Ember Falls (The Green Ember Series Book 2)

by S D Smith

  Heather tried to ignore the whispers, but she couldn’t help hearing those close by as they raised their voices above the rattling din of the smithy.

  “It’s her! The Scribe of the Cause.”

  “That’s Heather Longtreader, the reason we say ‘bear the flame.’”

  “She’s the poetess of the Mended Wood.”

  “She’s an inspiration to us all. I’m glad she’s here. It’s bound to bring the prince’s cause good fortune.”

  “I spoke to her once. She was very kind, showed interest in me and everything. A real nice rabbit.”

  “They say she’ll be our queen one day.”

  “I’ve heard that rumor too. I hope ever so much that it’s true.”

  Heather left the great hall with its shattering clatter, its whispering rabbits, and its many medical preparations, wounded in a way no tonic could cure.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  THE END OF THE WORLD

  Heather rushed out into the open air atop Cloud Mountain. The village green was browning, and the gardens had been harvested many weeks before. She walked on, past stone tables and through still-neat hedgerows. She glanced at Helmer’s scarred maple and marveled at the toddling buck playing beneath it. As she watched, the little rabbit’s mother came along to scold him and snatch him up. Where had all the other younglings gone? She guessed they were somewhere inside the mountain, secreted away with wary protectors while the rest made their grim preparations for war.

  A cart piled with small barrels was being pulled by twelve strong rabbits, and a squad of thirty tall archers marched in good order toward the caves ahead. She nodded to a soldier hurrying past and said hello to a contemplative votary who walked the edges of the village, whispering invocations.

  “Where is the way to the standing stones, brother?” she asked.

  “Ah, they are easy to find, Miss. Though I’m very sorry to say that they are overrun by the machines of war.”

  “Which way?”

  He pointed to the cave where the last archer disappeared. “If you follow them, Miss, you’ll find your way.”

  “Thank you.”

  He touched his ears, his eyes, his mouth. “May you hear peace, see peace, and speak peace.”

  Heather nodded and jogged after the archers.

  While she lived at Cloud Mountain, she had never been past the village to the caves beyond or the hermit’s field on the other side of the caves. There had been a small collection of votaries living there, but no one bothered them, and few had been interested in the standing stones they haunted. Since the victory at Jupiter’s Crossing and the revelation of the prince’s cause in her story, however, devotion to the old ways had seen a resurgence.

  Ducking into the narrow cave mouth, she made her way quickly along the passage. Sparse torches lit the long and winding tunnel, and as it stretched on and on, she began to run. The path bent steadily down. This part of Cloud Mountain must be on the edge, far lower down than the misty top where she had spent so much time. There were several junctions in the tunnel, leading she knew not where, but she stayed in the main passage.

  The archers were nowhere to be seen. She began to worry she would never emerge, that she would spend the entire battle roaming the caves. But she soon saw a distant prick of light. She ran faster, and the light grew. At last she came to the end of the passage, and, squinting, she emerged from the cave onto a large plateau.

  It was perhaps half the size of the village green above, and it teemed with active rabbits, all busy with preparations. As the sun sank to the edge of the mountains, she saw the standing stones in striking silhouettes before a peach and purple sky. But how were there so many? There were supposed to be seven, but she counted no less than fifteen. And some were oddly shaped.

  As she moved closer, she realized that the edge of the plateau held more than the standing stones. It was lined with eight tall catapults.

  The fog was thinner this low on the mountain. It glided past in silvery wisps, first obscuring the view and then blowing away on the wind. Several of the towering weapons were complete, but brothers in blue alongside green-clad soldiers worked to complete the last of them.

  She gazed at one. Strong rabbits twisted long ropes tight inside the machine’s complex innards. Heather was no engineer, but she imagined that the force they mustered was incredible. She couldn’t believe that the machines, while sturdily built, could withstand the pressure. But she saw iron reinforcements along the wooden contraptions. I hope they hold together.

