by S D Smith
He needed to find Master Helmer.
Picket leapt from his bed, landing quietly on the hard ground. He dressed quickly, then fastened his back-scabbard in place, rammed home his sword, and left the bunkhouse. As he wound through empty corridors, he reached out to touch the wooden slats that reinforced the dirt walls of the tunnels. He imagined the terror of being trapped in this old warren should it ever collapse. Halfwind was a winding warren of mixed material. Dirt walls gave way to stone arches; ruggedly practical accommodations lay not far from the ornate stonework of Leapers Hall.
He ran past the arched entrance to Leapers Hall and heard the early morning songs of the gathered votaries. Peeking inside as he jogged, he saw a blue blur of kneeling faithful. He had befriended some of the votaries, though it still seemed strange to him that these blue-robed rabbits lived alongside the soldiers and support staff that made up the center of this community. But the quiet votaries were usually kind, and many were devoted to a solitary pursuit for long years, only breaking their work for community meals and rituals. That was not unlike the life of a soldier. And some were soldiers, while others believed that fighting was unworthy of their order. Picket understood this belief, but for now he could see no other way. With the world as it was, he must be a soldier, and the best one he could possibly be. He moved on, the morning songs fading behind him.
Soon he was clear of the warren and out in the open air, jogging through a tunnel of the braided thorns that seemed to grow everywhere. He had lost count of how many of them Heather had plucked from his skin.
Heather.
He thought about trying to find her. He had walked her to her room the night before. She had said she hoped Emma was already asleep so she wouldn’t have to talk to her. He hoped Heather was still resting, that she found solace in her sleep. He hoped she had come to accept that she must keep this secret from Emma—from the princess—for everyone’s good. Everyone, except a friend who probably deserves to know the truth, he mused. So it still bothered him, this need for secrecy. There had been so much of it in the Longtreaders’ own lives, he hated to be a part of concealing anything—especially something so important—from a dear friend. How could he keep such a thing from someone he cared for, from someone who had been like family to him and Heather when they were isolated, scared, and—himself especially—at their worst? Emma had stuck with him when bitterness and resentment had poisoned his life. He owed her so much. Didn’t he owe her the truth? This can’t help. I know my duty.
He went through the passage that approached the stationed sentinels. “A friend and fellow,” he said, giving the passphrase.
“Pass on,” came the reply. He did, jogging past the two tired rabbits, whose watch was nearly over. He heard them whisper as he disappeared around the corner. “That was him. The hero of Jupiter’s Crossing...” They said more, but he could no longer hear. It was common for him to hear whispers, to be lauded by young soldiers. But he had no interest in the last fight, only the next one. This whispered awe from other rabbits only served to remind him of the expectations others had for him, of how much responsibility he carried for this vulnerable citadel suddenly bereft of its best.
He emerged onto the Fowlers’ course, expecting it to be empty. But Perkinson was there, jogging back toward him.
“Good morning, Perk,” Picket said.
“Morning, Pick,” Perkinson replied. “I’m glad to see we’re not all lazy.” He was sweating, and he looked tired.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Picket asked.
“Yeah. I was a little anxious since learning that half our fighting strength and most of our leadership skipped off in the night. No pressure on us, right?”
“Right,” Picket said. “Sounds like you’re well-informed. And now we have to protect—” He had almost said something about Emma, but he stopped himself.
“Protect...?”
Picket shrugged. “Did you hear about our new member?”
“The Blackstar kid? Cole?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve met him a few times,” Perkinson said. “He seems okay. Doesn’t talk much, but he’s a fighter. I know that. They don’t raise any other kind down at Kingston. Especially Lord Blackstar’s son. They are a rare breed.”
“Must be hard to live up to the expectation of a great family name,” Picket said.
Perkinson was silent. He looked off into the trees. Evidently he didn’t want to talk about his father, the legendary Perkin One-Eye, best friend of King Jupiter and hero of a hundred battles. “Sorry,” Picket said. “It’s none of my business. I’m sorry about your father.”
