Ember Rising (The Green Ember Series Book 3) Page 3

  Chapter Five

  A POISED SWORD

  The two sides clashed in the moonlit wood, sparks leaping off crossed blades. The quiet of a few moments before vanished in the harsh noise of close battle. Picket leapt in, heartsick grief giving way to anger. True, these rabbits had once saved them from certain death at Halfwind against an army of wolves, but their leader had also betrayed them. And the rescue at Halfwind was probably only part of the plan with Morbin. Picket seethed at the injustice of his accusers. He was no murderer, but neither was he afraid to raise his sword.

  He did so now, grappling with a Terralain soldier nearly twice his size. He blocked an overhead slice, deflecting it deftly as he spun and drove his own blade toward the soldier’s middle. It glanced off the black breastplate, but Picket saw the shocked look on the soldier’s face. He had underestimated the smaller rabbit. Picket followed the jab with a leaping spin and kick that sent the soldier stumbling back. The tall rabbit tripped on a root and pitched backward. Picket loomed over him with his sword poised, his heart pulsing with rage. Just then, Picket saw the woods swell with more rabbits, and his heart sank. Another band was charging in.

  Then, from the shadows, out stepped Jo and Cole.

  Jo raised his bow, as did the next thirty archers with him. “Terralains, drop your weapons!” Cole shouted. Picket glanced from Jo to the soldier lying beneath him. It was all he could do to stop his sword from doing its awful work. His hand was shaking. He looked across at Tameth Seer. The old rabbit seethed as he was covered by several rabbits with swords.

  The sword trembled in Picket’s grip as all the injustices he and Heather had experienced flashed through his raging mind. Heather, who was in the clutches of Morbin himself because of their betrayal. His face was contorted with anger as he raised his sword overhead, glaring at the silver stars on the soldier’s breastplate. The Terralain arms. The symbol of the Silver Prince.

  “Pick?” Jo whispered, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We have them, Picket.”

  Picket glanced back at Jo. The archer’s face was firm, an eyebrow arched with a question.

  Picket looked from Tameth Seer to the soldier, then back at Tameth Seer. “I am no murderer,” he whispered fiercely, sheathing his sword.

  Helmer emerged from the woods nearest the crossing and nodded to Jo and Cole and the archers. “Well done, lads. Any more where they came from?”

  “There’s a large camp withdrawn from the ridge,” Cole said, “but our units seem to have skirted them. This is the only band we know of to be out.”

  Helmer nodded. “So now, Tameth Seer,” he said, walking up to the old rabbit. “My princess, the queen-to-be and true heir of Natalia, has put life and death in my hands. I am charged with protecting her community and furthering the cause. You are an obstacle to all our aims. You did not have to be. You do not have to be in the future. But here you are, mere yards from Jupiter’s Crossing, taking up Morbin’s part in the story.” Some of the Terralain soldiers looked down. “We have no wish to fight with you, as rabbits should not shed one another’s blood, but we cannot be allies with Morbin Blackhawk.”

  “Prince Kylen will arise and sweep all before him!’ Tameth Seer said, his high, shrill voice a seesaw of wild glee and gravity.

  “Who is the senior military officer present?” Helmer asked, turning from Tameth in disgust. “Who can speak for the army?”

  “I can,” said a brawny rabbit, the same who had come to the seer’s side before the fight began.

  “So, Captain?”

  “Captain Vulm,” he answered.

  “I am Captain Helmer,” Helmer said, crossing to stand before him. “I do not ask you to chart a course for your entire land. I only ask you for these terms. Do not raise arms against us this day, or the next. Let us go our way and you go yours, in peace. Shed no rabbit’s blood.”

  “Our arms?”

  “Keep your weapons, all of you. You go your way in peace, and we go ours. This is no surrender,” he said quietly, “only a cessation of hostilities. So we can regroup and think about whether or not we should be fighting one another at all. But that is a matter for our principals. We are only soldiers, and we see what soldiers see.” This last he said while glancing at Picket.

  Captain Vulm frowned, looked down, glanced at his soldiers, then back at Helmer. “I cannot speak for all the army, Captain. I do not have such authority. But for the soldiers here, I give you my word as a warrior. We will not fight with you or yours for three days.”