  Everywhere barrels were stacked in heaps and officers shouted instructions to careful handlers. The archers she had followed emerged from the caves at a different point a hundred yards away. They trotted over to join a band of their comrades. There they separated into groups, all hard at work staging what looked to her like a thousand arrows.

  Heather walked past the seven standing stones, awed by their careful crafting. These were taller than the ones at Halfwind and, unlike those in the Leaper’s Hall, had winding stone stairs cut all around each stone. Each one could be climbed by a votary at rites or a pious rabbit seeking quiet contemplation. But she had no time for anything like that. She looked ahead.

  Lord Rake was huddled with Pacer and several captains at a table between the archers and the catapults. He looked up and saw Heather, and his eyes narrowed. He motioned her over.

  He finished a brief conference, dismissed his attendants, and asked her to sit. “What’s happened, Heather?”

  “Smalls,” she began, but she could only hang her head, as no further words would come.

  “He is lost?”

  “Dead,” she said in a ghostly whisper. “Uncle Wilfred has confirmed it.”

  “Wilfred saw the prince fall?” Lord Rake asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’s certain.” His head fell to his hands. “And we must assume there has been no conference at Kingston,” he said, rising to pace, “no new coalition formed. No reinforcements coming.”

  “What does it mean?” she asked.

  He pointed to the edge of the plateau, where a short, sturdy wall with a flat top lined the mountain’s rim. “See for yourself.”

  She turned, walking past the last in a long row of catapults to the precipice’s edge. A willowy sheet of fog was carried off as she sprang to the top of the wall and gazed into the distance.

  She nearly fell, finding her balance only at the last moment.

  An army filled the valley and the hills beyond. The ground was covered in wolves, clad in black and divided into regiments, banners flying and fires burning. The trees were covered with birds of prey, armored and armed with slashing blades and a chilling assortment of other weapons. The army was divided by a wide gap, with only a hint of the second force in sight. Reinforcements? She couldn’t tell. She only knew that this was a scene that spoke clearly of the end of all things. It was the brooding womb of doom.

  She stared for a long moment. “It really is the end of the world,” she whispered. Lord Rake didn’t answer. “We will all be lost,” she said. “We’ll all follow Smalls into death. It doesn’t matter what we do. We can’t stand against that! We have to get Emma out of here, give her a chance to survive and somehow, someday, rebuild what we lose in this battle.”

  Heather turned at last. Emma was there, standing beside Lord Rake, tears in her eyes. She had heard. She knew.

  “I’ll never abandon this community,” Emma said, “no matter how many attack us.”

  “You’re our leader now, my dear Emma,” Lord Rake said, his face full of sorrow as he took her hands in his own. “You are Prince Smalls’ sister and now Jupiter’s heir. By rights, the Green Ember is yours now, though no one knows where it is.”

  “You will be our queen,” Heather said, kneeling. “We have to get you to safety.”

  “Heather’s right,” Lord Rake said.

  Emma shook her head, turned away, and took several long strides toward the caves. Heather thought she might run. Emma’s b
ody jerked with sobs. Then she settled onto her knees. Heather began to stand, but Lord Rake raised a hand. Emma needed time to think. Days. Weeks. But she had no time, and they all knew it.

  Heather’s mind was running through plans, working out ways to get Emma away in secret, as far from this certain doom as possible. After a moment, Emma turned to face them, then crossed to stand before them.

  “Am I the heir?” she asked. Lord Rake nodded. “And I stand now in the place of...my brother, as leader of this alliance?”

  “Yes, Princess Emma,” he said. “You are in command.”

  She took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and released the breath slowly. “Then I command the following,” she said, her voice trembling. “Everything must be as it was before. I have duties in the hospital, where I may save some lives by my efforts.”

  “You are Jupiter’s heir, my dear. Your father would want you—” Lord Rake began.

  “Smalls was not,” Emma interrupted. “That is, my brother was not here, and yet the battle plan was made. And you are the only father I have ever known,” she said, looking into Lord Rake’s eyes. “I trust you to proceed with the battle. I will be in the hospital treating the wounded, healing the hurt, seeing to the dead. If we survive tomorrow, then we can talk about what it means for me to be a princess. For now, my order is that everything must proceed as planned.”

