“Wait here.”
Smalls looked up, surprised. He’d been trying to avoid looking up as much as possible. He hadn’t wanted to come in the first place, but well, here he was.
“How come?” He asked.
“Because Mr. Jemison won’t appreciate you knocking any of his glasswork over.” Wilfred replied, hand on his sword, eyes flicking briefly towards him, then back to the shop they were standing in front of.
“I wouldn’t knock it over.” Smalls protested, rolling his eyes.
This behavior was odd of Wilfred. He knew that Smalls was careful, at least more careful than most rabbits his age. But this wasn’t the first time Wilfred had pulled something like this, and it was getting increasingly annoying. He’d been acting absurd for weeks now. After the arrival of a letter that had visibly upset him, Wilfred had become oddly withdrawn and increasingly quiet. Smalls had even gone so far as sneaking to discover what was in the note, but had been caught to his chagrin. Wilfred hadn’t even lectured him much; not like he usually did.
“We have to go to the capital.” He’d said.
“Why?” Smalls asked, disliking the prospect.
“Trust me.” Had been Wilfred’s only reply.
The conversation had swirled in Smalls’ head for the rest of the week, stirring up an old resentment to authority that he’d thought he’d put to death a long time ago. Apparently not.
“I’m going inside.” Wilfred interrupted his thoughts, pulling his hood up, acting as if he hadn’t heard Smalls’ earlier statement. “Keep watch. If there’s even a hint of trouble-”
“Signal. Yes, I know. I’m not twelve anymore, Wilfred.” Smalls reminded him. I’m nearly sixteen.
Wilfred relaxed slightly, the muscles in the hand clenched tightly around the handle of his sword loosening.
“You’re right. I should trust you. But be careful. There’re wolves on the prowl.” And with that cheerful reminder, he disappeared into the dark shop. The building on a whole looked very empty and abandoned to Smalls, and he grimaced, annoyed at being kept in the dark-literally. He began to pace, hand on the hilt of his sword. The reminder of their enemy set him on edge, and he wished more than anything to not be where he was.
Smalls hated The First Warren. The old capital was a crumbling decay and ruined because of the violent occupation. The wall was being reinforced and finished, and eventually all in-and-out access to the place would be nonexistent. Based on their current information, that ‘eventually’ would become a reality within the next week or so. Smalls and Wilfred needed to be gone by then, long, long gone. I’ll go insane if we stay here much longer. He thought, glaring at the cobbled ground. There’s nothing good here.
He sighed, and directed his gaze up.
Clouds were gathering above, blocking out the pale sickle moon. Smalls could see raptors circling high up, waiting, waiting, for someone to make a wrong move. Smalls knew they could see immensely far and hoped the dark back-road and towering buildings around him would protect against their sight. It’s a good thing Spring is coming. Traveling’ll be easier.
Smalls fiddled with his sword pommel, tempted to draw it simply to feel safer. Footsteps approached, the swing of a door and Smalls squinted in the darkness to make out the form of Wilfred. His sword was drawn.
“What was that about?” He asked, hoping for a legitimate answer this time around. Wilfred had a bad habit of withholding important information until the very last possible moment before Smalls needed to know it.
“Some intel.” Wilfred replied vaguely, swinging his pack onto his shoulders in one clean movement and re-sheathing his sword. Wilfred took off at a fast pace, annoying Smalls. He knows I’m shorter, why can’t I get a break? He jogged to catch up with him.
“What kind of intel?” He questioned.
“I’ll tell you in the morning. Are you in a rush, lad?” Wilfred’s pointed look was as-pointedly ignored by Smalls. But he did admit;
“I don’t like it here….It’s……all wrong.”
Wilfred sighed. “I agree. This place isn’t what it should be, the occupation has knarled it into something demented and evil.”
Smalls’ fists involuntarily clenched.
He longed to act, longed to restore what had been lost. But that had already been tried, and he remembered watching the riots and protests as a child. His mind also unhappily supplied images of the day awful Lord Falcowit had put an end to it all.
“It won’t always be this way.” Wilfred added.
“I hope so.” Smalls replied.
He was tempted to add more, preferably some backhanded, passive-aggressive jab at Wilfred’s distressing secrecy. But Wilfred could apparently read minds, because the look he gave Smalls was enough to sway him from acting on his inclinations.
“Where are we sleeping tonight?” He asked instead.
“Not in the city.”
“I thought we were staying on for a few more days.”
Wilfred shook his head. “No, we’ll leave tonight.” His tone shifted slightly, and Smalls glanced at him, sensing the difference.
What is going on? The question had been rattling around inside his head for weeks now, and he had too little information to answer it.
“Oh, and this is for you.” Wilfred handed Smalls a thin stack of letters, bound together with twine.
“Evan?” Smalls questioned, unable to read the address due to the darkness.
“That’s who I assumed.”
I haven’t got anyone else who would write to me. Smalls mused. Evan was his older brother by a year. They’d spent much of their childhood together and had stayed in touch consistently ever since they’d been split after the massacre. Smalls slipped the letters in his pack.
“Where are we going to stop?”
“Where do you think is best?”
“That depends. Which direction are we trying to go?”
“Northwest.”
Smalls thought for a moment. “We’d have to get across the black gap tonight.”
“Yes.”
“And we can’t go to the citadels, yet.”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“But the tunnels aren’t completely blocked, correct?”
“Yes.” They had stopped walking.
“Half-moon would work.” Smalls said at last. “It’s bound to be empty this time of year.”
“Five miles out.” Wilfred mused. “And at least a two-mile dead run, up and down, over debris and other obstacles. You up for that?”
For the first time since entering the city, Smalls grinned. “Always.”
