by S D Smith
“That’s fantastic, bucks,” she said. “Real clever stuff. Just wait till it’s your arm I’m treating. I might not be as gentle.”
“We all know,” Picket said, loud enough for Jo to hear, “that Jo’s arm requires an intense level of tenderness.”
She smirked at him, then laughed.
Picket winked at her. Then, over her head, he noticed two rabbits coming their way. Captain Frye and a limping Captain Helmer. “Something’s up,” he said. “Stay here and get things going, Perk.” Perk nodded as Picket and Heather crossed to meet them.
Before Heather could ask why Captain Helmer was out of bed, she stopped, seeing the serious look on the two veterans’ faces. Picket panicked, thinking of Smalls.
“Is it the prince?” he asked. Heather turned to look at her brother, confused.
“What do you mean? Is Smalls in danger?” she asked.
Helmer held up his hand. “It’s Cloud Mountain,” he said. “Morbin’s army is moving on Cloud Mountain.”
“Pacer just arrived with an urgent request for aid,” Captain Frye added. “The Silver Prince is mustering the entire army on Westfield now. We had hoped for more time to unify the factions, but we won’t have it.”
“Pack your gear,” Helmer called. “The Fowlers—all of us—are going to war.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
BIRD FOOD
Heather prepared her satchel for the grisly work that lay ahead. She sighed, seeing Aunt Jone’s patchy purse inside. She must speak to Bleston about releasing the old rabbit. But was there time? She shoved more vials and cloth on top of the crumbling purse, and in a few minutes she had forgotten about Jone in her hasty packing. She was distressed. This was war, and they were not prepared.
There would be no time to mass an army from every secret citadel. No time to join with the holdouts and the far-flung militias in a tenuous alliance. No time to form a force capable of winning a victory against Morbin’s far- superior army. No. Morbin’s strategy was brilliant. He was attacking the least defended area, the place with the fewest soldiers, where the most free civilians lived.
She wondered how much Garten Longtreader, her betraying uncle, had been involved with this plan. Until recently, Cloud Mountain had been a secret. Now it was facing attack, and she could only hope they weren’t too late to help. She hoped other citadels would get word in time to come to their aid. Much as it plagued her, she couldn’t fight the war alone. She was a field medic attached to the Fowlers. They were certain to be in the thick of the fighting.
She would see terrible things.
“Bring all the tonic you can,” Emma said, packing several bags at once and passing them off to various assistants. “Help me pack first, please, Heather.”
Heather obeyed, dropping her own work to join Emma. “Where will you be?” she asked.
“I’ll be going ahead of the army to Cloud Mountain,” she said. “I’m going to prep the main hall for casualties, along with Doctor Zeiger and the team there.”
“And me?” Heather asked, a catch in her voice.
Emma stopped and looked her friend in the eyes. Her gaze was steady and her face set. Heather had no doubt of her friend’s royal blood. She was King Jupiter’s daughter, more composed than Heather thought possible. “Listen, Heather. I love you very much. You’re my dearest friend. But you must be brave. To save lives, we will endure terrible things. We serve an army of rabbits who offer themselves freely for the cause.” She touched Heather’s shaking hand. “For them, we must do no less than our best.”
Heather wanted to say that she was worried about more than the battle and the blood. She wanted to say how fearful she was for Emma’s life. She wanted to unburden herself of the secret she carried. But she only nodded. “I am with you, my sister.”
Emma nodded gravely, then threw herself back into the work.
* * *
Picket couldn’t believe how long it took to muster the army. He had been in battle before, but he had yet to move with a force this large in a planned action. It was excruciatingly slow. The Fowlers packed, prepped, and waited on Westfield for hours while supplies were moved and other divisions made their preparations. The catapults had been moved ahead of the army, and Heyward was part of the team of brother votaries overseeing their delivery. Picket hoped they would arrive in time at the place Bleston had chosen, along with their accompanying wagons of ammunition. He paced back and forth, muttering as the hours dragged.
“You have to relax, Picket,” Heather said, coming beside him and whispering in his ear. “The other Fowlers are looking to you.”
He glanced at the others. They were looking at him. “They all have more experience than I do, anyway.”
