“Don’t worry, Heather. You’ll stay here.” He smiled. “I have assigned you to Captain Helmer’s unit. You will be the Fowlers’ field medic. You’ll be attached to his team but still serve as a member of the Halfwind medical staff, under the leadership of Doctor Emma.”
“So you have kept me near my brother,” she said. “And also Emma.”
“I’ve put you where I think you’ll best serve the cause.”
“Thank you, my lord. I will do my best.”
He glanced at his desk, where Heather saw reports of soldiers and maps organized neatly beside a clay vase bearing a fresh bouquet of pale yellow flowers. His face grew sad again. Heather winced. What a burden to assign all these souls to places where he knows they will face unthinkable danger.
“It cannot be easy to command at a time like this,” she said.
“It is easier, I think, than being a healer. As you no doubt can foresee,” Lord Ramnor said, “we’ll need an army of healers in this war.”
“I do see it,” Heather agreed. “Though I didn’t like to think of it during my training.”
“Nor I, ever. For some it’s fuel for purpose. But I don’t like to think that all these soldiers I’m training and sending out will be wrecked by what’s ahead. That so many will come back and need all your art and effort to make them whole again. That is, if they come back at all. So many won’t.”
“But on the other side of it all,” Heather said, “the Mended Wood.”
“Yes, I suppose we must think so,” he said, smiling weakly. He looked into the fire. “You know in tales, Heather, how you believe it will go badly, but it all turns out fine—better than fine—perfect? It’s not like that in a real war. In real war there’s betrayal, and the betrayers win. In real life you get old staring at a growing heap of unhappy endings.”
“I am young, lord, but I’ve seen betrayal. I never thought Kyle was capable of what he did,” she said, thinking back to her one-time friend whose betrayal of the prince had nearly lost them the war before it started. If Smalls had died... Her heart ached at the thought.
“What’s strange is that this Kyle character didn’t succeed,” Lord Ramnor said. “At least not entirely.”
“No,” Heather said, smiling. “We had our moment.”
“And you wrote very eloquently about it. Half the rabbits huddled in burned-out backwoods have hope because of you. ‘Bear the flame,’ you said. And your tale had a happy ending.”
“I love a happy ending,” Heather said. “Because I need hope.”
“Yes,” Lord Ramnor said. “And that’s just what your tale has done for those loyal to the prince.”
“Then I’m glad.”
“But,” Lord Ramnor said, stoking the fire. Sparks flew up as he drove in the poker like a sword thrust. “I hope it’s well-placed. I’m afraid we will all be disappointed. We’re still faced with—and I say this because you are no longer a child—an impossible war. It’s a war we—well, Heather, we can’t win.”
“We don’t have to win the war today, sir,” Heather said. She hoped she looked braver than she felt. “We only have to win the next battle.”
Chapter Five
SWEEN’S SONG
Morbin’s lair smelled of bones and blood. The sight of his throne, a wretched nest fashioned with gemstones and golden bones, always made her sick. But Sween had no choice about being here. She was a slave now, and her horrible duty involved keeping this vile den, this dark heart of the black hawk’s kingdom, clean. So she worked. Like her fellow rabbit slaves, she worked. Silent and invisible, she moved from task to task without a word. Sometimes an old song would bubble up in her mind, rise unbidden to her lips. But she would always, at the last moment, catch herself. She must keep her silence and keep her place. There were no songs in Morbin Blackhawk’s lair. Only dim lights, dark corners, cruel councils, and, for her, a plague of heart, wasting away her hope.
Sween bent at the base of the hideous throne, scrubbing at stains whose origins she never wished to know. Again thoughts came unbidden. Some were memories of recent terrors, but good memories pushed their way in. Happy scenes came to mind, of her old home, their old happiness together. She smiled, almost forgetting what vile work she did. The song came calling again inside her, a little shaft of light in the darkness of her grave day. She almost hummed, but a sudden whoosh of wings behind her made her turn.
With a beat of his wings and a heavy rattle and scrape, Morbin settled on his throne. Sween gasped, horrified to be so close to him. She smothered a scream, recovered herself, scrubbed mechanically a few more times, then backed away, bowing her head as she retreated. She snuck one glance at Morbin, and it was enough to make her stumble.
He was so large, wide-winged, and angular of features. His inky black feathers gave way to a golden yellow around his face, and his beak was long and sharp and awful. His breastplate bore his sign, a sharp M with golden stars at its base, and his helm was set on one of many pikes that surrounded his hideous throne.
His weapon, famous for foul deeds over the decades, including the murder of King Jupiter the Great, was still firmly in his grip. It was a long black sickle rimmed in crimson. A bloody tool for an evil lord. She shuddered, bumped into another scraping servant, and hurried from the room.
Breathing hard and shaking terribly, Sween crumpled onto the dark hallway floor.
The song inside her was gone.
Chapter Six
FLIGHT OF THE FOWLERS
Picket was soaring. He released the swinging rope and glided through the air, unsheathing his sword in midflight. With two hands gripping the hilt, he plunged the blade into his target. Withdrawing his sword, he dropped to the earth, rolling expertly into a run. He caught another rope and ascended once again, releasing to soar, his arms stretched like wings, his sword arcing behind him. He landed on a long branch, where he sliced at two more false birds with pumpkin heads perched upon them.
“I know it’s a new sword, but try to hit one or two of them cleanly, Ladybug.” Captain Helmer leaned against a tree and scowled, chewing on a stick of celery. “Those pumpkin-headed ‘birds’ aren’t fighting back. If you can’t hit them dead center, then you’ll miss enemies who actually move when you fight them.”
Picket could hardly hear Helmer. He didn’t have time to lose his concentration now anyway. His team was counting on him to lead the way. He glanced down at his new sword, a gift from Prince Jupiter Smalls. Its steel was forged from the rare blackstone they had found at the abandoned mine site. The pommel bulged with a large circular seal. The seal’s design of a flying rabbit had been adopted by his unit—the Fowlers—and now he wore a matching patch
on his shoulder. He sheathed the blade in a scabbard strapped across his back.
As he dove for another rope, this one on the edge of his leaping range, he panicked. Picket swam in midair, arms flailing. At the last moment he stretched desperately and snagged the tip of the rope. Catching it fast, he swung down in a wide arc. He let go, landed on another limb, and sprinted across it, leaping over several obstacles in his path. Up. Down. Wild swinging leaps. Flips and turns. Tricky patterns and surprising obstacles. He was nearing the end of the course.
Seven swinging birds, wooden creations bristling with blades, descended at once. Helmer had added several. He was always mixing things up to keep them on their toes. Picket pressed forward.
Jo Shanks landed just behind him, on time as always, to deal with the left flank. His bow was off his shoulder and he had an arrow nocked in an instant. Perkinson swung in and landed on a branch just above, his sword bared and his eyes darting. They surged forward, dodging as they ran.
Nearly there.
The target loomed before them. They had never been this close. Helmer actually stopped chewing and walked forward, craning to see his team closing in on their goal.
“Charge in!” Picket cried, reaching over his shoulder to draw his blade from the scabbard on his back. He pointed it at the bright target on the high-perched fort. Then the first of the final seven birds was on him. He leapt and sliced it free of its rope. The rope snapped, and it plunged far below, causing Helmer to sidestep the shattering wreck.
Who’s a ladybug now? Picket smiled, adjusting to face the next foe while Jo and Perkinson dealt with their own.
One breath. Perkinson sliced into a pumpkin head, spraying its juice across the heights, then kicked the bird away.
Another breath. Jo fired arrow after arrow into the target, ducking below a swooping bird and cutting loose another with a flawless sword thrust.