Smalls knew it was odd, but he’d never liked being underground. It was a dislike that was a borderline fear. He hated feeling trapped or stuck. He didn’t even like being indoors. He felt like he was suffocating. But it was necessary to cross the black gap.
The Black Gap was a dangerous stretch of burned land. Morbin Blackhawk had decimated the capital and then humiliated Smalls’ people further by tearing down their greatest strength; he’d burned the wood. Just thinking about it infuriated Smalls. Even as a child, he’d seethed and chafed underneath Morbin’s authority, muttering threats of poisoning and death that Wilfred had silenced in order to keep him alive.
He knew how to keep his mouth shut now. He knew how to keep his thoughts in his head-rather than letting every idea that passed through his mind come out in speech. But his anger had merely turned silent; it had not disappeared.
There were tunnels underneath the Black Gap, though nearly all were blocked or discovered now. This last one would put them out about four miles from Half-moon ridge, a system of caves and tunnels used frequently by travelers. This was the melting season, and many areas would become flooded as snow melted from the mountains and sent a surge of water rippling through the river system. Most put off their traveling until afterwards, but Smalls and Wilfred went right through it. Ironically, it was safer to travel then because no one else would.
The tunnels were cramped, dark, and wet, a combination Smalls decided was never pleasant no matter the context.
“What time is it?” He asked after a while.
Wilfred thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t have the foggiest clue. My best guess is somewhere in-between one and two in the morning.”
Smalls nodded. Then there was a distinct, sudden boom.
“Blastpowder.” Smalls hissed.
“They must have caught wind of us, somehow.” Wilfred muttered. “Put out the light.”
Smalls obeyed, tossing the torch he’d been carrying into the dirt and covering it in soil. Light was risky with the crevices in the ceiling. Left in utter darkness, Smalls could only feel his way through the dark and listen and follow Wilfred’s stumbling footsteps.
The entire night, booms shook the ground above them. Smalls decidedly hated it. The First Warren had caught wind of them, there was no doubt about that, and was obviously trying to flush them out. Either that, or they were having very erratic drills. Smalls doubted the second.
He set his jaw and tried to ignore his fear, but the back of his mind still whispered about cave-ins and darkness and crumbling rock. Finally, he felt a breeze. Thank leapers. He looked around.
And doubt crept in.
Wait, this isn’t right……We haven’t walked far enough. This wasn’t here before.
The crumpled rock on the ground and the fissure in the ceiling above must have come from the recent blastpowder explosions.
“Wait,” Wilfred whispered, voice so low Smalls could barely hear it. Smalls could hear voices. He recognized one. He seethed. Winslow. His eldest brother. Fake, puppet, disgrace.
“He’s such a-”
Wilfred shot Smalls a severe look for his language, but Smalls was not sorry. His upbringing surrounded by Wolves and military hadn’t exactly ensured that he’d have the cleanest mouth.
Wilfred shook his head, drew his sword, and raised a hand, a signal to wait. Smalls waited, sword in hand, poised for action and hardly able to wait for it. Wilfred held up his hand, closing it into a fist and reopening it. 10 enemies. Smalls nodded. Suddenly Wilfred jolted out and up through the tunnel exit. Smalls followed in suit.
Above, Smalls discovered ten of Daggler’s band, two already down, injured and disabled at Wilfred’s surprise attack. Winslow was standing behind Daggler himself, no weapon in sight. Coward. Before Smalls could move forward to his brother, one of the other rabbits leapt forward, and he was forced to roll to avoid losing his head.
The soldier’s face was one of pure hatred, cruel and smirking, and he cursed bitterly as Smalls’ blade met his with a resounding clang. But for all the soldier’s bravado he was no match, and he was quickly disabled. Smalls spun and struck him in the jaw with his free hand. The soldier crumpled to the ground. His replacement quickly stepped up, and the cycle began again.
Finally, Smalls lowered his blade tip to his eldest brother’s throat. Winslow glared at him, haughty and unapologetic. Daggler was trapped in a dueling match with Wilfred. Unless Winslow had suddenly become a swordsmanship prodigy, he was as good as dead. Because while Winslow might not have been able to lift a weapon, Smalls was certainly no novice when it came to swordplay. If anything, he was the prodigy.
“You make things worse for yourself, little brother.” Winslow spat.
Smalls shook his head, regaining his breath and saying, “I would rather die on my knees than see you remain on our father’s throne.”
Winslow snorted. “Giving in would solve your problems, Smalden. Simply hand over the Green Ember, and you will be free.”
The absurdity of this statement made Smalls laugh. “No one is ever free under Morbin.”
“We are free,” Winslow’s voice raised a pitch, “And Ambassador Longtreader saved us when he submitted to Morbin!”
“You disgust me.” Smalls was so furious that he had to fight to keep his hands steady, but his tone remained even. “He murdered our father and burned our home to the ground, yet you defend him as a savior!”
“And he will burn a thousand more to seek you!” Winslow screamed. “Even ten thousand! You are bringing ruin down on all of us!”
“Let him try, then,” Smalls growled. “Let him do what he will. He won’t win. He won’t succeed-not forever. Not while I still have breath in my body!”
Before anything more could be done, a huge hawk swooped down, screeching wildly. Smalls tumbled and rolled out of the way to avoid the bird’s claws, shot up, and took off running for the forest.
“Coward. Couldn’t you stay and finish him?” The voice in his head hissed. “He deserved it.”
“Shut up.” He told it. “He’s not worth my life.”
Smalls could sense Wilfred behind him, and the huge shadow of the hawk blocking out the moon, it’s shadow following him along the ground.
“You’re an exile, brother!” Winslow screeched. “An exile and a fool! You return, and you will be killed! Fool!!!” One final shriek from the bird, and Smalls skidded into the forest, barely missed slamming into a tree from his speed, and paused to wait for Wilfred. “Fool!!!”