Smalls jumped, startled, and shot into combat mode. He glanced up. The landing was on fire, spewing vast amounts of smoke into the sky. The fire sizzled as the rain hit it, but the building was already crumbling to ash. To embers. Smalls dug the oars into the water, hitting the shallows floor and bringing the boat to a stop.
“We need to get to shore, now!” Wilfred called. Smalls was already on it. A moment later, they were on dry ground. “Stay low.”
Smalls’ eyes darted around, checking for enemies. Heather identified seven wolves, high above the Landing, on a ridge. It wasn’t Garlackson himself, but a different company. They’d gotten lucky. Garlackson would have spotted them immediately, and killed them on sight.
“Decker?” Smalls asked, eyes roving the house.
“No sign of struggle from them. Maybe he got out in time.”
Smalls hoped so. Decker had been a good rabbit. They reached the shore, and Smalls hurried from the boat, and he and Wilfred pulled it to shore. Smalls offered Heather his hand to help her out, but she ignored him and focused on her brother, who was as cordial as usual, and louder than ever.
“Quiet.” Smalls hissed in his direction, receiving a glare in return. He stepped forward carefully, gesturing to Wilfred that I’ll scout. You stay here. Wilfred nodded, sticking low to the reeds with Heather and Picket.
He darted across the open patch between Decker’s landing and the river, rolling behind a barren oak a moment before a wolf paused and leered down at the blaze, as if he had heard something.
“Keep moving!” He ordered, snarling, and snapping at a younger wolf who had slowed briefly to see what his commanding officer was looking at. Smalls exhaled. He waited a tense moment, then peered back out, fingering the pommel of his sword. He confirmed the number of enemies.
Smalls searched for the closest refuge, identifying a finger of forest jutting out close to shore, about a hundred yards out from where Wilfred, Heather, and Picket were situated. Best option, we run for it, He decided. He communicated the plan to Wilfred through previously agreed upon hand-signals, and he in turn communicated it to Heather and Picket. Smalls’ eyes remained glued to the wolves high above. Three...two…one...And he gestured urgently for them to run. And they ran.
Smalls waited, tense and poised, until Picket was ahead to start running. Then he sprinted for it. He easily passed Picket and caught up with Wilfred, who nodded on his arrival and put on some more speed. Heather was a fair bit ahead. She’s fast.
They were almost to the forest when Smalls heard a sharp cry. He stole a rapid look back and saw that Picket had stumbled and fallen. He didn’t get up. Smalls skidded to a halt. He cast one quick glance at Heather and Wilfred to ensure that they were safe. Then he shot off in Picket’s direction.
Smalls didn’t count himself as heroic, necessarily. He knew he was reckless. He knew that he stressed Wilfred out and didn’t think before he leaped. But there were two rules he followed; leave no one behind, and don’t let emotions get in the way of saving a life.
And he and Picket might not have gotten along, but the kid definitely didn’t deserve to die ten minutes into actually seeing the real world. Naïve and irritating as he was, Smalls didn’t blame him. So, he went back for Picket.
He reached Picket, stopping briefly. Picket was injured, obviously, and unable to walk. Not taking time to consider Picket’s feelings about the whole ordeal, Smalls scooped him up and charged back across the open field, setting him down just under the dense tree cover. Wilfred and Heather had paused, Wilfred with his hand on his blade and Heather shifting nervously only a few yards forward.
“We have to hurry.” Wilfred called, voice calm but urgent. “If they saw us, then we have almost no time.” He glanced at Picket’s foot. Picket wouldn’t look at him. “We’re not safe yet.”
The forest was dark, tangled and looming, and though the rain was thudding heavily on the branches and dead, clinging leaves, very few drops made it all the way to the ground.
Wilfred was ahead of Smalls, and normally he would have matched his pace. The wound on his back was keeping him from doing so, and he knew better than to push himself and make the recovery time longer. He’d learned that the hard way and wasn’t keen on repeating his twelve-year-old self’s mistake. He’d received an injury in a wolf raid and had shortly after been on the move again. His stubbornness had eventually resulted in an infection that had nearly killed him, and that had been the last time he’d done that.
Unfortunately, now, with each step, even though he was taking it easy, the pain only grew. Either the medicine is wearing off, or it’s getting worse. He decided that the medicine was just wearing off.
An hour passed.
“I need to stop!” Heather called. Smalls halted, pivoted, and hurried over to her.
“Are you alright?” He asked.
“I’m okay. I just need a moment to rest.” Smalls didn’t believe her. She looked fine-obviously she had run much further distances before. She wasn’t panting or showing other signs of exhaustion.
He raised an eyebrow at her, and she glanced over at Picket before looking back at him. Oh. He nodded, and Heather’s features relaxed a bit. Smalls was struck again by her beauty, but kept his thoughts to himself. He’d embarrassed himself enough for one day.
“I could use a rest too.” He said instead, sinking to the ground. It wasn’t technically a lie. He was in pain too; he’d just had more practice hiding it. Picket was squeezing a stick so tightly it looked about to snap. Wilfred caught on to the halt.
