Ember Falls (The Green Ember Series Book 2)

by S D Smith

  “He saved more than you,” Emma said, crossing to examine this last batch of returning soldiers. Almost all were wounded, and many carried unconscious comrades. “But let’s save the medals for later. Right now I need the worst of the wounded over there,” she pointed, raising her voice. “And those with minor injuries, here. If you’re not certain, then go with the more severe. Knowing this lot, I’m sure you’re more likely to underestimate your injuries.” Emma moved away, directing the groups and seeing to the most urgent needs. “Bring more boiled water and call for Doctor Zeiger,” she shouted, and she disappeared into her surgery tent.

  “Where’s Captain Frye?” Heather asked, and Picket could see she was worried. He was too. “And Heyward?” she continued, casting about for them, “Please don’t tell me—”

  “The dead. They’re seeing to the dead, Heather,” Captain Helmer said. “Both came out well enough.”

  Heather sighed, smiled, then turned and followed Emma into the tent.

  “And the enemy?” Picket asked. “Have they fallen back to rejoin the others?”

  “They fell back,” Helmer said, “but I don’t know about joining the others. What others?”

  “There’s another army out there,” Picket said.

  “Bleston’s forces?”

  “Well, yes. I suppose Kyle has command of those, and we don’t know where they are. But Morbin’s got another army out there, as big again as the one we fought today. I sent scouts to confirm it, sir.” He explained Bleston’s treacherous treaty with the king of the Lords of Prey and Emma’s improvised bargain with Garten Longtreader.

  “She can’t really trust him, can she?” Helmer asked.

  “I have my doubts, Captain. But so far they haven’t attacked. And why not? They could have crushed us in here.”

  “Likely, yes,” Helmer said, slumping into an offered chair. “But this place really is a fortress. It’s easy to slip small groups in here if you know the ways, but it’s blasted hard to overcome with large numbers in a direct assault. Still,” he said, shaking his head, “if they have another army that size, they could almost certainly do it.”

  “But they’d risk losing a second battle,” Picket said, “or at least not winning a second.”

  “A very small risk.”

  “Maybe it’s not a risk Morbin’s willing to take.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Helmer mused, “but I’m uneasy about this bargain the princess made.”

  “I trust her,” Picket said, frowning. “But I’m worried too. Right now Emma needs our support, perhaps more than anything else. The community has to rally behind her.”

  Helmer nodded.

  Captain Frye entered the great hall, flanked by a bleary-eyed Heyward in his tattered blue robe. Picket knew their duty with the deceased must have been grim, but he crossed to Heyward and embraced him.

  “You did it, Heyward,” Picket said. “They will call me a hero, say I saved the day, but I will never forget that it was you. Thank you, hero Heyward, my dear friend.”

  * * *

  Heather worked hard, pushing past the insistent fatigue that threatened to overwhelm her. For the past several hours she had been like an extra pair of hands for Emma, assisting the princess in delicate surgeries and simple stitches.

  At last she and Emma were free of their most urgent cases. She followed Emma and removed her blood-stained apron, laying it aside, and bent to wash in a fresh basin of hot water.

  “I think we may rest a little,” Emma said, slumping into a chair on the inside edge of the tent. “But I’ll need to see to things outside soon.”

  “Surely they don’t need you now,” Heather said. She stood, stretched her arms, and moved toward the fabric door. When she looked outside, she gasped.

  “What is it?” Emma asked, getting to her feet. Heather motioned for her to follow and left the tent.

  More than a thousand rabbits, in row upon row, stood quietly at attention facing the small surgical tent. The medical center was still in motion, with doctors and volunteers buzzing around, checking on patients. But the ranks of rabbits were silent. When Emma emerged, her hand went over her mouth.

  Captain Frye called out, “Attention!”

  The rabbits stepped in unison, bringing their heels together, placing their fists over their hearts.

  “Your Highness,” Picket said, moving forward, a wooden box in his hands.

  “Captain Longtreader?”

  “We know you are tired and that we all need rest. But we have gathered the army, at least those soldiers well enough to stand, so that we may pledge ourselves to you.”

