Ember's End Page 14

  Smalls was already ahead, clearing the way for the next. She leapt into the second strike, her hands still shaking from the first, and smacked a shattering blow on the next support beam. More of the wall gave way, and she had to leap ahead to avoid the crashing stone. Countless dragons, their bloodlust blazing, were crushed in her wake beneath the new-made rubble.

  As she dashed for the next beam, Smalls had gotten far enough ahead of her that she was pressed on every side by dragons and he was fading from sight.

  “Smalls!” she cried as the scaly creatures reached for her with knife-sharp claws, their tails poised to strike. She raised her hammer as the collapsing avalanche of wall overtook their pursuit, smashing them down as rubble rained all around. With agility that surprised even herself, she dodged the greater part of the debris, brushing off smaller rocks as her enemies were crushed around her.

  She rose, leaping from sliding stone to piling rubble, and so ascended beyond the grasp of her attackers. Spotting Smalls, she raced toward him, dodging falling rock and evading the dragon pursuit. She feinted left, then bolted right to head for the exit. Smalls had hacked at another support, then bent his breakaway race her way. They converged in front of the tunnel leading back to the great cavern and hurried inside as the entire cavern roof broke apart and collapsed in a terrific noise.

  They sped along the passage, Smalls dealing death to those dragons who pressed in against them, their bodies falling along the path so that Heather had to tread them down as she followed fast after the prince.

  They broke into the last hall and rushed through, not stopping as dragons sprang to meet them from every crumbling tunnel. Smalls swung the starsword, and enemies fell in pieces. Heather hurried behind him, ready with her maul to hammer more foes back. They sprinted to the edge of this cavern. Once again, as Smalls fought for space, she drove her hammer into the splintering supports, smashing them to pieces and precipitating a rolling wreck that brought rock crashing down all around in a wave of collapse. They were barely able to stay ahead of the ruin.

  Heather was amazed at how strong she felt. She had always been fast, and this last dash had required all of her speed to stay alive long enough to complete the mission, but this heavy hammer felt entirely manageable to her as she raced along.

  As they neared the three tunnels on the far side of the collapsing cavern, Heather heaving her hammer to blast through a final support beam, three dragons stood guard at the opening of the one way they must take. Smalls blocked another pike strike with his bright golden armguard and drove his blade through the belly of the first dragon. He turned to the next on his left, but Heather didn’t see the result. The starsword flashed in her periphery as she swung her hammer hard, just missing the ducking head of a powerful dragon and smashing through the wall of the tunnel. The dragon leapt back at her, jaws slavering with dripping venom. She was knocked down, her hammer lost to the ground. The dragon’s head shot at her, jaws wide. The venom dribbled on her face, burning her as he bent to end her with his bite.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  FAREWELL, HEATHER AND SMALLS

  Heather shoved up with her hands, trying to block the dragon’s death bite. But, as strong as she felt, she wasn’t strong enough. He broke through her attempted block and bore down. His head was knocked suddenly sideways, and he bit into stone, breaking teeth. Smalls had kicked him off his killing course and now finished him with the black blade.

  Smalls gripped Heather’s hand, and she leapt up. She snagged her hefty hammer as rock struck the ground all around them, shattering as it fell. They fled into the tunnel as a last backward glance showed that an avalanche of collapsing stone had fully flattened that hall as well and now carried its devastating wreckage into the tunnel just behind them.

  There could be no escape now. No way back to the triangular vault of Smalls’ fathers. They would never emerge through that ancient path, unlocked by the Green Ember, to find a way back. Those secrets inside the vault would be secrets forever, just as their own deeds and deaths would never be discovered. But in this exhilarating escape, this sacrificial fight against the dragon hordes, she delighted in their victory and had never been prouder of her prince. He had killed so many enemies, had leapt to meet and defeat their evil uprising. And she had been beside him, striking her own blows against their foes, facing the rising tide of the dragon army’s inestimable threat.

  Together, they were bringing it all down.

