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It is said that there are many worlds, where all the chances and choices of life play out. Where every possible outcome of a given moment actually occurs, just as real as its result in the reality you happen to inhabit. Different worlds featuring different combinations of each choice or circumstance you might face. And as this applies to your world, it applies to other worlds as well.
This tale comes from a Natalia very much like the one with which you are acquainted. Most of the characters, locations, and events will be just as you have experienced them elsewhere. But there are a few key differences. In this Natalia, Fay never gave a prophecy, spoken or written, concerning the breaking of the starsword preceding the start of the Mending.
Furthermore, in this Natalia, the escape of the Seventh District from Akolan was delayed. As such, by the time they reached First Warren, Forbidden Island had already crumbled. Lastly, this Natalia is one where Heyward’s emergency fuse did not utterly fail. It was, however, only when Lord Captain Helmer the Black was part of the way to the blastpowder packed alcove that it ignited the explosives.
Helmer was thrown back by the explosion, mercifully landing in the water he had been crossing. It was a welcome relief from the intense heat. Looking up, he saw shrapnel from the destroyed dam slamming into the latest wave of Preylords. Many of the birds, including Shelt and Vardon of the Six, fell from the sky mortally wounded.
Little time was given to Helmer to process this, or the fact that the birds who survived were turning and fleeing back in the direction from which they had come. The waters of Lake Merle, released by the dam’s destruction, slammed into him. He was carried away by the wall of water, just as they had intended to destroy the wolf armies. It was just the fate Helmer had hoped to spare his brave troops.
Unexpectedly, Helmer slammed into something massive and solid. Or mostly solid; his flailing hands found a large crack. Gripping the sides tightly, he began pulling himself upward. It was exhausting work for his injured and weary limbs, but the idea that he might actually survive fired his resolve.
Yet another surprise came as his feet found steps, and he was able to add the strength of his legs to the effort. Breaking the surface, he gasped in air before dragging himself the rest of the way out of the water. On his hands and knees, he moved a few feet up further before collapsing. With a groan, Helmer turned himself over so he was once again on his back.
Above him loomed the seventh standing stone, still cracked after the statue of Morbin had slammed into its side as it toppled from the top. One of those cracks had reached all the way down to where Helmer had collided with the great pillar. Though pained, Helmer managed a smile. If he lived to tell them, Picket and Weezie would be amazed.
Managing to sit up, Helmer surveyed what he could see of the city. The flood strategy seemed to have worked, with what rabbits he could see clustering on rooftops. No wolves were visible, all presumably having been washed away. Turning back towards the breach in the dam, though, Helmer saw that the worst of the battle was still ahead.
Forbidden Island and its six sisters had crumbled, and a fleet of wolf ships was sailing through the wreckage. Above them flew the Preylords, including those who had survived the destruction of the dam. Leading them was the unmistakable form of Morbin Blackhawk, scythe gripped tightly in his talons. It was a sight Helmer had hoped never to see again.
Even in the days of King Jupiter, Morbin had always been unassailable. His appearance in a battle had been a signal to retreat for those who could. Those who could not were best served making peace within themselves in their last moments, and to hope that these were not too painful. Lesser Preylords could be killed or forced to withdraw, but not the Black Hawk.
Old feelings of hopelessness, forgotten since Picket’s first battle at Jupiter’s Crossing, stirred in Helmer. It seemed he had been right to despair all those years. But now, when the rabbits of the Cause had survived and accomplished so much, it seemed unbearable. Worse, Helmer now realized all his weapons were gone, and he was as helpless as anyone in the path of this onslaught.
White, bright against the dark floodwaters, suddenly caught Helmer’s eye, and he turned to regard it. The bodies of two rabbits had washed up against the stone, just as he had been. One had managed to drive a sword into the very crack he had used to save himself. They clung to the hilt, their other hand gripping the hand of the other rabbit in the water.
Painfully, Helmer staggered to them, and managed to drag both rabbits up into the steps. The first lost his grip on the sword, which remained wedged in the crack. Helmer laid down his burdens-and then his eyes went wide. Both these rabbits were known to him, and both were supposed to be dead.
Heather Longtreader, at least, was now dead, though not of a stab wound as had been reported. Battered and broken, her body had obviously been caught in some crushing shower of rocks. Prince Smalden Joveson, her companion, was in only slightly better shape. And judging by his limp frame, he would soon join the doe he was known to have loved not in marriage, but in death.
Reeling at the impossibility, Helmer struggled to comprehend how this could be. However, he was interrupted by a black shadow falling over him. Looking up, he saw Morbin circling overhead, hovering above the standing stone that had once borne his statue. The three rabbits beneath him had escaped his notice.
“Lord…Captain…”
The weak voice drew Helmer’s gaze. The prince stared up at him with eyes that were already clouding over. His hand still gripped Heather’s, an anchor that seemed certain to carry him to her waiting spirit in the world beyond. But before he departed with his beloved, Smalden Joveson had one last command.