“That doesn’t matter,” she said. “You’re a leader. You lead by what you do and by what you don’t do.”
He frowned. “You’re right,” he said. Then he addressed the Fowlers, who were pacing and fidgeting. “Let’s all take it easy and try to rest. I know there’s no real sleeping now, but let’s lie down for a bit.”
Coleden nodded and went to his pack. Unrolling his blanket, he lay down and closed his eyes. The others smirked, but they imitated him, and soon all but Heather and Picket were laid out and resting.
“War is a splash of terror in a sea of boredom,” Heather said, “At least that’s what Helmer says.”
“He ought to know,” Picket replied. “I’m worried about Emma. She’s going ahead, into who knows what kind of danger, and there’s only a small team with her.”
“I know,” she agreed. “I tried to intervene, but she’s my superior. And I couldn’t get to Captain Frye in time. She was already gone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Heyna Blackstar went with her,” Heather added. “That’s some comfort. The poor doe is still not well, but there was nothing Emma could do to stop her. She was positively immovable.”
“Good girl,” Picket said.
“Agreed.”
“I wish Smalls were here.”
“I do too,” she said. “Though, if today goes badly, it may be better if he isn’t.”
“If it goes badly, Heather, I think Smalls’ cause is doomed anyway. Losing this battle means losing all. I don’t think we could recover.”
“Uncle Wilfred would know,” she said. “I wish he were here. I wish any of our family were here.”
“One day, we’ll all be together again,” he said, a wan smile on his face. “But not yet. Before that day, this.” He gestured toward the massing apparatus of war, the streaming soldiers and the banks of archers. Supply wagons disappeared on the trail, moving away from Halfwind as Westfield teemed with warriors under a sky broken by banners.
They stood together, Heather slipping her arm inside her brother’s. She rested her head on his shoulder and gazed at the simmering brew of battle.
The Silver Prince appeared with Captains Frye and Valter and a still-limping Helmer. Lieutenant Kout, Tameth Seer, and the other leaders were huddling around a hastily erected platform. Picket noticed that Bleston’s shirt bore a new symbol. It was really a combination of several old symbols, a shield divided into three parts. On one showed the black field and silver stars of Terralain. On another, the blood moon and crossed spears of Halfwind were displayed. The third, and largest, showed the double-diamond symbol, one red and one green side by side. Flag-bearers carried their banners to the prince, and all these symbols were present. Highest of all, and borne by a stout rabbit, was a huge flag marked with the double-diamond emblem. Picket thought of Smalls, who would inherit the consequences of this day, for good or ill.
Lieutenant Kout stepped forward and raised his arms for silence. “Today the Silver Prince will lead us into battle!” A brief cheer erupted, but Kout raised his arms again, waving the crowd to silence. “Please, we must get on. King Bleston will address as many as can hear, but he asks that all the captains and lieutenants move to the front, so they can be clear on the battle plan.”
Picket looked at Pe
rkinson and Heather. “That’s you, Pick,” Perkinson said. “Go on, Lieutenant. I can take care of these baby bucks. I think Cole is actually asleep.”
“I’m awake,” Cole said from the ground, without moving or opening his eyes.
“And Jo,” Perk said, “is probably over there dreaming about getting his poor little arm wrapped.”
Jo, who hadn’t been sleeping but was still lying down, shot up and threw off his blanket. “I am not!”
Picket shook his head and moved toward the platform. Before he could reach the front, a young soldier stopped him.
“Lord Picket,” the soldier said. “I’m so honored to see you meet—to, um—meet you,” he stammered, offering his hand.
Picket smiled and shook it. “I’m not a lord. I’m just a soldier. What’s your name?”
“I’m nobody, sir,” he said. “I mean, I’m just infantry. I’m bird food.”
“I asked for your name, soldier.”
“Lallo, sir.”
“Where are you from?”
“Sir, I was from the Great Wood—back before. I lived along the lakeshore. We could see the islands from our house. Forbidden Island used to give me nightmares.”
Picket smiled. “How long have you been at Halfwind?”
“A few years, sir. I like it here, but it’s no Citadel of Dreams.” He laughed and a few of his companions nodded.