“It’s okay, Pick. I just want to make my own name. It’s hard when it’s right there every time anyone is talking to you.”
“What do you want to be called?”
“Cuddles?” Perkinson said, jabbing Picket with a quick, friendly punch.
“Perfect,” Picket said. “It suits you.”
“Naw, I’ll keep my name, and all the weight it brings with it. It keeps me sharp.”
“So what brought you out so early?” Picket asked, motioning toward the course behind Perk. “Going through the paces?”
“Yeah,” he said, laughing. “Speaking of staying sharp,” he said, dancing in place and throwing a few more punches near Picket. “Always calms me down. What do you say?”
“I guess I came to do just that,” Picket said. “But first I want some food.”
“Let’s get some,” Perkinson said. Picket nodded, and the friends jogged toward the mess hall.
Picket liked Perkinson. He was energetic and upbeat and came from a storied family. Picket had been in awe of Perkinson when he arrived at Halfwind, but Perk had quickly put Picket at ease, and they fell into a fast friendship and became a potent attacking combo. Unlike Heyward, Perkinson was always reliable in their simulated attacks. He was quick, intelligent, and agile; he had it all when it came to being a soldier. And he should. He had been trained by the best from a very young age.
Even though Perkinson had already been at the course for who knew how long, Picket was laboring to keep up with him.
“You need to warm up,” Perkinson said over his shoulder.
“We’ll see about that!” Picket said, picking up his pace and surging ahead. Perkinson in turn sped up and overtook Picket. Soon the two young rabbits were hurtling through the narrow tunnels, racing to the mess hall, making more noise than anyone should at such an early hour.
Rounding a dark corner, neck and neck, Picket felt something catch his foot. He pitched forward, knocking into Perk. Both rabbits smashed into the wall and broke through a collection of wooden slats with a loud crack. Picket rolled and crashed to a halt. Perkinson slid beside him. Earth gave way, spilling a heap of dirt onto their heads.
Opening his eyes, Picket saw a blade before him in the dim hallway. He followed the blade upward to its handle and saw a green emerald sparkling in the hilt. Peering into the dark countenance above, he recognized Captain Helmer.
“You two idiots get the rest up and out on the course in ten minutes,” Helmer said gruffly, sheathing his sword. “Instead of acting like two younglings, why don’t you show some responsibility? This isn’t a game of Bouncer we’re playing, lads. We just lost most of the experience and leadership in Halfwind. And don’t forget, there’s an army closing in!”
“Yes, Captain,” the bucks said together, knocking dirt from their heads and scrambling to their feet. Perkinson went on, “We were just going to the mess.”
“You are a mess,” Helmer said, glaring at their dirty, sweaty fur. “Both of you.”
“We’re sorry, Master,” Picket said. “We’ll get the other Fowlers. Should we invite Coleden Blackstar?”
“Of course,” Helmer said, turning. “He’s one of us now.” The old black rabbit stormed off.
Picket gently elbowed Perk. “Why do you always seem to get me in trouble?”
“Because neither of us likes to lose,” Perk said, adding some more dirt to Picket
’s head.
“I’m just glad that in the big fight,” Picket said, shaking the dirt off his head, “we’re both on the same side.”
Perkinson stood and placed his hand over his heart. “Till the Green Ember rises, or the end of the world.”
Picket returned the salute. Then they hurried toward the bunkhouse.
Chapter Thirteen
A RED SUNRISE
Heather left her bed before Emma was awake. She went to the library, which was attached to Lord Ramnor’s ready room. Lord Ramnor sat beside the fire, reading.
“Am I disturbing you?” she whispered.
“Of course not, Heather,” he said, removing his glasses and beckoning her over. “It’s cold and grey out there. A bad omen.”
“Do you read omens, Lord Ramnor, or read of omens?” she asked, nodding at his book. He reminded her of Father. Though Lord Ramnor was much older, his bearing was as much a scholar’s as that of a military commander. She saw how it all weighed on him and admired him for his perseverance. He fought because of what he loved, not because he loved to fight.
“I’m reading children’s poems,” he said, “to clear my mind before the day’s tasks. I have done it for years—whenever I can.”