  Emma stood tall, walked forward to the front of the makeshift assembly, and nodded gratefully to the gathered soldiers. Heather marveled at her poise, especially after so trying a day. She had learned her true identity, learned that she had lost her brother, and had been put in charge of an army—a movement. And she had been betrayed, had become the object of an attempted capture, nearly killed. She had lost the only father she had ever known in Lord Rake. She had worked for hours performing surgeries. But Heather saw no sign of vulnerability in Emma as she strode to the front of this company. Her back was straight and her head high. Tears welled in her eyes, but she made no move to wipe them away.

  “You have done your community and our cause a great service today,” she said to the assembly of soldiers. “I’m so proud of you. Please, keep on fighting for this cause, no matter what happens. My father...” she paused to collect herself. “Lord Rake, our guiding star for so many years, gave his life today for this cause. My brother, Prince Smalden Joveson, or Jupiter Smalls as he was known here, gave his life for us all. And not just in the end. All his life he worked for the Mended Wood. I can promise you that I will do the same. To honor Lord Rake, I will give all I have. I will give my life, in honor of the fallen prince and our father and the great cause for which we all fight.”

  Even the medical area was silent now, every rabbit hanging on Emma’s words. “Thank you, brave soldiers. Today you struck a blow that echoes in Morbin’s secret keep and rings in his ears. Today, you learned your prince was dead, but you battled on without him. Battle on, friends, whatever comes.”

  She looked at Heather, grief threatening to overwhelm her. But she hardened her face again, turning to the assembly. “Battle on, brothers!” she shouted, and the soldiers raised an exuberant cheer. “For Jupiter’s cause!” she cried. Another joyful cheer.

  Her voice grew quieter, and such a hush fell that everyone heard her words clearly. “For the Mended Wood and the whole wounded world. Bear the flame.”

  Quiet applause began and quickly built, mixed with rising cheers, until the room trembled with the tumult of voices and the swelling thunderous applause.

  When the cheering quieted to a gentle roar, Picket moved toward Emma. He motioned for Heather to come beside him and handed Heather the box. Opening it, he drew out the Green Ember, and to the frenzied cheers of the company, he settled the chain around Emma’s neck.

  Captain Frye and Helmer, aided by stout soldiers, brought a platform and set it beside Emma. The old captains took her hands and led her to the elevated stage. She stood in view of the whole assembly, the bright emerald glinting in the torchlight. The captains saluted her, then bowed low, before backing away.

  After more cheers, the room settled down, a low murmur of awed exultations fading into silence.

  Picket spoke. “Your Highness, hear our pledge!”

  With clenched fists over their hearts and tears in many eyes, the assembled soldiers called out to their princess, “My place beside you, my blood for yours! Till the Green Ember rises, or the end of the world!”

  More cheers followed, and Heather watched her friend in awe. The princess stood firm, a tower they all turned to in their desperate battle for hope. Heather understood what Emma meant to them all, even if Emma didn’t yet know it herself.

  Chapter Fifty

  THE DARKNESS BEFORE DAWN

  Heather woke i
n the middle of the night. She had fallen asleep with a kind of happiness in her heart. Now the feeling was replaced by a welling dread. Picket slept heavily nearby, fresh from his duty on the first watch. She decided not to wake him. She rose and dressed, lit a candle, slung on her satchel, and left the room.

  She started to make for Emma’s room in Lord Rake’s quarters but found herself moving in another direction. She passed through Hallway Round and out into a frosty fog- thick night. She peered into the blinding mist as she walked carefully on, seeing many weary soldiers gathered around a low blaze in the midst of the village green. Bypassing them, she made her way toward the caves, fear throbbing in her heart.

  In minutes she had emerged on the other side of the caves, onto the staging plateau. It was thick with heavy, haunting fog. Her candle was little help, but she made her way carefully to the edge and felt for the bottom of one of the catapults. They had been moved to the other side of the ground, aimed at the next threat, since Rockback Valley was empty of battle.