“I’ve never been to the Great Wood, Lallo,” Picket said.
“It was a good place once, my mother said. But the afterterrors...well, it’s not so great now.”
“Your father?”
“Lost,” he said, “before I was old enough to remember.”
“I hear you,” Picket said, placing a hand on Lallo’s shoulder. “Listen, tomorrow you’ll take back, with interest, what’s been taken from you. You’re bird food? I’m bird food. I’m infantry too. I’m stuck right in there with you. We’re too stupid to know we don’t have a chance.”
More and more of Lallo’s fellows were gathering around. They were ordinary soldiers. Scared. Excited. “The infantry carries the day, bucks, or the day won’t be carried.” Picket glanced up and saw that Bleston was motioning for silence. “I’ve got to go, bucks. Be bold out there. I’ll see you on the battlefield.” They clapped him on the back as he made his way forward.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
A BLAST OF WOE
Today,” Bleston called. “Today we march to war. If all goes well, tomorrow’s dawn will be a red one. I have no great speech for you, friends. This only will I say: Tomorrow is a day of turns. Tomorrow is the day we make Morbin quake on his stolen throne. Tomorrow we turn the tide for Jupiter’s son!”
As the army cheered, Picket saw Kyle—Kylen—limping with a determined grimace onto the stage. Bleston glanced over, and his face betrayed a moment of surprise, and anguish, before his poise returned. He faced the crowd. “My son, Prince Kylen, has come to see us off. I have asked him to stay behind and lead this citadel in my absence.”
Some clapped, some called support, while a murmur grew among the crowd.
Kylen walked forward, raising his arms as his father had done. Into the new silence, he spoke. “Actually, Father, I’m happy to say that I will be joining you on the march and in the battle. If your blood is spilled,” he shouted hoarsely to the crowd, “my blood is spilled!” Before they could respond with their enthusiastic cheers, he drew and raised his sword, placing his other hand over his heart. “My place beside you,” he shouted, and the army joined in, “my blood for yours! Till the Green Ember rises, or the end of the world!”
To Picket, who shouted along with the whole host of rabbits, it felt more like the beginning of the world.
After the crowd quieted again, the Silver Prince laid out his plan. Kylen stood, though it was noticeably difficult for him. Picket listened, feeling an optimism he had never yet felt as a soldier. For now, the battle dread was quiet within him. He had the sense that anything was possible, and he was filled with hopeful expectation.
We might do something amazing today.
Then came a quick, dull sound of a blast in the distance. Bleston froze, then turned to his council.
“It’s a signal from the far perimeter,” Captain Frye said. “One blast means a moderate warning, perhaps urgent news or a lone wolf spotted. Two would mean,” he paused to listen, “a far more serious situation.”
There was no second blast, and Bleston turned to Frye. “A small team?”
“Yes,” Frye agreed. He scanned the crowd.
“Sir,” Picket called, “the Fowlers can check it out.”
“Very well,” Bleston said. “Meet us on the road.” Then, calling above the murmuring crowd, Bleston cried, “We move out!”
The officers found their charges, and the great force, with all its varied units, began the march toward Cloud Mountain.
Picket found his unit ready. “This way,” he called, and they followed him through the moving army, on a divergent but nearly parallel course into the forest.
“Pick,” Cole said, jogging up beside him. “I’m new here, but I’m pretty sure the way to Cloud Mountain is, well, the way the rest of the army is going.”
“Very astute, Cole,” Picket said. “Let’s pick up the pace. We need to check out the source of that sentinel warning.” Cole nodded, and they hurried on.
* * *
Heather ran alongside the rest of the Fowlers, her satchel slapping rhythmically with each stride. Snow began to fall, soft and slowly, settling on the trees. In a few minutes they reached the sentinel station. She saw the grey twist of smoke still rising through the trees but could see no sign of the guards. It was quiet. Far too quiet.
She heard a stirring in the thick knot of pines ahead. Picket reached for his sword, drawing it slowly. Perk and Cole followed his lead, drawing swords. But Jo, hovering at Picket’s elbow, nocked two arrows and peered into the trees.
