by S D Smith
THE LAST ARCHER
Books by S. D. Smith
Publication Order:
The Green Ember
The Black Star of Kingston
Ember Falls: The Green Ember Book II
The Last Archer: A Green Ember Story
Ember Rising: The Green Ember Book III (Spring 2018)
Best read in publication order, but in general,
simply be sure to begin with The Green Ember.
The events in The Last Archer take place at the same time
as the events in The Green Ember.
The Last Archer
Copyright © 2017 by S. D. Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. The content of this book is not intended for the wolf audience. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at [email protected].
eBook edition ISBN: 978-0-9996553-1-3
Also available in Print and Audiobook
Story Warren Books
Cover art by Zach Franzen, www.zachfranzen.com.
Cover design by Andrew Mackay.
Map created by Will Smith and Zach Franzen.
Bracers logo by J. C. Smith.
To Lt. Col. Matthew T. Schelling, USAF (retired)
Sit Dominus inter me et te
usque in sempiternum.
And to all veterans and their families. Thank you.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
Halfwind Citadel
Jo Shanks leapt from his bunk and darted for the door. He sped through the opening, then spun and ran back in. Shaking his head, he grabbed the bow propped against the bed frame and slipped the quiver over his shoulder. Jo buckled on his sword belt, snagged his coin purse, and headed for the door once more. It wouldn’t do to show up at the muster without his weapons. He could only imagine what Captain Frye would say to that.
Jo slowed down when he reached the entrance to Leapers Hall, where a crowd had gathered around the open door. Huddled groups of rabbits talked earnestly with one another. Jo noticed angry and worried expressions.
“What’s the word, Lund?” he asked, grabbing his friend’s arm.
“Shanks, nice of you to wake up,” Lund said with a smirk, “just in time for muster, as usual.”
“I had a late night.”
“At the targets, I assume?” Lund patted Jo’s bow. “Listen, Shanks. You know I love you and your long, goofy legs, but if you think a few extra nights at the targets are going to make you a better archer than Nate Flynn, you’re dreaming.”
“It’s been more than a few nights.”
“Still, it’s Nate Flynn. The Nate Flynn.”
“I can beat him,” Jo said, scowling. “I have to beat him.”
“Why do you need to beat him so badly?”
“I have to prove that I’ve got what it takes.”
“Who do you have to prove that to, those brats who used to bully you?”
“That’s one.”
“Lieutenant Drand?”
“Two.”
“That beautiful doe—uh, Misty—who rejected your invitation to the summer mingle?”
“That’s three.”
“Didn’t she say that she’d rather stay the summer single than go with you to the summer mingle?” Lund asked, smirking.
“Three!”
“Captain Frye?”
“Four,” Jo said, frowning.
“And,” Lund continued slowly, “your father’s ghost?”
“That’s five,” Jo said quietly. “A handful to start with.”
“There are more?” Lund asked, then nodded. “Of course there are more. You’re ridiculous, Jo. I don’t know why you beat yourself up. You’re an incredible archer. You don’t need to prove it to anyone.”
“I have to prove it to myself, Lund.”
“Okay, okay,” Lund said, raising his hands with a smile. “Like I always say, I’m behind you all the way. Sadly, I’ll be so far behind that it won’t help any, but I’m definitely behind you.”
Jo smiled, his scowl giving way to a laugh. “So, what’s got everyone so riled up? Surely it’s not the Archer’s Cup.”
“Yeah, no one cares about that, because everyone knows that Nate’s going to win.”
“I thought you had my back?”
“I’m just saying what they think. What do they know? Just because he’s won every archery competition that’s ever been held within a hundred leagues of his presence, it doesn’t mean he’ll win this one. You and I know that you definitely have a chance.”
“Thanks, Lund.”
“He might die… or go blind,” Lund said. “You have a chance, Shanks.”
Jo shook his head. Just then Captain Frye, a stout older buck in an impeccable uniform, appeared around the corner. “Make way, there,” he called, glowering as he marched ahead. Flanked by several grim-faced councilors, he hurried through the press of rabbits and into Leapers Hall.
The crowd quieted as they passed. When they were all inside, the noise level rose again. Jo looked up at Lund.
“Lord Rake has called for a citadel congress at Cloud Mountain,” Lund said, concern plain on his face. “They’ve known about it for a little while,” he said, nodding to Leapers Hall, “but word just got out, and they’re making a decision. They say Lord Ramnor might go. Many of the other citadels are already there.”
“It’s probably a trap,” Jo said, shaking his head. “Isn’t Lord Rake a Longtreader dupe?”
“It gets worse,” Lund said, nodding. “They say Wilfred Longtreader is actually there.”
“At Cloud Mountain?” Jo asked, his eyes wide. “And they haven’t arrested him?”
“No,” Lund said, speaking louder to be heard above the swelling noise in the corridor. “Lantrell Baker said Wilfred Longtreader has the run of the place. They don’t even keep a guard on him. And there are two more Longtreaders with him—possibly three.”