“Children’s poetry, a great lord like you?” she asked. “Does it distract you?”
“No,” he answered. “Well, I suppose it does. But I feel less—I don’t know—less sullied by the awful parts of my work when I read.” She nodded and he went on, returning his glasses to his nose. “Consider this one, Heather. One even the Scribe of the Cause would be proud of.” She smirked but listened as he began.
“‘Who was it stole the apple pie?’
‘’Twasn’t I, ’Twasn’t I’
‘Who stole, then?’ rings her reply,
still I deny, still I deny.
Asked I am why I should lie,
‘I am innocent,’ I cry,
but inside I know who stole the pie,
for ’twas I, for ’twas I,
’twas I who stole the apple pie
but shall deny it till I die.
Inside I know who stole the pie
for there it lies, in my insides.”
Heather smiled wearily. “It’s sweet, and funny. But so deceitful.”
“Fitting for our times,” he sighed, rising. Then, with a quick bow and a smile, he walked out.
Heather stood with her back to the fire, her appetite now whispering about apple pie. She glanced at the fire, touched her necklace charm and sighed, then crossed to Lord Ramnor’s desk. She took up the book of poems and sat down. Maybe this could help expel her gloom. She sat for a while with the book, laughing here and there, until she sensed the dawn approaching.
She would be wanted on the Fowlers’ course. How long could she avoid Emma? How long could she live with this lie inside her? She rose and crossed the room, hesitating by the door. She wanted to return to the chair by the fire and read all day.
But there is work to do. Like Lord Ramnor, she would do her duty. She inhaled deeply and walked through the door.
What she saw froze her blood.
* * *
Picket wanted to complain to Helmer. His master had yelled at him and Perk for running through the halls, then forced them to run even more through the halls in order to get everyone to the course in less than ten minutes. But Picket didn’t dare say anything. Helmer didn’t want to hear that right now, he was sure. Good thing he can’t read my thoughts.
“Stay focused, Lieutenant,” Helmer said sharply to Picket.
“Yessir!”
The Fowlers were lined up, backs to the trail and faces toward their captain. Helmer stood in front of the Fowlers’ course and the forest beyond. They stood in a row: long-legged Jo Shanks, steady Perkinson, Picket, and their new member, Coleden Blackstar. Heather was not there yet.
“Bucks, this is Coleden, our new friend from the southeast,” Helmer said, nodding at the tall black rabbit whose famous ancestor was King Whitson Mariner’s savior. “We recruited him because we didn’t already have enough cocky rabbits from famous, or infamous, families.” He smirked. “Coleden is new. Raw. Inexperienced in our arts. He needs to learn, probably through great pain, what it means to be a Fowler.”
Picket glanced at Coleden, saw the quiet confidence in his face. Perkinson looked tense, uneasy, while Jo was laughing behind his hand. But Picket felt sorry for the new recruit. No matter what kind of dangers he had faced at Kingston, no one could be ready for Helmer.
“You must be prepared to go head-to-head in the treetops with the most vicious creatures, the monsters of your ancestors’ tales,” Helmer went on. Picket watched Coleden’s face. It went from focused attention to distraction. He seemed to be looking past Helmer. “You will run toward danger, not away,” the old master went on, his voice getting louder and his eyes narrowing. “You will meet their best aloft. You will fly.”
Picket grew concerned for Coleden. He was only half paying attention. Helmer had clearly noticed and was seething.
“Do we have a problem, son?” Helmer said, planting himself right in front of the young buck. Picket knew that Helmer would strike soon and Coleden would end up on his back.
“We might,” Coleden said, looking past Helmer. Then, before Helmer could speak again, Coleden dove at the captain, knocking him to the ground just as an arrow whizzed through the air above them. It had come from the forest, and more followed quickly after. Picket dove sideways and caught Jo, dragging him down just as a hail of arrows filled the sky. Perk had already moved, but Picket collided with Jo just as an arrow caught Jo’s arm, spinning him down.
