Ember Rising (The Green Ember Series Book 3)

by S D Smith

  “Exactly,” Picket replied.

  After a little more playful banter, he joined in. He began to get the hang of it and found his heart growing lighter as he forgot his worries in the midst of the fun of the game. He and Dalla had a good score going when a messenger ran up.

  “Captain Longtreader,” the breathless messenger said, “I’m so sorry to interrupt.”

  “You ruined the hoopvolley game!” Dalla called. “And he only just now stopped stinking!”

  Picket smiled, turning to the messenger. “Yes?”

  “Lord Hewson and Captain Redthaw want to see you as soon as you can come.”

  “What is it?”

  “Sir, they say a window has opened.”

  A window has opened. It’s time.

  Picket spun to thank his new friends for the fun, then jogged behind the messenger as he hurried off.

  In a few minutes, he was back in Lord Hewson’s receiving room, trying to catch his breath.

  “Ah, Captain Picket,” Lord Hewson said. “Our scouts say the wolves have shifted northwest, taking the bait we set a little quicker than we had hoped.”

  “How long do we have?” Picket asked.

  “About three hours to get everything in place.”

  “Do I need to tell my master?” Picket asked.

  “No, he’s already on the move.”

  “Then I’ll meet you at the first gate, my lord,” Picket said, and he hurried back down the hall toward his room.

  Picket’s heart was pumping hard as he ran. He was eager to get on with their mission, but he hated to leave this place. He thought of how this citadel was much like the game they played, hoopvolley, where seemingly opposing sides came together to act on a shared goal. Though they had disagreed with the decision, they were doing their best to help. He was heartened by his stay at Harbone and hopeful their preparations would bear fruit.

  “Now for the hard part,” he said, dashing into his room to recover his pack and strap on his sword.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  WE DIED LIKE HEROES

  Picket stood in the Great Wood. Through a distance glass, he could see the walls of First Warren. Between his own position in the woods and the city lay a black wasteland of charred ground, newly burned again. The Black Gap. Beyond the Black Gap lay the city that had been founded by and was once home to Whitson Mariner and to every king of Natalia since. That is, until the fall of King Jupiter.

  As the sun rose high over First Warren, Picket thought of Smalls. In the list of kings Smalls would never be mentioned. He would be glad to see Emma’s coronation, if the war could be won and rightful rule restored, but his heart broke to think of Smalls missing what he had worked so hard to create. Picket felt for the black scarf around his neck and sighed, then focused on the task at hand.

  For Smalls’ sake, for Emma, and for the hope of the mending, I have a job to do.

  “This is insanity,” Helmer mumbled gruffly beside him.

  “Then it’s perfect for us,” Picket answered.

  “Maybe,” Helmer said as he peered through the glass. “I’d rather be leading a full assault than this.”

  “It’ll be fine.” Picket glanced over at Helmer. “Is that buckle still giving you problems?”

  * * *

  On the other side of the woods, Lord Hewson watched through his own distance glass. He gazed at the wall, then up toward the place where Picket and Helmer lay in wait with their small team.

  “Keep an eye on them,” Lord Hewson said, passing his glass back to Lieutenant Meeker.

  “Yes, my lord,” Meeker said, carefully training the glass on their friends.

  “Is everything ready?” Lord Hewson asked as Captain Redthaw jogged up, accompanied by several other officers.

  “It is, my lord,” Captain Redthaw replied. “We’re ready when you give the signal.”

  “We’ll stick with the plan,” Lord Hewson said. “We will wait for the moonrise.”

  “That could be a few hours, my lord,” Captain Redthaw said.

  “Yes,” Lord Hewson replied, and both rabbits glanced back at the woods behind them.

  Three bowstrikers were mounted on makeshift platforms as soldiers loaded them under the operators’ instruction. The large hybrid catapult-and-bow devices were now hidden on the edge of the forest.

  “Are they operational?” Lord Hewson asked, nodding at the bowstrikers.

  “We believe they’ll do what we want,” Captain Redthaw replied. “Though they’ve never been tried on this scale.”

  “It is quite a distance,” Lord Hewson mused, staring at the city wall. “Who are the gunners?”