“What’s up? Why’re we stopping?” Smalls glanced in Picket’s direction, making sure he wasn’t looking at them as he and Heather both mouthed ‘Picket’ at the same time. Wilfred nodded. “Well, I needed a puff as well.” He walked over to Picket, where the two began conversing outside of Smalls’ and Heather’s hearing. Smalls sighed.
“I’m sorry, he’s been so terrible.” Heather murmured, fiddling nervously with the hem of her sleeve. “He……” She didn’t finish, an odd mixture of anger, resentment, and lostness crossing her face. It’s a look Smalls recognized.
“Loss does things to people, makes them change, sometimes more than we want.” Smalls said gently, tilting his head as he looked at her. “I’m sure he’ll get better.”
Heather sighed, looking away. “You don’t know him like me. Picket……Picket holds onto things. He holds grudges.”
Smalls was suddenly uneasy, the familiar sensation of wariness rising in his stomach as he glanced back at Picket.
He knew what evidently Heather didn’t; he knew about their family’s history. He knew about the terrible shame and pain that Wilfred carried, the pain that someday soon Heather and Picket would be forced to take on as well.
The pain of being related to the traitor that had caused all of this.
The invasion.
The corruption.
The death.
The awful, terrible pain, the swirling black storm that had come down on their heads and poisoned what was once good.
Garten Longtreader was a foul creature, and Smalls would have been more than happy to see him run through with his own sword for his heinous acts. He would have done it himself.
Even though it wasn’t Wilfred, Heather, or Picket’s fault what their relative had done, Heather’s assessment of Picket had him wondering. He glanced over at the younger buck, who looked on the verge of tears.
Smalls would have bet decent money that Wilfred was chewing him out.
“You’re bleeding.” Heather observed, breaking him out of his revery.
Smalls leaned his head on his knees and sighed, not decreasing the pain. “I know. There isn’t much I can do about it right now.” His head was pounding again.
“Uncle said you had a concussion.”
“Borderline.” Smalls insisted.
“And that’s better?”
Smalls gave her a questioning look that she met with a raised eyebrow.
“Slightly.” He finally answered. Heather looked skeptical. “Alright,” He admitted reluctantly, “It doesn’t feel much better.” It struck him then as odd that he had so readily admitted his pain to a girl he barely knew. But I want to. The thought came without permission, and Smalls could only look away as his face flushed from it. But it was the truth. Smalls, to his great confusion and embarrassment, found himself attracted to her in a way he’d never been with anyone else. She’s pretty. Another uncalled feeling darted across his consciousness, tingly and warm. That’s enough. He began, chiding himself. He shoved the thoughts and the feelings deep into the void of his mind. You’re being foolish and silly.
But it didn’t quite work, because it immediately bounced back up.
“We’re moving again!” Wilfred called. Smalls looked up. Apparently, Wilfred and Picket had come to some sort of agreement, which was the nice way of saying that Picket had been given zero choice in the matter. Wilfred was carrying Picket on his back. Smalls hung behind with Heather, deciding that he liked her company far more than Picket’s.
The rain turned into a mist and fog that made it much more difficult to navigate. And it was all uphill now. Smalls was tired. He tried to calculate how many miles he’d traveled in the last three days but gave up when he realized he didn’t really want to know. The fog made him uneasy, and he kept his hand always on his sword, drawing it whenever he heard a strange noise. Better safe than sorry, He thought, glancing at Heather.
“You don’t have to walk with me if you don’t want to.” Heather said softly. “I’m alright.”
Smalls looked at her, surprised. Longtreaders seemed to greatly enjoy baffling those around them. Wilfred clearly was pinned under guilt problems Smalls still didn’t fully understand, Picket was apparently of the opinion that he himself was an utterly terrible person, and now, Heather, as well, seemed to think she was a nuisance.
And Smalls thought his family had problems.
“I would rather stay if you don’t mind.” He replied. Heather nodded, turning her head slightly so that he just caught the barest trace of a smile. That lifted his mood slightly, and he was glad that she was too.
There was something warm and kind about her, and sad, too, a sadness that seemed to come from deep inside her and made her seem much older than she was, and she carried herself in a manner that denoted much higher rank than what she had been raised in.
“I’m sorry you have to go through all of this.” Smalls said, and he meant it.
“Thank you, but it isn’t your fault.” Heather replied politely.
Smalls hesitated. They were looking for my mother. But he couldn’t say that. It would spark too many questions. And Heather clearly was anything but stupid; and Smalls wasn’t a good liar.
“It might not be,” He finally said, “But losing loved ones is hard no matter who you are.” Her eyes met his, and the same pain that had been there earlier that day was back, forming tears in the corners of her eyes. There was a question, hanging there, on the tip of her tongue but she didn’t ask it. Smalls could sense it, and an uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. Her mouth opened, forming the first word of the sentence ‘who…..are you?’, before she stopped, and didn’t finish the question. Instead, she returned her gaze to the forest surrounding them.
Smalls sighed. I would answer if I could.