They heard a noise like a muffled growl from the woods, though Heather could make no sense of it. She saw a hint of grey fur, and something lurched out of the forest.
Heather screamed.
It was Uncle Wilfred, and he was badly wounded. He stumbled for a few steps, then fell sprawling onto the cold ground.
Heather dashed ahead of the others. She found her uncle facedown, not moving. She rolled him over and gasped, then dug in her satchel and went to work. Setting aside Aunt Jone’s tattered purse, she found the tonic, bandages, and ointment she needed.
Picket gently lifted Uncle Wilfred’s head while Heather forced him to drink a little of Emma’s tonic. “Is he going to—” Picket began.
“Not if I can help it.”
After a minute, Uncle Wilfred coughed and moaned. His eyes flashed open.
“Hang on,” Heather said, still tending his wounds as best she could. “We’re here, Uncle Wilfred. We’ll take care of you.”
“Oh,” he moaned. “My dear ones,” he began, but he fell into a coughing fit. When he had recovered enough to speak, he looked sadly at Heather and Picket. Tears filled his eyes and spilled onto the grey fur of his face.
“Uncle?”
“Where’s Emma?”
“She’s on her way to Cloud Mountain, ahead of the army,” Picket said. “Morbin is attacking.”
Uncle Wilfred’s eyes widened. He tried to stand, but another fit of coughing overtook him.
“Please, Uncle,” Heather said, soothing him. He lay down, propped against Picket’s arms. “Don’t try to move. Don’t talk.”
“I have to...” he said. “We must...must secure the princess...we must...”
“Uncle, what’s happened?” Heather said.
“My dear,” Uncle Wilfred said, as the tears flowed. “I’m sorry...so sorry to have to—”
“No,” Heather said.
“No,” Picket said. “No, no, no...”
He looked from Picket to Heather, his face a picture of anguish. He grabbed Heather’s hands.
“Smalls...is dead.”
> Chapter Thirty
HOPELESS GOING
Heather reeled. She fell back, blinking, unbelieving. She felt as though she’d been struck in the head with the flat of a fat sword. She clenched at her neck, desperately clutching her necklace. No sound could penetrate her ears, no thought could enter her mind. And the silence went on and on.
It was broken by the sound of a wild, woeful scream. Her own scream. The pain was unbearable. She dropped to her knees, tears coming in a rush. She felt someone come beside her, wrap her in an embrace. That someone—she couldn’t say who it was—held her as she rocked.
“We have to help him.” She knew the voice. It was a voice from long ago. It came to her from far away, as far as Nick Hollow. Blinking through her tears, she saw it was Picket, her little brother. And he was right in front of her. “Heather, we need you. Uncle Wilfred is bad off.”
Of course. The sounds of the woods came back to her. She was aware of the others, of the limp form on the ground. She could not, not in this moment, indulge her pain any longer. She shook her head, dashed the tears from her eyes, and crossed back to her uncle. His eyes were closed. She felt his pulse. Weak, but still alive. “We need to get him to the hospital. Back to Halfwind.”
“What about Emma?” Picket said, his face contorted. “We have to do something. She’s the heir now. We have to find her, protect her.”
“We’re marching to war, Pick,” she said. “Where can she go that’s safer than Cloud Mountain?”
“But if we lose—” he began.
“If we lose,” she said, touching his arm, “then all is lost anyway. You said it yourself.”
“But we can’t just leave her alone.”
“Of course,” she said. She rubbed her face with her hands and stood. “Why don’t I go ahead to Cloud Mountain as fast as I can, and you take Uncle Wilfred back to Halfwind? Then we—I don’t know—we proceed with the plan? You do your part in the battle and I do mine. And I’ll look after Emma as best I can.”
“I’ll go with her.” Perkinson stepped forward. He nodded to Picket. “I’ll accompany Heather, grabbing some other bucks I trust as we pass the army on the way. We’ll go ahead to Cloud Mountain, and I’ll keep watch over them, Picket. You, Cole, and Jo can get Captain Wilfred to the hospital and see that he’s looked after. Then you can catch up to the army, and,” he laid his hand on Picket’s shoulder, “I’ll see you on the field.”