  “They’re all soldiers, my lord,” Captain Redthaw said, “chosen by me. We have young Emerson on number one, as he knows the operation of these weapons like few others. He’s their primary inventor.”

  “This was also his scheme,” Lord Hewson said.

  “And he’s the son of Emery,” Captain Redthaw added, “who was lost in one of our last attempts to get in.”

  “Of course,” Lord Hewson said, nodding. “An apt choice, to be sure.”

  “On number two, I chose Harmon. He’s a young soldier but a good one. He volunteered straightaway for this duty. On number three—”

  But Captain Redthaw didn’t get to say who was firing number three, for they heard a hundred angry howls, as the woods suddenly teemed with wild wolves.

  Lord Hewson snatched the glass from Lieutenant Meeker and spun to scan the woods. “Curses! The villains haven’t fallen for our trap. I hope you’re ready, Helmer, old friend.” Then, loudly, he called, “Fire now!”

  Hewson saw Emerson’s wide eyes take in the coming storm of wolves, then thin to slits as he turned back to his target and trained his weapon.

  There stood the wall surrounding First Warren.

  Emerson sighted again, then calmly flicked his switch. The large long arrow leapt from the weapon with stunning force. It soared straight and true in a long, elegant arc, finding the city wall just beneath a sentinel station. The stone blew apart in a terrific explosion that rocked the wall and sent a tremendous plume of smoke to cloud their vision. The raptor that sat atop the station beat his wings to fly aloft, spinning to survey the source of the unexpected blast. But he seemed to be looking within the wall.

  Lord Hewson pumped his fist as the next two bowstrikers fired in quick succession, one finding the base of the far curve of the wall in another impressive explosion and the third falling just short of the wall, failing to ignite.

  “Reload!” Lord Hewson called, though the order was unnecessary. Emerson’s bowstriker was already reloaded and nearly cranked ready again. Without waiting for new orders, Emerson fired again, sending his blastarrow back into the same crater he had made with his first shot. Another incredible blast, and the sentinel station gave way and tumbled down as the stone beneath it blew apart.

  “That’s another crack shot, Emerson lad!” Lord Hewson cried, joining in the triumphant shout along with most of the gathered rabbits. But he spun around, seeing Captain Redthaw was turned toward the coming wolves. “Archers, release!” A team of twenty archers had formed a line behind the bowstrikers and their operators and now fired, two arrows each, into the rushing pack.

  Lord Hewson was shocked to see how close the enemy had gotten. The archers were dead-eyed as always, and the first wave of wolves went down. But the pack didn’t even slow. They scrambled over their fallen with maniac glee. Hewson drew his own bow and fired, dropping the new lead wolf.

  Still they came on. Hewson glanced back across the valley as he nocked another arrow. “Come on, Helmer!” he said, then turned and fired again. The archers were buying them precious time, but he could see they would soon be overwhelmed. Then he saw that Harmon, operating bow-striker number two, had swiveled it around. With a defiant cry, he pulled the switch and unleashed a blastarrow aimed right at the heart of the surging wolf pack.

  It blew apart in a deafening blast as the rabbits dove for cove
r. The archers were knocked back and scattered. Lord Hewson fell to the ground not far from Emerson, who was cranking number one for another volley. Harmon was reloading and scanning the bank of smoke behind to see what damage his shot had done.

  In the deafening after-blast, Lord Hewson found his glass and trained it on the far woods. Where are they? To his delight, he saw two forms launch and sail through the air toward the wall. His eyes widened, and he found them in his sights. He smiled wide and laughed aloud. “Go!” he said, urging them on.

  One of them, reaching a good height, had activated his glider and was deftly swooping toward the city. The other, to Lord Hewson’s alarm, was dropping. Helmer’s glider was not engaged, and after the early momentum of the catapult launch, he was dropping fast.

  Lord Hewson swallowed hard, keeping his eye on the dropping rabbit. “Engage!” he cried. “Engage it, you old fool!”