  Heather heard the echoing rumble throughout the islands. It was loud, that sound of compounding crashes throughout the vast dragon lair. The ground heaved and they stumbled ahead, rebalancing again and again as they raced on. Amid a plume of rock dust at the edge of the collapsing avalanche, Heather and Smalls shot into the last chamber. The first chamber. The vast central cavern of Forbidden Island. They ran on as the collapse stalled behind them, crushed rock vomiting into the cavern and fouling the mossdraft pool. But it stopped. Even while distant rumbles continued, the flow seemed to break and cease in this spot.

  Smaller rocks came loose from the curved ceiling, and rubble lay scattered around the cavern; but compared to the ruin behind them, this hall seemed almost stable.

  The two rabbits panted, bending over to catch their breath. Smalls fell to his knees, absently cleaning his blade on his shirtsleeve as he shook his head. He gazed at the blade with a kind of holy awe, then sheathed it at his side.

  “Flint’s own sword. My ancestral arms.” Looking over at Heather, he rose. “Are you okay, my dear?”

  “I …” Heather began, gasping for air, “… am pretty well.”

  Smalls laughed, coughing as he crossed to her. “Pretty well?”

  They laughed together, leaning against each other in the faint light of the last cavern standing in the ancient lair of dragons. “I feel good,” she said, smiling wide. “I’m glad we did what we did.”

  “As am I.”

  “Might we … survive in here?” she asked, glancing nervously over at the support beam. The wooden brace was riddled with splintering cracks. “For a while?”

  They gazed at one another a moment. Then a hissing bellow sounded, picked up and passed on, repeated again and again by a growing chorus of coarse voices. From hidden vaults throughout the hall came the last part of the dragon army, and they broke into the cavern with an insatiable rage. These came from the other side of the islands, opposite from where the two rabbits had just fled leaving a just destruction in their path. Unless this hall too fell, the dragons would still stand a chance—however slim—of getting out and setting on their friends, ending the hope of the mending.

  That cannot be.

  With a last, longing look at Smalls, Heather picked up her maul and dashed at the last buttress, that beam that seemed their final chance at somehow surviving. No. This was indeed the end.

  She reached the beam just as Smalls met the last dragon attackers, hewing them down in succession with his shining black blade. The Small Prince and his sable starsword, a final tale for her to savor and see. The Scribe of the Cause’s last story.

  Heather spun and sent her hammer tearing through the last beam.

  The cavern shook and came apart.

  Heather locked eyes with Smalls as the rock rained down.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  SIGNALS AND MESSAGES

  Jo Shanks had spent the past few days working with the allied archers of Emma’s army. He occasionally helped with other errands for the princess or backed up Picket’s and Cole’s work with the Royal Fowlers Auxiliary. Alongside engineers and many stout soldiers, the archers were folded into the Highwall Wardens, though most called them the Highwallers. They were charged with holding the wall and defending the city. It was a duty many volunteered for but few expected to live through. Jo felt honored to be among them.

  The archers were the best ever assembled, if Jo could be trusted to judge. His own former unit, the Bracers, were united with Harbone’s best, along with handpicked bucks from every free citadel in Natalia
. The Harbone archers were incensed by the slaughter at their citadel. Almost all had lost loved ones—many had lost their entire families. They worked with a fierce determination that inspired the rest. Clay Fletcher, a legendary old archer from the last wars, was in command. Nate Flynn and Harbone’s Himson Forn seconded Commander Fletcher, and Jo slotted in with Nate’s division when they practiced maneuvers.

  Jo reached the last step up First Warren’s outside wall, still wincing as he thought of falling from this height so recently. Good thing Pick was there. He dodged past a team of Heyward’s brother votary engineers, setting a series of bowstrikers every fifteen feet along the wall. Farther down the wall-top path, amid a band of archers, stood his friends Studge, Owen, and Nate, along with a buck from Vandalia named Deever. Jo had fought alongside Deever’s brother Aubray, as had Nate, Studge, and Owen. So the group had quite naturally welcomed Deever in. Jo walked their way, his glider pack on his back and a loose cape draped over his shoulders. He checked the lock on the quiver hanging on one side of his belt, then felt the grip of the sword on the other side.