  “Then it is agreed,” Helmer said, extending his hand. They caught one another by the wrist and, nodding solemnly, broke apart.

  Wordlessly, Captain Vulm motioned for the Terralain band to turn back. They moved with him, sheathing their weapons and stalking off.

  “The flood is coming,” Tameth Seer cried as he was led away, “and Prince Kylen will turn the tide and win the day! I have seen it!”

  “Should we have shown such mercy, sir?” Cole asked, frowning at the retreating soldiers as he walked up.

  “I don’t want to fight them again,” Lieutenant Drand said, feeling at his torn coat for the wound he’d just received.

  “I wanted to kill him.” Picket’s heart was still racing.

  “No one could have blamed you if you had,” Jo said. “But I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “Who knows?” Helmer said. “Picket refusing the battle may one day win the war.”

  Chapter Six

  A TOKEN OF THE BROKEN WORLD

  Listen, now,” Jo said as he put his arm around Picket and took him aside. Cole followed. “After you and Captain Helmer left with your company, some more of the band that had gone with Prince Smalls and Captain Wilfred came in.”

  “My father among them,” Cole added.

  “Is Lord Blackstar okay?” Picket asked, a stab of guilt driving into his heart. He had begged the prince to attempt a rescue and later learned that it had gone horribly wrong, resulting in Uncle Wilfred being badly wounded—and worse news still. The worst news he had ever received.

  “Father is hurt,” Cole answered, “but he’ll recover. He’s well enough to travel with Emma, and she is seeing to his wounds.”

  “Did he confirm…” Picket began, but he couldn’t go on. He dared not hope.

  “Yes,” Jo said, “Lord Blackstar saw what Captain Wilfred saw. He was run through and carried off, limp as a rag. The prince is dead.”

  Picket nodded, looking down, tears starting in his eyes.

  “But Father brought back a few of the prince’s things, which he gave to Princess Emma. And she wanted you to have this,” Cole said, drawing out of his pack a long black scarf.

  Picket took it and collapsed to his knees, a crippling grief overwhelming him. “It was my fault, my fault!” he sobbed.

  They bent to lay gentle hands on his shoulders as he felt the crushing weight of it. After a little while, Cole spoke up. “Princess Emma said this would happen, but she wanted you to carry this token with you, because despite the one mistake you made, you were her brother’s true friend—you and Heather and Wilfred, his truest friends—and because you saved his life and have saved the cause again and again, the prince’s scarf belongs with you. She said, ‘Give it to him, with all my love.’”

  “So take it, brother,” Jo said, lifting Picket to his feet again, “and carry on. Bear this token, and bear the flame.”

  Picket nodded, wiped his eyes, and breathed in deeply. He closed his eyes, took another long breath, then opened them and looked at Helmer. Helmer nodded to the moon. Picket said, “Right.”

  “Time to go,” Cole said.

  “Yes. This is goodbye.” Picket hugged Jo and Cole in turn.

  “For now,” Cole answered.

  “Watch out for her,” Picket said, looking Jo in the eye. Both rabbits’ eyes were wet with tears. “Keep that bow ready. And Cole, please keep her safe. I hate to leave like this.”

  “We’ll do our best, Pick,” Cole said. “Anyway, your task i
s far more dangerous than ours.”

  “I don’t envy you, my friend,” Jo added. “But we’ll take care of the princess…till the Green Ember rises…”

  “…or the end of the world,” they said together.

  They embraced again, then parted. Picket crossed to Helmer. Helmer nodded to Cole and Jo and said, “We’ll send word via Harbone Citadel. Wait for the signal, and then don’t hesitate. She must be decisive.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cole said, saluting. Jo touched his forehead and bowed. Helmer stared a moment at them, then turned, and he and Picket walked briskly out into Jupiter’s Crossing.

  Without a word, they began to run. Because of his leg injury, Helmer’s gait was ungainly, but it didn’t seem to slow him down. Picket carried wounds of his own, in every sense, and he carried them into that sacred crossroads.