  Then he saw Picket swoop down and grab hold of Helmer, turning him upward in a deft dive and swoop. Helmer’s glider engaged, and he swept upward in an uneasy arc. Hewson swept his glass to the left, where the distraction they had made was paying off. The sentinels swooped around the opposite side of the wall, and there was a busy hive of activity among the rubble. He saw the massive form of the white falcon glide in, screeching furiously as he came. Lord Falcowit was there.

  Sweeping his glass back to the flying rabbits—they were actually flying through the air!—he saw that Helmer’s path would take him dangerously close to the wall. Picket banked back and caught a current of air so he swept around the edge of the wall while Helmer rose in a ragged passage.

  Hewson cringed and made every physical effort to will Helmer over the wall. The telling moment came as he soared near the lip of the wall. Hewson gasped as Helmer’s glider dipped dangerously near the wall, but he rose again, clipping the brick and tumbling inside the wall. Picket banked and glided easily over, and both disappeared from sight.

  Hewson shouted, “They’re in!” and the gathered rabbits gave an answering cry.

  Then Hewson turned back and braced for the wolf assault.

  “Should we send a runner, my lord?” Captain Redthaw asked, gasping as he gazed at the clearing smoke and the regrouping wolf pack, surging forward again with savage energy. “We have only three more blastarrows, and we need to get word to the princess that they made it in. And we don’t seem likely…” He trailed off, gazing at the wolf pack.

  “Send Emerson,” Lord Hewson said. “His family’s had enough tragedy. Maybe he’ll get through.”

  “Emerson!” Captain Redthaw called as Lord Hewson shouted urgent instructions for the rest, “take a message to Harbone. Tell them they are inside the city.”

  “Sir,” Emerson called, “I want to fight here with you and Lord Hewson! Please, sir, send Harmon. He’s twice as fast as me, as everyone knows.”

  “You’ll both go,” Captain Redthaw said, moving toward the bowstriker. “Go now, and no argument!”

  Harmon sagged, then nodded, saluted his captain, and tore off into the woods without a word. Emerson trotted after him, a last backward glance at his captain and lord.

  “Tell them we died like heroes!” Lord Hewson called. Then he pointed his drawn sword at the advancing wolves. “Tell them we did our duty!”

  A shout from the defiant rabbits echoed through the forest.

  “Let fly!” Lord Hewson cried as the operators released the last blastarrows to fly at the attacking pack. “Tell them,” he whispered to himself just before the explosion, “that we were brave.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  FIRST WARREN HORROR

  Picket loved the feeling that came with flying. Though danger pressed at him from every side, he couldn’t deny the wild surging joy within. He smiled, baring his teeth in the wind as he sailed high. When he reached the summit of the catapult’s range, he stretched his arms out to engage his glider. The device answered beautifully, and he thought of Heyward, blessing him in his exuberant joy. Then he saw, with a stab of panic, that Helmer was dropping. He banked and dove, twisting his wrists to disengage, and sped toward his master, who luffed and spun as he fell to earth, well short of the wall.

  Picket reached him halfway to the ground. “Master!” he called, slapping Helmer hard in the face. The older rabbit woke, eyes wide, then threw out his arms to engage the glider. Helmer recovered, steadily rising in a wobbly curve, while Picket banked back to see if his master could clear the wall. It was a tense few seconds, but Helmer dipped, then rose and roughly cleared the lip of the wall, taking several broken bricks in with him.

  Picket smiled, sighed, then circled around and glided over the wall himself. He didn’t have time to stay high and stare at the scene that spread out beneath him. He was afraid of being seen. But he stole a moment to gaze across this legendary city, home to so many noble rabbits over the years.

  It was vast, unlike anything Picket had ever seen. The massive wall dominated with its several starlike points, and the river ran from the dam wall levee, carving through its middle. And there was the massive square at the city center, with its grey-white buildings all around. In the center of the square stood seven tall standing stones, high and imposing like a spine. Atop them, though, were massive statues of Lords of Prey. He snarled and looked away. Glancing down, he saw Helmer crash awkwardly into the woods outside of town. He dove after him.

  Picket glided to a slow landing, found his feet, and disengaged the taut wings. He bent to a knee, unfastened the glider cape, and folded it all down into his pack. Then he helped Helmer, who was speechless and gasping. Picket unfastened and folded the rods, then wrapped all with the sturdy black cloth. Helmer staggered a few steps and fell to his knees beneath a tree.