  “Jo Shanks.” Studge smirked as the long-legged buck walked up. “Taking a break from a life of high living among the royals to associate with low fellows like us? How kind.”

  “You guys aren’t low,” Jo answered, gazing down on the busy city below, “at least not in location.”

  “He’s probably bringing a message from his best friend, the princess,” Deever said.

  “I do have a message,” Jo said. “Princess Emma wants you all to know that she thinks I’m wonderful, and she has a low opinion of how you bucks both look and smell. There was more, but I’ll spare you the most insulting parts.”

  “Thank you, your lordship,” Deever said, making an exaggerated bow. Deever looked so like Aubray, with the same fur pattern as his brother, black with gold around his eyes and the inside of his ears.

  “What’s happening here?” Jo asked.

  “We’re waiting on Lord Longshot there,” Studge said, nodding toward Nate Flynn, “to let us know when our next in a long line of ‘Where Should We Stand During the Fighting’ drills will be.”

  Owen rolled his eyes. “I genuinely cannot wait. I’m so glad you’re here with us at this crucial juncture, Jo.”

  “Otherwise you wouldn’t know where to stand,” Deever whispered.

  “I constantly feel like I’m standing in the wrong place,” Jo replied.

  “Are we ever going to shoot?” Studge asked, gazing in Nate’s direction. “I thought this was a company of archers.”

  “Stop complaining, Studge,” Nate Flynn said, looking up from his notes. “It’s possible there are smarter minds at work than yours.”

  “I’d say likely,” Deever said.

  “We have confirmation,” Owen added.

  “Yes, sir.” Studge saluted and sagged against the parapet. “I just want to shoot an arrow from my bow once or twice as a part of this elite archery company.”

  “Did you ever consider,” Jo asked, tapping his head, “that the commanders already know we can shoot? And maybe they want us to coordinate with the other soldiers, so we don’t accidentally kill our own troops or help the enemy some other way.”

  Studge opened his mouth and extended a finger; then his eyes widened, and he inclined his head, saying nothing.

  “I think that’s a major military victory right there,” Nate said, marking out something on his paper and stepping forward. “You did the impossible, Jo. You shut Studge up.”

  “Folks use the term hero pretty lightly, but—” Jo began, but Nate interrupted.

  “Okay, elite archers of Natalia, gather round,” Nate called, and the large band of rabbits congregated tightly around him. “We are staging here—at arms—for thirty minutes, then shifting as a body, going light, down to one of three redeployment areas, depending on the signal we get from command. Any questions?” Studge raised his hand. Nate smirked. “Okay, since there are no questions, to your stations!”

  “Yes, sir!” they called. Jo followed Nate to the edge of the wall, where they gazed over at the palace.

  Nate sighed. “I bet they’ve got that dullhead Farns as signaler again. I don’t see why the commander trusts him.”

  “The commander can’t keep up with all that chaos up there, sir,” Jo said. “His chief of staff is the problem. It’s not ill will; he’s just overwhelmed with the job.”

  Nate drew a glass from out of his satchel and set it to his eye. “It is him. And—what? Now he’s signaling … two yellow flags followed by three red and then a white with a grey X. He emphasizes the last by shaking it back and forth!” Nate hung his head.

  “Oh no, that Farns and his flags again,” Owen said, laying down his bow. “Why don’t you just fire a shot over there, sir? I’m sure you can hit it from here.”

  “He might hit the flags by accident,” Jo said.

  “Shanks,” Nate said. “Jump over there and ask command what we are meant to do with a signal hoist of ‘Advance with all haste and fall back on the double, we are friends, we are friends,’ if you please.”

  “It’s nuanced, sir,” Studge said, scratching his chin. “It’s got levels.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jo said, saluting his fellows as one of Nate’s aides checked his pack over. “I’ll report to the palace rooftop, ask what on earth the signal is supposed to say.” The aide slapped the pack twice, and Jo looped his hands through the cape’s wrist slots, testing the connection. Satisfied, he jumped up to the parapet and, shrugging toward Studge, Owen, and Deever, slowly let himself fall from the high wall.