  Jupiter’s Crossing was a complicated place, and it always had been. An unsafe rabbit crossing between two forests for centuries, it became a symbol of King Jupiter’s reign when it got to be as safe as any forest road. King Jupiter had won such victories over the birds of prey that they were pressed back into their home in the High Bleaks. This crossing, and many other such places, had become secure for rabbitkind. But that was before. Nowhere felt safe now.

  When they came to the middle of the crossing, Helmer slowed, then stopped, bent to kneel, and lowered his head. Lost in his own sober reflections, Picket knelt as well.

  As every rabbit knew, it was now very near the anniversary of the day when King Jupiter had died here. The great king was killed by Morbin Blackhawk after being betrayed by Heather and Picket’s uncle, Garten Longtreader. When the king died, so died the golden age of rabbits, and the Great Wood became a broken, scorched remnant of its former glories. Ever since, Jupiter’s Crossing had been a sad place, hallowed but unhappy for rabbits. But then Picket had rescued Prince Jupiter Smalls here, on this very soil. It was a feat that reverberated throughout Natalia and hummed with hope in the heart of every rabbit who heard of it. Most learned of it through Heather’s own startling account, copied and passed from hand to hand. She had become “the Scribe of the Cause” as a result, telling how Picket had soared above and struck down Redeye Garlackson, rescuing the prince, fueling the fire of the cause, and vindicating the Longtreader name.

  But the prince he had saved was now gone, and he wept to think of his part in it. Picket had never meant to endanger the prince; he was only desperate to see his lost family saved. He was wrong, he knew, to plead with Smalls to attempt the rescue. And he felt the loss keenly, both for the cause and because Smalls was his friend. His best friend, really. Heather had hopes as well with Smalls that went beyond him being her king one day, and Picket felt the weight of the world that now could never be. He buried his face in the black scarf.

  As they slowly got to their feet and walked on in silence, Picket wrapped the scarf around his neck. It felt good to have it close, like the stitching that hurts on a wound, even as it slowly helps it heal.

  * * *

  Picket and Helmer traveled until they could go no farther. They rested in the well-hidden hollow of a thorny thicket, each sleeping deeply from total exhaustion. When they awoke, they ate and drank from their hefty travel packs, then resumed their march without much talk. Picket had never come this way, heading toward the heart of the Great Wood. Helmer was determined, even though Picket could see his master’s leg was aching, and the older rabbit pressed on through the pain.

  “Will they know us at Harbone Citadel?” Picket asked.

  “They’ll know me,” Helmer replied. “And they’ll know of you. Don’t forget that you’re a war hero.”

  “You were a war hero before I was breeched,” Picket said.

  “That’s true, Ladybug,” he said, smiling, “but I never did the things you did, nor anything like.”

  “You like to make war the old-fashioned way.”

  “It suits me better, yes. On the ground, as rabbits always have, just going straight at the enemy.”

  “Very noble.”

  “I think so.”

  They fell silent again for a while, moving quickly, Picket matching Helmer’s efficient hustling gait. He never stopped to check his bearings but plunged ahead, as if he traveled this path every day of his life.

  “You know the way, I presume?” Picket asked.

  “I could find it on a moonless night while blindfolded.”

  “I have studied the maps, as you so vigorously commanded, and I wonder if we haven’t taken a few paths out of the way.”

  Helmer smirked. “You are gifted, young Picket, it is to be admitted, at routes and calculation. But what you don’t know is the most likely spots for scouts or the places that can and can’t be seen from great distances. So all your theoretical knowledge of maps is well enough, but I’d rather take my way and keep us alive.”

  “That’s so unreasonable,” Picket said, laughing.

  “I’ve been accused of worse.”

  “You’ve been guilty of worse.”

  “That is also true,” Helmer agreed. He laughed through his nose in a short, gruff snort.

  “You’ve been this way many times?”

  “Yes,” Helmer said, but his smile faded. Picket thought his master was remembering days gone by, and he let him remember. He would not break in on his thoughts. Finally, Helmer spoke again. “My sister and I…we walked these paths a thousand times together.”