  “Your Highness,” Lord Rake said, bowing on one knee. “I will obey.”

  “And I,” Heather said, remaining on her knees, “will always be faithful.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  A DEFIANT CRY

  Sween bore a large tray loaded with stinking glasses of wine. The glasses were long and lean, blown in the kilns of Akolan by master Milton Blenko. She was among fifteen slaves bringing wine, and they walked into Morbin’s lair in five lines of three. Melody, the young rabbit not yet resigned to her slavery, walked behind her. Sween hated being in the room when the councils met. Though she would listen and report everything she heard when she returned to her quarters at Akolan, she knew it did little good. What was the point of collecting information that could never be used?

  Perhaps it made them feel as if they weren’t powerless. Mr. Weaver said her position so close to Morbin was no accident and that good would come of it in the end. It was what her husband had always said. Mr. Weaver had listened to her sing, and they talked for hours. She felt hopeful in a way she hadn’t before her visit with the old rabbit, and the song inside her had come alive again. She was afraid she might absentmindedly begin singing at her work.

  But that could not happen today. It must not. She focused on her task as they entered the chamber, striding in among the active conversation.

  Morbin rested on his awful throne. General Flox, the white wolf who so terrified her, stood nearby with his stout lieutenant, Blenk. Five more Lords of Prey, including the ones she knew as Gern, Shelt, and Vardon, were gathered around.

  And him. A grey rabbit.

  “All is settled, Lord Morbin,” the grey rabbit said, with an exaggerated bow.

  He had his own cadre of rabbit officers, their uniforms like his, though lacking his proud flair. The room quieted.

  “Good,” Morbin said. “Is everything else in place?”

  “It is,” the rabbit said.

  She had seen him in this place before, but she had always been able to get away from him. Now, thanks to Gritch’s carefully orchestrated approach of the servers, she was forced to bow her head and raise her platter to him. He waited, not taking a glass. She held out for as long as possible, slowing the line so that Melody, directly behind her, began to groan with impatience. The last thing she wanted was for her, or Melody, to be noticed in this group. An anonymous slave was a living slave.

  She had to look up at him, someone she despised as much, or more, than Morbin himself. He smiled at her, eyes proud as ever. But she thought she caught a hint of sadness. Was that regret, for what he had hoped would be their story? Or was it shame, for what he had done, what he was doing? She could not say.

  He took the glass and she hurried on, serving each of the other rabbits in turn and then the wolves, while Melody followed behind.

  “Lord Morbin, why not just crush them all now—eradicate them?” General Flox asked.

  “Wolves are always hungry for an end to rabbitkind,” Shelt, a brown falcon, said. “But for years we have had an arrangement that suits us better than slaughter.”

  “We will break them like they have never before been broken. But it serves us well to have servants,” Morbin said, nodding at the crew of serving rabbits. “It’s a family tradition,” he said, looking at Gern, who cackled appreciatively.

  “We are your allies, Lord Morbin,” Flox said, bowing low, “now and always. We follow you to victory.”

  A cough sounded behind Sween. She panicked. No, Melody.

  “You have something to say, slave?” Gern asked, peering past Sween to the young rabbit behind.

  Melody coughed again.

  “I can’t hear you. Slave?” Gern repeated.

  “Don’t,” Sween risked a whisper.

  But Melody threw down her tray and rushed at Morbin, shattering glass as she cried out in defiance, “The Green Ember rises! The seed of the new world smolders—” She was just getting going when Morbin sprang, drawing his black sickle as he came. Sween shrank, closing her eyes.

  An awful scream. A silence far worse.

  Sween was frozen in place, horrified. She opened her eyes. All the rabbit slaves were still. Gritch ran in, bowing apologetically to Morbin, who had resumed his throne. He fell awkwardly to his knees beneath the grey rabbit. “My lord, please forgive me. I warned them.”

  A quick, powerful strike met the old rabbit’s jaw, and he spun back. Sween remained frozen while Gritch stumbled to his feet and hobbled out of the room.