“Unforgivable,” Jo said. “After what they did to betray the king?”
“Think of everyone who lost their loved ones when the Longtreaders betrayed the king to be murdered by Morbin.”
“My mother,” Jo whispered, teeth clenched.
“The lords wonder why we can’t unite to fight Morbin,” Lund said, “while some of them harbor the villains who gave our king and kingdom away.”
Jo felt the anger inside him fan into flame. Most rabbits at Halfwind grew up hating the name Longtreader, but for Jo it was personal. “They should pay. If the lords don’t act, the worst will happen. I hope Jupiter’s heir stays as far away from Cloud Mountain as he can.”
CHAPTER TWO
Jo squeezed through the crowd, carefully guarding his bow, and then sped through the passage toward the mess. He stepped in and snagged a bag of ready provisions, then hurried out, harassed by the cook’s angry shouts. Jo didn’t have much time, and he could not be late again. C
aptain Frye would have him shipped to Morbin in a bag.
Jo ate as he walked quickly toward the gate; then he ducked into the hospital. He slowed down as he entered, looking back and forth before handing off his jingling coin purse to an elderly votary. “For the widows again, Jo?” the blue-robed sister asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jo answered, touching his ears, his eyes, then his mouth. “I’m so grateful to you for seeing to this, Sister Lala.”
“But young Jo,” Lala said, looking into the purse, “this is most of your pay again. You can’t give all this.”
He smiled at her and thanked her again. “I’m sorry, Sister. I have to go! I’ll be late.”
Without looking back, he hurried into the hall and ran for the gate. He saluted the sentries and dashed out to Westfield. He passed the rest of his battalion, already there, as the bell tolled. He was in place and at attention before the ringing stopped.
“Arms out!” Lieutenant Drand called, and each buck in line presented his sword for inspection. Captain Frye wasn’t reviewing this morning, so Jo had to deal with Drand, his second least favorite officer at Halfwind Citadel. He inhaled sharply and looked sideways at the approaching lieutenant. Lieutenant Drand reached him, stopped, and squinted at Jo’s sword. Then he carefully took it in his hands and examined it closely.
“Not good enough, Shanks,” Drand said. “A buck’s blade reflects his soul. I see murk and film. What do you mean by showing up at divisions with an ill-kept blade?”
“Sir,” Jo stammered, “I’ve been focused on my bow. I usually—”
“I just reviewed Nate Flynn and his Bracers,” Drand interrupted. “Did you know that he begged to be mustered earlier so he could get to his own training sooner? And guess what? His sword was immaculate. He also didn’t have crumbs dribbling off his chin.” Jo swiped his mouth, looking down as Lieutenant Drand went on. “I seriously consider barring you from the Archer’s Cup finals today.”
“Please, sir,” Jo said, eyes locked on the angry officer, “don’t do that. I’ll do whatever you ask. Please, sir, I need to win that cup.”
Lieutenant Drand squinted at Jo, an angry scowl blooming. “You need? You. Need? Son, I don’t know if you’ve heard the news—probably not, because you just rolled out of bed in time to bolt some stolen provisions and lurch to divisions—but there are traitors on the loose at our sister citadel! There’s a war coming, and our side can’t seem to find enough backbone to pay back the family who gave up our king. Some of us are going to Cloud Mountain. You need to win an archery cup?” He shoved Jo’s sword back at him, knocking him back so he slid on the wet grass. “You need to wake up to what’s going on in the world.”
Drand walked on. Jo got to his feet, resumed his place, and stood at attention until the muster broke. He went through the motions at each energetic drill and listened absently while the fighting forms perfected at Halfwind were emphasized again. The soldiers went through their assembly attack drills, beginning with the rhythmic thrumming and called commands, with energy and focus. But not Jo. He was there in body, but his heart wasn’t in it.
When combat simulation training came, they lined up four deep on each side, in single file, and the first two bucks fought. When one fell to the ground, the second in line would move forward to take on the advancing battler. They battled until one soldier had fought his way through all four fighters. This drill was called Combat Rush and was meant to simulate the close-quarter fighting they could all expect to be in when the war began in earnest.
Jo was third in a line behind two weak fighters, and he knew he would see action soon. His frustration mounted as he thought of Lieutenant Drand’s words, especially since somewhere inside he suspected that the older officer was right. Jo funneled all that feeling into the silo deep inside that told him he wasn’t good enough. He would never be good enough.
The first bucks stepped forward, and the sergeant shouted, “Engage!”
The enormous buck across from Jo’s line growled and rushed ahead, sidestepping a wild punch and shouldering down his first opponent with some ease. He rushed the second, who ducked a blow and landed a kick to his stomach. But the bigger rabbit only caught the kicking foot and twisted the kicker down.
Jo was up.
He darted forward and ducked a devastating punch, moving behind the stout buck. Jo quickly reversed so that he was back to back with his opponent, then bent back to take the soldier across the chest with his arm, dragging him backward to trip over Jo’s poised leg.
The stout rabbit went down, cursing at his defeat.
