Pickwand watched as the Walter made its way down the Goforth River, fleeing First Warren to the south. Aboard it, alongside many other noble refugees, was most of the royal family, including Princes Winslow and Whitbie. Pickwand could do no more for them than he had done. He could only hope that the enemy did not have any additional forces moving in the south.

Screams and explosions filling the air around him, the Lord Captain pondered how things could have gone wrong so swiftly. One of his ships, barely seaworthy, had come limping down the River Fay just as the Preylord armada arrived overhead. Its acting commander, a lieutenant young enough to be Pickwand’s son, had struggled to make his report. Only the obvious urgency of his news had been enough to make him choke back his tears as he spoke.

The vessel had come from Ayman Lake, where all but a handful of the vessels of the Hundred Warrens’ Navy had been gathered. It had been at the recommendation of ambassador Garten Longtreader. Pickwand had thought it odd, but several of the other Lord Captains had mockingly suggested that it would make little difference whether his ships left the waterways of Natalia for a week or a month. Having long since tired of such arguments, Pickwand had relented.

Apparently, he should have trusted his instincts.

Wolves and raptors had descended upon the lake in unprecedented numbers. Such a force might well have crushed Kingston itself, in spite of the formidable defenses that had been maintained and added to since the days of Fleck Blackstar. But it would have taken a long siege, and that hadn’t been what the predators were after. No, their targets had been much more vulnerable and readily available: the ships of the fleet and their crews.

It would probably have been enough for the attacking force to come down on the unsuspecting ships at their moorings. But traitor rabbits had also taken part, sabotaging what feeble defense the sailors and dockers might have attempted to put up. In scenes that recalled The Black Star of Kingston, raptors had seized rabbits and carried them off towards the High Bleaks. Others had been set upon by the traitors or the wolves, who seemed intent on taking prisoners rather than killing.

One vessel, small but swift, had managed to escape onto the river. They had been pursued and suffered damage, but managed to carry on. Past the old Halfway Harbor and Grimble Island they had come, intent on reaching First Warren with their warning. Sadly, they had arrived almost in unison with another attacking force.

Pickwand thought with pity of the rabbits who had been captured. The fortunate ones, if they could be called fortunate, would be forced to maintain their former vessels for the use of their captors. Wolves were poor shipwrights at best, and raptors of course needed no such transports. But they would be pleased enough to turn the ships that had so often thwarted them into instruments of domination.

Much as the thought grieved him, he felt even worse for those carried to Akolan. No rabbit had ever escaped the slave city. And could there be a greater torment for rabbits who had made their lives on water than to be trapped where they would never see so much as a stream again? What hope was there for a sailor, docker, or ship builder in a landlocked pit?

Doing his best to fight down the despair threatening to consume him, Pickwand rushed up a staircase leading to the top of the dam. There, at a dock stretching out into Lake Merle, sat the battered vessel. A number of rabbits were scrambling over it, hastily effecting repairs. In spite of their efforts, the craft still looked half wrecked.

Standing on the dock was a short doe, heavily shrouded in a cloak. In the crook of one arm she carried a small bundle, well swaddled. Her free hand gripped the hand of a young white buck standing beside her. One would never have thought to look at her that she was the Queen of rabbitkind.

The Queen had come to this dock separate from her older children, accompanied only by a few trusted officers. Before that, she had been secluded in her private chambers at the palace with the infant doe she now carried. Now she watched grimly as the means of her escape was hastily prepared. Her young son Smalden watched with her, his young eyes surprisingly solemn.

“Your Majesty, the Walter has departed,” Pickwand said with a quick bow. “It’s running fast, so with luck it should reach safety. Your own craft is almost ready. Though I fear it can not hope to be half so swift.”

“A pity, Lord Captain, but perhaps a blessing as well. The Preylords are unlikely to care for a ship that looks to be in danger of sinking at any moment. Morbin will want some rabbits to escape the city, in any case. He will want word to spread of his triumph.”

From the city below came a sound of howling. Pickwand turned to one of the Queen’s escorts and held out a hand. Wordlessly, the buck passed him a pike. Nodding his thanks, Pickwand turned to leave the group only to feel a small hand on his arm.

“Lord Captain, sir? Please come with us?”

Prince Smalden’s plea warmed Pickwand’s heart, and he knelt to look the young buck in the eye. His eye caught the glint of a chain under the prince’s shirt. But Pickwand didn’t spare it much thought. Instead, he regarded young Smalden with all seriousness.

“My apologies, Your Highness. But I must guard your escape, I and those who remain with me. Don’t worry-you have a good crew and a good ship to carry you, your mother, and sister to safety. I trust them with my life.”

Rising to full height, Pickwand found himself looking at the lieutenant who had reported the disaster at Ayman Lake to him. The buck’s tears had dried, and he looked at Pickwand with obvious gratitude. No more senior officer could be spared to captain the craft, so the lieutenant would be charged with the safety of all three royals. Hearing the Lord Captain’s vote of confidence was a great boost in the face of such responsibility.

“Her Majesty and Their Highnesses’ transport is ready, Lord Captain.”

“Thank you, lad,” Pickwand said with an approving nod. With a final look at Prince Smalden, he spoke again. “Forgive me. Thank you, Captain.”

With a sharp salute, the officer turned to his passengers. “The Seddle awaits, Your Majesty and Your Highnesses.”

As the Seddle limped out onto the lake and towards the River Fay, Pickwand smiled. Perhaps, he thought, there was less to worry about than he thought. If that young sailor could rise to this occasion, why not those whom the predators had captured? After all, you couldn’t dedicate your life to the water without having, or taking on, some of its qualities. Water was patient, and water was powerful-and water could take you by surprise.

Growls broke into Pickwand’s thoughts, and he looked to the shoreward end of the dock. There stood a party of wolves. And at their head was a hateful one-eyed form. Death was written on his face, and Pickwand expected that it was coming for him.

Lifting his pike, the Lord Captain strode to meet it.