  “Are you well, Master?”

  “Just don’t talk for a minute, Ladybug,” Helmer answered, holding up one finger.

  Picket drank from his waterskin and checked his sword. He walked the immediate area, assessing possible routes for them. If they had been seen, it wouldn’t be long till scouts found them. Three small rockets exploded above, followed by a blast of trumpets. A signal.

  “Master,” he said, jogging back. “We’re in First Warren. I’ve never been here before, and I don’t know where to go. They’ve just sent some sort of signal to the town. We don’t have much time.”

  Nodding, Helmer turned and got to his feet. He took some water from Picket, drank, and then coughed. “I’m sure much has changed since I was last here, but I know where we need to go.”

  “Where?”

  “To Airen’s house,” Helmer said, and a spark of hope lit up his eyes. “I want to find my sister. And she’ll be in the middle of any resistance—I’m sure of it.”

  Picket nodded, thinking of Heather.

  They cut through the small forest and came to the river, where, peering out from the cover of trees, they saw several rabbits rushing toward the city center. All of them wore red scarves, or kerchiefs, at their necks. It was an arresting sight. Picket hid and listened as two passed close by the wood.

  “They’ve gone too far,” one haggard old rabbit was saying, weeping as she leaned on a young buck’s arm and they hurried along. “Much too far. A bomb at the wall? Several bombs on the wall?”

  “Yes,” the younger buck agreed, “we will feel their fury now. I don’t mind them keeping alive a memory of the old days, but to act so rashly, to invite such retribution from our masters? It’s criminal.”

  “Oooh, they took five younglings on the last Victory Day,” she said, “and what shall they do now?”

  “Take them all?” he answered. “It’s a wonder we have any left.”

  When the pair had passed by, Helmer motioned for Picket to follow him deeper into the cover of trees. “We’ve done a dangerous thing,” Helmer said.

  “They will take revenge for what we’ve done?” Picket asked.

  “Yes. They believe it was insurrectionists within the city.”

  “At least we know we might find allies,” Picket
said.

  “True,” Helmer answered, scratching his chin, “but for now I’m worried about what they’ll do at this assembly.”

  “But why do they all gather? Why not just stay away?”

  “I’m sure they go to the city center, to the square,” Helmer said. “And no doubt they must account for each rabbit, making absence unthinkable.”

  “And they will punish them there?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Helmer answered. “I hate to think of it.”

  Helmer nodded for Picket to follow, and they cut along the edge of the forest. They found a high tree near the square and climbed up quietly as the sun set. Torches broke out, and the square was soon packed with red-throated rabbits.

  Picket could see the faces of the nearest rabbits by torch-light when they turned his way. They were hollow-eyed, careworn, and fretful. At least, those most alive were fretful. The more frightening thing by far was when he saw some rabbits wearing a look of abject indifference, like nothing that would happen mattered, just as nothing that had happened mattered. They stared off, like those with broken minds, and moved wordlessly with the crowd.

  “The red at their necks, what does it mean?” Picket asked.

  “I’m not sure, but I think it’s a reminder of what they are to the Preylords.”

  “Prey?”

  “Yes. But some haven’t given up entirely,” Helmer whispered.

  “It’s awful so many have,” Picket answered.

  “I’m not surprised to find that,” Helmer said. “I had just about given up as well, in my own way, until you came along.”

  Picket smiled sadly, then gazed back at the gathering crowd. The rabbits stood around and among those high standing stones, so sacred to the rabbits of Natalia, honoring Flint and Fay and the Leapers. But as he had seen on his gliding approach, these sacred standing stones had become platforms for giant statues of Lords of Prey. Picket saw there were six birds immortalized in stone, while on the farthest standing stone perched a statue of a kneeling rabbit.

  “The statues, who are they?” Picket asked.

  “Those are the Six, I think,” Helmer said bitterly. “The Lords of Prey are said to be ruled by a cadre of six warlords, with one being their chief. Morbin has been their king for a long time. It’s their ancient way. These six have a feast every year and reaffirm their lord in dark rites.”