Jo surged ahead to meet the next, fresher, opponent. Jo feinted left, then rose quickly in a leap, toppling him with a solid kick to his chest. Jo landed and barely had time to switch his attention before the third buck was on him. Jo felt a surge of anger grip him, and he blocked the buck’s rushing strike with an emphatic move that opened up his opponent to a staggering gut punch, so that Jo’s spinning kick sent him to the ground with a thud.
The last opponent came hard at Jo with a feint of his own. Jo bought it and dodged straight into the path of his attacker’s hard kick. He crumpled to the ground, his mouth bleeding and his anger stoked all the more. He got to his feet, shrugged off the medic who rushed to him, and walked away.
CHAPTER THREE
When they broke at lunchtime, Jo wandered aimlessly around the grounds outside the citadel. He wasn’t hungry. At least not for food. He walked away from Westfield and through a series of paths overhung by thorn-woven canopies. He finally issued into a small glade, where the swish and thud of archers was easy to hear. He crept to the edge of the bushes and peered through. Of course he had come here. Where else?
Nate Flynn shot at far targets as a gentle rain began. He had six companions with him, and Jo recognized the patch on their shoulders. It featured a furry forearm with an archer’s armguard leading up to a fist clenching two arrows. The Bracers were an elite team of archers, ready to be deployed in battle when only the truest aim would do. They were named after the armguard that archers often used, called a bracer, and for their skill at firing two arrows in one shot. Jo had spoken with a few of them and had once been in a mandatory tactics class with Kent Halmon.
Jo had never seen the Bracers at training but had always wondered what it was like. He had so far studiously avoided Nate Flynn, seeing him only occasionally.
Jo peered through the drizzle as Nate took his place. An aide ran across the far side of the glade with a long wooden shield blocking his entire body. The shield bore a crude depiction of a wolf.
Nate sent two arrows, which both found the moving shield dead center just as his fellows rushed him. Before Nate could get another arrow off, he was knocked to the ground, spilling his quiver. They shoved him roughly and struck at his arms. Clinging to his bow, he leaned into a hard shove, then balanced as he snagged an arrow from the pile on the ground. Faster than Jo thought possible, he nocked and fired three arrows in turn, each finding the wooden shield borne by the scrambling rabbit.
“Hold!” a watching rabbit barked. It was their mentor, an aged archer of great reputation, Clay Fletcher. The team relaxed, except for Nate.
“It has to be faster!” Nate called. “Bring more shields, and they must move in a less-predictable pattern. And Junder, you have to hit me harder. That was too soft. You have to really put me off my shot.”
“I don’t want to injure you ahead of the cup,” Junder said, looking down.
“Curse the cup!” Nate Flynn shouted. “I want to win the war.”
“Captain Frye’s orders stand, Nate,” Master Fletcher said, walking up slowly. “You’re right that we can do better here, and we will, but Junder’s right that these cups do matter. They matter because we need to inspire archers to practice hard and see the glory in it.”
“Are the Harbone Citadel archers not revered?” Nate asked, clearly frustrated. “They don’t waste their time on cups and shows. They prepare for the war. They fight.”
“And so do
we,” Master Fletcher said, coming alongside Nate. “I love your zeal, Nate. But we need you to be a leader here. And you can only lead rabbits from where they are, not from where you wish they were.” He put his arm around Nate’s shoulder, and they walked to the far side of the field, the old buck speaking earnestly as they walked along.
Jo frowned. He had never realized that Nate didn’t enjoy the archery cups, that the glory Jo thought was so important was an irritating distraction for him.
Jo walked away, head down, and wound his way back through the tunnels and into the warren that was Halfwind. Passing several votaries who were walking in procession out of Leapers Hall, he made his way back to his bunk and collapsed on it.
* * *
“Shanks, wake up!”
Jo’s eyes shot open, and he reached back a fist to strike whoever was shaking him. He relaxed when he saw it was Lund.
“What do you want?”
“It’s time for the Archer’s Cup. If you’re not there in five minutes, you’re disqualified.”
Jo sat up, frowning. “I’m not going, Lund.”
“What? This morning there was nothing more important to you in the world.”
“Yeah, and that was pretty pathetic.”
“No, Shanks. I know I poke fun at you, but this cup is a big deal. It’s one of the three principal cups, and it’s an honor to compete in it, to place. Winning is a key for advancement. Maybe the only key for someone like you, with no connections. You still want to be an officer?”
“I guess.”
“Then let’s go,” Lund said, dragging him off his bunk. “I’ve got your bow and quiver. C’mon!”
Jo stood reluctantly, found he hadn’t even taken off his sword, and jogged behind Lund all the way to Westfield. There, targets were set up and a crowd was gathered to watch the competition. Jo saw Nate Flynn standing with the Bracers, a stoic look on his face that Jo had always thought was an indication of intense concentration. The bell rang twice as Lund ran up to the official, Master Fletcher himself, and pointed back at Jo. Master Fletcher frowned, then nodded. They jogged to the competitors’ circle just as the bell rang out.