  Climbing the catapult, she broke through the bank of fog and hung on, suspended over the plateau. What she saw in the moonlight confirmed her worst fears.

  The tops of the seven standing stones peeked through the fog. On the last stone, a solitary rabbit emerged and stood, stretching her torch aloft. She held something small in her hand. Heather remembered the whistle her uncle had used to summon his bird and how after he had used it, he shook Emma’s hand.

  “Emma!” she cried, her throat tight. “Emma, no!” She saw no movement atop the stone, so she hurried down the catapult, missing handholds, falling the last several feet, and losing her candle. Forgetting the peril of the plateau edge and nearly blind in the dense mist, Heather ran toward the standing stones, her hands stretched out before her.

  At last her hands found the solid rock. She wasn’t sure which stone it was, but it was likely the first or second. She moved on, hurrying, feeling her way past five more stones. She ran up the winding steps and emerged from the mist to discover that she was on the sixth stone. Emma was many yards away on the seventh.

  “Emma!” she cried. “You must not do this.”

  The princess turned, her face sad but settled. “My dear Heather, there is nothing else I can do.”

  “You can live. And fight,” Heather said, her voice breaking.

  “This is my way of fighting.”

  “No, Emma. No!”

  “Go back, Heather. Leave me to do what I must.”

  “You must not surrender yourself. You cannot!”

  “I can lay down what is mine,” Emma said.

  Heather frowned. “You sound like Bleston. The queen-ship you’ll have—your inheritance—it’s not your own property. It’s not something you can trade or give away as you see fit. It’s a duty, a calling, not a possession!”

  “So I may order countless rabbits to their deaths—defending and protecting me—but I may not lay my own life down?”

  “Not like this,” Heather said. “No, my dear, not like this. You may not. Even royal heirs must know their limits.”

  “But Heather, it’s settled,” Emma said, emotion choking her words. “If I’m not here to be carried off when Garten’s bird comes, they will turn this place to rubble. Everyone will be killed! I’m not a fool, Heather. They can do it, and they will.”

  “But if you’re gone, what hope do we have?”

  “You’ll carry on, Heather. You’ll find a way to continue the struggle. You’ll survive.”

  “Emma, you’re wrong. You are the last link we have to our hope. If you are gone, then the cause is truly lost. The Mended Wood is ended in our hearts. We may survive—may remain alive—but how many of those who swore to die for you tonight would choose a life of cowering in a world without hope? I do not choose that. Please don’t make this choice for us all.”

  “There’s no right way now,” Emma said, raising the whistle to her lips. “It’s all darkness and mist.”

  “Don’t, Emma!” Heather cried.

  The princess blew a long, shrill note on the whistle. Heather’s heart sank and she staggered back, as if hit with a killing blow. A shriek pierced the night air.

  “It’s a good thing, Heather,” Emma said. “I want you to see that I choose this. It’s not a bad way to end.”

  “Don’t do this, Emma!”

  “It’s done, my dear.” A banking wingtip split the pale mist. Emma raised her torch high. “You bear the flame in your way,” she said, “and I’ll bear it in mine.”

  Another shriek. Closer. Closer.

  Heather felt a cold weight fall on her, like early ice on an autumn garden. This all felt so wrong. She gazed at her friend, illuminated in torchlight, bravely resigned to her grim agreement. Behind her the great bird broke the bank of fog, beat his wings once and banked again, disappearing once more into the endless mist. Again his feathered wingtips cut the fog in a wispy furrow.

  “It’s all right, Heather,” Emma said, a brave smile on her face. “I know how I’m going to die.”

  “I don’t know how I’m going to die,” Heather said, backing to the far side of the sixth standing stone, “but I know how I’m going to live.”

  Heather burst into a run—four stabbing strides—and then she leapt, covering the distance between the standing stones.

  She landed, found her feet, and surged forward. The hawk began to emerge from the mist again. Heather shoved Emma hard, clutching the emerald at her neck. The princess fell backward, disappearing with a shocked scream into the fog below.

  Heather bent to recover the fallen torch. She raised it high. In her other hand she held the Green Ember.

  With a shriek, the hawk extended his talons.