  “Forgive me, Lord Morbin,” the grey rabbit said, bowing low. He stood and resumed his casual confidence. “About the agreement. You were saying?”

  “All is now ready,” Morbin said. “The scheme is settled. It will stop this pathetic roiling. So long as my old rival is wounded again, even in his grave. But the price, Ambassador, is not open for negotiation. Do make that very clear.”

  “I will reiterate your terms,” the grey rabbit said.

  “Do,” Morbin said, glancing to where Melody’s body lay still. “I will hear no more of a Mended Wood or of Jupiter’s heir.”

  Sween’s heart sank. She filed out of the room along with the other slaves, head down and heart broken.

  Through tears, she tried to remember the song. But in her troubled trembling, she had lost the words. She could not even recall the tune.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  GREEN AND GOLD

  Picket woke with a start. Shaking loose of his blanket, he rolled away from the still-burning fire and got to his feet. It was dark, and he had slept very little.

  The wind was steady and cold, with occasional gusts. Picket liked that. He felt fresher than he had the day before. When he thought of what happened, a darkness brewed inside him. He forced his heart to build a dam against the flood of guilt and woe that threatened to overwhelm him. He must, as Uncle Wilfred said, carry his wounds—his own secret wounds—into the battle.

  He rose to scan the camp. The mountains began to glow faintly with the approach of dawn. The captains were going from tent to tent, campfire to campfire, rousing the rabbits and forming them into companies. He saw Heyward at a near fire, bending over his stack of rods, threading them through a sturdy cloth. Picket was glad to see him in the catapult crews, where his gifts were so useful.

  Captain Helmer limped up nearby, nodded solemnly to Picket, then pointed to the forest. Picket nodded, rubbed at his eyes, and set to work packing his few belongings. A young rabbit from the baggage unit came, took Picket’s blankets, and helped him strap on his breastplate. Once there had been a clear double-diamond emblem on the simple armor, but it was faded now. As he settled it into place
, he thought of Bleston, camped on the ridges above them, the Whitson Stone around his neck. He had pledged to give the ancient heirloom, this symbol and seal of royal authority, to Smalls. But would he give it now to Emma? Picket knew she ought to own it, along with the Green Ember. The two gems belonged together. Emma was the chosen heir and the rightful ruler.

  When the youngster was done and had moved on to help others, Picket drew his sword. It had been a gift from the prince, from Smalls. It was an irreplaceable treasure to Picket, almost too valuable to use. But it was designed for battle, forged with sturdy steel. It was longer than his last sword and heavier, though with his growing strength, it no longer felt unwieldy. It felt like a deadly extension of his body.

  He held the weapon out, laying the blade gently into his left hand as he held the hilt in his right. He gazed at the emblem on the pommel. It was a rabbit, sword in hand, with wings extended behind him. Picket had flown at Jupiter’s Crossing, not far from where he now stood. He had launched from the back of an attacking bird, flipped in the air and kicked another, before descending like lightning on Redeye Garlackson. Afterward, in gratitude for that act of heroic courage, the prince had honored him with this sword. Picket had hoped to use it to help Smalls to the throne.

  Had hoped.

  They discussed the sword the last time they spoke. Smalls had shown him how the circular emblem popped out when you turned it a certain way, revealing a small secret compartment. And just before the prince left on his ill-fated journey to Kingston, he had given Picket something to keep there. Now Picket turned and popped the circular seal off, revealing the hidden compartment beneath. As the sun appeared on the horizon, bathing the valley in gold, Picket saw the emerald gem gleaming in the breaking dawn.

  “If the worst should happen, Picket,” the prince had said, “give this, with all my love, to my sister. Tell Emma that I believe in her, that I’m sorry I won’t be there to see her crowned. Tell her, from me, that I’m sorry. Say whatever you think best when the time comes, Picket. And Heather,” he had paused, looking away as his voice dropped to a whisper, “please take good care of Heather. I always hoped for—well, I always wished good things for Heather. I must leave now. But I entrust this relic of my family to you, my brother.”