Perk was on his feet, rushing back to the tunnel. The remaining Fowlers found cover behind several wooden wolves fitted with blades.
Helmer rolled over and drew his sword. Jo and Coleden had theirs out at once. They all made as if to run, but Coleden held up a hand as arrows filled the sky.
“It’s too late,” he said.
“Can you reach your bow, Jo?” Helmer grunted as he peered out from the insufficient cover in an effort to see the enemy.
“No,” Jo grunted.
“He’s hurt,” Picket said, reaching for Jo’s arm, where an arrow was lodged.
“Pull it out,” Helmer said, glancing at the wound before returning his attention to the trees. The wound wasn’t deep, and Picket trusted Helmer’s instincts. He looked at Jo, who nodded, and pulled the arrow out as Jo stifled a scream. Tearing off a piece of cloth, Picket wrapped the wound as best he could. He turned to Helmer.
“What’s the situation?”
“We’re pinned,” Helmer said.
“They’re waiting on something. Surely it’s not just that they need to account for us?” Coleden said, pointing to the tree line. Picket saw that it was alive with enemies.
“The tall rabbits?” Picket asked.
“I don’t think so,” Coleden said, “unless they have wolves with them.” As he spoke, several wolves broke through the tree line and charged them. Covering arrows sped above them as they came. Coleden pulled Helmer to the ground as most of the deadly darts passed over their heads. Others thudded into their wooden protectors.
“We need a bow,” Jo said.
“We need a rescue,” Coleden said. Picket hated to admit it, but there it was. The elite Fowlers, on the grim occasion of their first real combat, needed rescuing. The wolves were nearly on them.
Picket drew his sword and positioned himself in front of Jo.
“I’m okay,” Jo said. “There are too many for you to protect me.”
There were.
Six wolves rushed toward the four trapped rabbits. They tore the ground with their pounding claws. Helmer took a last look over the flimsy barricade and called out, “Rush them!”
Leaping over the wooden wolf, Picket sped toward the attacking wolves. Now he could see their numbers. There were hundreds in the woods. The four rabbits charged in, each seeming unwilling to be the last to the clash. Arrows whizzed
by, and Picket weaved back and forth, hoping to throw them off. There were precious few advantages for rabbits at war with wolves, but Picket planned to exploit them all for as long as he could. Rabbits were fast, could dodge and cut with tremendous speed. They had powerful feet, if given enough time to leap and strike. They were self-controlled and cunning, with their weapons and their strategy.
And the heirs of Flint and Fay were brave.
Picket coiled for a terrific leap. He launched high and flipped forward, landing a thundering kick on the foremost wolf. He felt the crack of impact, saw the wolf give way as he landed and rolled into a shorter jump to strike out with his blade. This met a shield and rattled his wrists. He held on and deflected the return strike from a jabbing spear. He dodged and struck, leapt back and surged forward, dimly aware of the desperate struggles all around him.
After half a minute of madness, he saw the wolves giving way, and he realized that more rabbits were among them. As Picket deftly blocked a sword thrust in front, a slavering wolf, teeth bared, surged for his shoulder. Out of nowhere, a rabbit kick met the wolf’s jaws, knocking him sideways. Perkinson landed beside him, an attachment of Halfwind soldiers joining in. Perkinson finished the wolf with his blade and grabbed at Picket.
“Let’s go, Longtreader,” he said, looking wildly all around. “Back! Back!” he shouted. Picket saw Coleden flip backward and strike out at a wolf that had pinned Jo, then dart sideways to fend off another attacker as the surge of soldiers met the line. He looked calm, natural. He swung his sword like it was part of his strong arm.
“Fall back!” Picket shouted.
Helmer ended the wolf he had been locked in combat with, then staggered back, grabbing Jo. More and more wolves poured from the forest as the soldiers from the citadel flooded out to meet them, warriors in white tunics, a red moon crossed with spears on their chests. Among them ran a cluster of blue-robed rabbits, armed and fierce as they joined battle with the wolves.
Picket saw, before he fell into the temporary safety of the tunnel passage, that the wolves outnumbered the rabbits three to one.