  * * *

  Picket felt Heather’s absence and came awake with a jolt. After a short search, ranging through the cold halls and foggy fields, he found Emma at the base of the seventh stone. She was hurt but stood upright, sobbing and muttering.

  “Carried off!” she said. “It was meant to be me!”

  Picket’s heart sank. He didn’t have to ask who had been carried off. He knew.

  He ran up the steps and stood on the seventh stone. Emma hobbled up to stand beside him. They searched the sky for any sign of her. Finally they saw, black against the moon, a silhouette that filled their hearts with woe.

  Picket stood beside Emma as they stared into the sky, watching with heavy hearts in the darkness before dawn.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  A BAD DREAM

  Heather stood in Morbin’s lair, aching and exhausted. She had been bustled into this topmost tower of the haunting High Bleaks after many cold miles in the raptor’s claws. Now Morbin stared down at her from his awful throne of golden bones. Another raptor stood beside him, a brown falcon with yellow eyes. Heather had nothing but the clothes on her back and her satchel. Inside her satchel, tucked away beside a bottle in battered old purse, lay a torch charm and an emerald gem.

  “More light,” Morbin demanded, his voice full of bile.

  Soon more torches were lit by three hurrying rabbits—slaves, she assumed—as the massive hawk gazed at her intently. He shook his head.

  Heather thought he was puzzled, perhaps even perplexed. He should be. The longer her true identity remained undiscovered, the more time her friends had to act. Maybe, she thought, just maybe they can get out of Cloud Mountain in time. Her hopes for her friends lay in that, but still their chances were slim. She didn’t regret what she had done. But she knew that the whole endeavor rested on the edge of a knife. Her hope was faint.

  Staring around at Morbin’s awful lair, his grotesque throne, at the wordless slaves obeying him, what small hope she had was ebbing away.

  “Will Ambassador Longtreader ever come?” Morbin demanded.

  “He was sent for, Lord Morbin,” the falcon said. He screeched a call that brought an old red rabbit scurrying through black double doors.

  “Where is Garten?” the falcon asked.

  “Lord Shelt,” the
red rabbit said, bowing low, “we have sent Marbole, and Ambassador Longtreader should arrive at any moment.”

  Morbin screeched a curse, knocking down the plate and glass that had been set by his throne. “If he’s not here soon, Slave Gritch, I will execute every rabbit slave in this place.”

  “Yes, King Morbin,” Gritch said, backing away.

  “Gather them all!” Morbin shouted. “Every rabbit in the palace, gather them outside the door! If he isn’t here soon, I’ll start with you, Gritch.”

  “Yes, lord,” Gritch said, tripping through the doorway. Heather heard shouts and scattered footfalls outside. She clenched her jaws.

  “Who are you?” Morbin asked, his eyes narrowing. “Are you her? Are you my old enemy’s heir?”

  Heather said nothing.

  “Even if he doesn’t come to identify you, I can find out,” Morbin said, glancing at his long black sickle. “I can ask him who you were.”

  There was a commotion outside, and the door opened. Garten Longtreader stumbled in, and Heather glanced through the doorway to see silhouettes of several rabbit slaves gathered in the hallway.

  “Where have you been?” Morbin snapped.

  “I beg pardon, Lord Morbin,” Garten said.

  “Is this her? Is it the princess?”

  Heather tried to turn away, but he saw at once who she was.

  “No, Lord Morbin,” he said. “It is not her.”

  Morbin flashed out a talon, latching on to his sickle. Heather’s heart raced as the black bird brought the deadly weapon down with incredible speed and force onto the table that had held his toppled tray. The wooden table parted cleanly as Morbin’s blade sunk into the stone floor.

  “You know who she is, don’t you, Garten?” Shelt asked.

  “I do. Lord Morbin, this is Heather Longtreader, my niece.”

  “Your niece?”

  “Yes, my king.”

  “Then we should simply kill her now,” he said.

  Heather heard a gasp from the hallway, but she focused on Morbin. This might be the end of her story, but she didn’t want to let him see her fear. She would not grovel.