  A sister? They walked on, and Picket replied, “I didn’t know you had a sister, Master Helmer.”

  “I do. And she is ten times as ornery as I. Her name is Airen, and she’s my twin.”

  “I had no idea…” Picket began. He left a lengthy pause before finishing, “that it was possible for anyone to be even half as ornery as you, Master.”

  “She is full of fire,” Helmer said, now grinning. Actually grinning! Picket was astonished, so he felt freer to speak than he usually would have.

  “Where is Airen?” Picket asked.

  Helmer’s face bent in a frown again. He said, “Airen’s in First Warren. She’s lived in the grip of Morbin’s claw for so many years. And I haven’t seen her for ages.” He swiped at his eyes. “The truth is, son, I don’t know if she’s alive or dead.”

  “I have only just lost my sister. Dead or alive, I don’t know. And it is unbearable. I feel as though a part of me is gone. The best part of me. It’s awful that you’ve been separated from Airen so long.”

  “A good sister is a gift,” Helmer said. “I only wish I would have appreciated her more when we were young and together. And I wish I had never left her.”

  “I’m very sorry, Master.”

  “We all carry our burdens, Picket,” Helmer said, his head hung low and his limp more obvious than earlier. “Wounds unhealed and griefs…” But he could say no more.

  “It will not be so,” Picket said after a decent pause, feeling for the scarf at his neck, “in the Mended Wood.”

  Chapter Seven

  FAMILY HISTORY

  After hours of hurry through wide woods, they slowed to cross a particularly tricky thicket, swiping at vines and shrugging off grabby patches of thorns. The sun fell in dappled splashes as evening set in, and Picket followed Helmer into the tangle of trees. Winter was less dominant the farther south they went, and here and there green gathered around the pervasive brown of the forest. Picket had to trust that his master knew what he was doing, for he could not help but calculate a host of faster paths to their destination.

  Their destination.

  Will we even be welcomed? Picket had felt the chilling dismissal of hard-set opponents before, and he hoped that their reception would at least be a little warm. “Will they welcome us at Harbone Citadel, Master?”

  “They have no reason not to,” Helmer answered, swiping at a knotted vine, which split and lay limp on either side of their path.

  “Except that I’m a Longtreader.”

  “I think,” Helmer said, pausing to draw breath and wipe his brow
with a handkerchief, “that the days of your family name being used for ill purposes are over. Thanks to your particular heroics and your sister’s gifted pen, the name Longtreader is inspiring the free rabbits of Natalia. I even expect your harshest critics, like Lord Ronan at Blackstone Citadel, to come around.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Those at Harbone have no reason to be against us. And besides, anyone who has a problem with you has a problem with me.”

  “Thank you, Master.”

  “I accept you,” Helmer said, putting his hand over his heart.

  “I am accepted,” Picket replied, hand over his own heart, completing once again the conclusion to the vows of an apprentice. They had been through much since his unexpected and informal calling ceremony on the village green at Cloud Mountain, but Picket saw that his master still believed that the ritual mattered and that Picket was under his solemn protection.

  “With Airen and her family…well, who knows where,” Helmer said, drawing his sword again and forging ahead, “you’re the only family I’ve got.”

  Picket blinked, eyes widening. He stopped. Then he smiled and followed Helmer deeper into the forest.

  After hacking through the disused path for an hour, Picket spoke up again. “Have you known Harbone Citadel’s lord long?”

  “Lord Hewson? You could say that. We hated one another as young bucks, fought like ancient enemies. He from a highborn family and I low, we clashed often. But we came together as soldiers. Battle, as I should guess you’ve noticed, has a way of forging some durable bonds.”

  “Yes, sir,” Picket answered, looking away. He thought of Jo and Cole.

  “Anyway, Lord Hewson is a good friend. I once saved his life from a particularly heinous wolf. Not so fierce and famous as your Redeye Garlackson, no, but no toothless pup either.”

  At the mention of their enemies, an enormous cloud passed between them and the sun, and the thicket grew darker still. A chill wind picked up, and they felt a sudden shiver. Picket glanced around, uneasy. “It’s only the wind,” he said, barely aloud. “It’s nothing.”