  Engaging the glider, Jo swept out over the old road and then, banking back across the square, up to the palace’s high roof, where he alighted in the designated landing zone, on the far side from the giant slide still under construction.

  “I need to see the commander,” Jo said as an officer approached him, distracted by a list in his hands.

  “The commander is very—” the officer began. He was going to say that Commander Fletcher was busy, but then he looked up and saw who was asking. Jo Shanks, heroic archer and close friend of both Picket Longtreader and the princess herself. “I, uh … Lieutenant, I will do my best, sir, to get his attention.”

  “Thank you.” Jo gazed around the rooftop as the officer hurried off. The organization required to get all these rabbits going in the same direction was immense. How it functioned as well as it did was beyond him. I’m like Studge. Just tell me where to point my arrows.

  “Lieutenant Shanks!”

  Jo turned to see Dalla, a young doe from Harbone who served as a runner. “Yes, Dalla?”

  “Sir,” she said, holding out a folded paper, sealed with wax, “I was charged to give this to you.” She handed it over.

  “Charged by who?”

  “She said her name was Lady Glen, sir,” Dalla said. “But she was with Lord Blackstar and Heyna, as well as some others.”

  “Where have you come from, Dalla?”

  “From north of Chelmsford, sir,” she said, and Jo could see she was exhausted. “They said it was urgent. I ran all the way.”

  “Dalla, well done. Get yourself some provisions down below.”

  She saluted, relief plain on her face, and walked off.

  Jo broke the seal and tore open the letter. He read it quickly, then ran to Signaler Farns and snatched away his white flag with the grey X.

  “Hey!” Farns shouted, staring at his empty hands. “No one may interfere with or otherwise alter the exact messaging of Her Royal Highness’s services—upon pain of death!”

  “Then you’re a dead buck, Farns,” Jo called over his shoulder as he leapt from the rooftop and banked left.

  After a flight that took him over the western edge of First Warren and into the forest beyond, he found what he was looking for: the crossroads north of Chelmsford. He dropped low and, increasing the drag on his glider, eased down for a smooth landing. The secluded roadway felt strange after being in a busy city so much lat
ely. It was unnerving. He walked along the road north, as his instructions had stated.

  “Ho there,” someone called from the forest. Jo stopped, and out stepped several strange bucks wearing odd clothes. They seemed to be travelers—longtime travelers. Their leader, an old buck of mixed brown and silver fur, stepped forward. “You Shanks?”

  “Yes.”

  The stranger nodded. “An archer, right?”

  “Like you,” Jo said, noticing the same signs. “Where’s Lord Blackstar?”

  “Come along,” the stranger said, nodding into the overgrown forest.

  “This feels safe,” Jo said with a smirk. But the truth was that he did feel safe. The stranger, as odd as he and his companions looked, felt good. He smelled right. Jo wasn’t sure how to word it, but there was something almost sublime in his presence. “What’s your name?” Jo asked.

  “They call me the Pilgrim.”

  Entering the forest, they followed a trail to a small camp under a canopy of trees. There was Lord Blackstar, and Heyna, and an old doe with black and silver fur. She wore an elegant dress and long gloves. She might have been Heyna’s grandmother.

  Jo bowed.

  “Welcome, Jo,” Lord Blackstar said. “I’m grateful you came.”

  “My lord.”

  “You have met the Pilgrim. This is Lady Glen.”

  Jo bowed again. “Your Majesty,” he said.

  “So, he’s clever, I see,” Lady Glen said. “I’m glad to meet you. You are the famous archer of those magnificent shots?”

  Jo looked down. “I am …” he began, but he stopped.

  “You don’t wish to lie,” she said, smiling. “Either you’re always an honorable buck—a rare thing, but it does happen—or you’re awed into honesty by the Pilgrim’s proximity. He has that effect on many. It’s been quite useful lately, I can assure you.”

  Jo smiled cautiously. “I have hit my mark in important moments, Your Majesty.”