“My…sword…Flint’s…sword…take…it…,” he rasped, every word a struggle. “Finish…the…work…that…I…can…not…”
Smalls’ head dropped, and Helmer knew that he was gone. At any other time, his words would have been shocking. But his and Heather’s appearance here made all things seem possible. And so, after bowing his head in respect to the fallen, Helmer turned and ripped the starsword from the stone.
Never had Helmer ever encountered a sword so light, yet so obviously deadly. This, then, was the weapon of legends. Flint had slain Firstfoe with this, and Lander the dragon king, if the old tales spoke true. With such a weapon in his hand, and the prince’s charge ringing in his ears, Helmer found the strength to begin ascending the steps.
Climbing with agonizing slowness, Helmer circled the great pillar of the standing stone. As he did, he caught glimpses of the ongoing action in the city. Ships and birds of prey swept down on the city, releasing wolves and traitor rabbits upon the defenders. In answer, the great mass of the Royal Fowlers Auxiliary took to the sky to engage Morbin’s raptor squadrons.
In agony, Helmer watched as the brave Fowlers fought and died, particularly those who dared to attack Morbin himself. His only consolation was that, distracted by these futile efforts, the Black Hawk failed to mark his approach. As such, Helmer was able to reach the top of the stone. Having done so, though, Helmer didn’t know what to do next.
Utterly drained from hours of battle, Helmer had no strength for a leap. Even if he had, he had long been too bulky for the sort of flight needed to bring his awesome weapon to bear on Morbin. His glider was long gone, and he had never been good enough with it for aerial combat. It seemed that in spite of wielding rabbitkind’s most renowned blade, he was still powerless.
An image suddenly flashed into Helmer’s mind as he stared at the Preylord king. From Cloud Mountain, what seemed like years ago now. Wilfred Longtreader, hurling a sword towards a rope carrying one of Helmer’s own training birds. One feat that he could, in his battered and exhausted state, still accomplish.
Fixing his eyes on the center of Morbin’s broad back, Helmer drew back his arm. Praying as fervently as he ever had, he threw the starsword. Like an arrow, it flew with incredible speed. But no arrow, except perhaps one of the Pilgrim’s, had ever been so deadly.
The blade pierced Morbin’s breastplate as though it were made of paper. Morbin’s screech was deafening, his wings freezing as the starsword protruded from between his shoulder blades. He plummeted, his body smashing into a building below. Even from a distance, the starsword glinted from where it remained embedded within him.
Helmer looked down at the slain foe dispassionately. No doubt he would be honored for this deed, in the event that he or anyone else survived this day. But at the moment he was too tired to feel more than relief. Whatever else came of this day, the enemy’s greatest remaining asset had been struck down.
Wingbeats interrupted Helmer’s brief reverie, and he turned to see a large raptor looming above him. Before he could consider flight or attempting to battle the beast unarmed, a rabbit leaped down from its back and landed across from him. The buck drew a sword and regarded him with loathing. The feeling, Helmer though as he stared at Garten Longtreader for the first time in more than a decade, was mutual.
“I suppose you think you’ll be a hero again, eh Helmer? I wouldn’t count on it. Striking down Lord Morbin is impressive, I grant you. But there are still more than enough Preylords to bring an end to you and the rest of your cadre of fools.”
Looking past Garten, Helmer saw something that made him smirk at his old rival. Taken aback, Garten turned from him, obviously counting on his circling raptor mount to keep an eye on the black rabbit. Garten’s raptor seemed to be the only one still interested in the battle, however. Having witnessed the fall of Morbin, the last of the revered Six, the remaining raptors were now fleeing the city. Seeing their allies fleeing, and noting a fleet of unfamiliar ships coming down the River Flint towards them, the wolves and traitor rabbits were likewise breaking away from the fight and boarding the wolf vessels that had carried many of them there.
“Something tells me your Preylord ‘friends’ are more interested in saving their own hides, Garten. They’ve seen their best, and many others of their kind, fall this day. And when they make it back to the High Bleaks, or wherever they choose to flee, there’ll be a further reckoning to pay. Even if any of them survive the scramble for power likely to ensue now that the Six are dead, it’ll be years before they can attack us again-if they can ever muster the nerve.”
Garten’s expression was livid as he returned his gaze to Helmer. “Do you really think you’ve won, fool? My side isn’t the only one to have suffered losses in this battle. You’re deluding yourself if you think I won’t kill you now, then help the Preylords and wolves establish a new hierarchy before we return to finish what we’ve started.”
“Oh, I’m the deluded one? You seriously think the Preylords won’t kill you on sight now that Morbin is dead? Not to mention that the wolves have lost their greatest king ever, and any Terralains who were on your side are dead or prisoners. Without Farlock or Morbin to cow them into obedience, it wouldn’t surprise me if those wolves fleeing the battle make quick work of your band of fanatics who have made the mistake of joining them aboard ship.
“Face it, Garten-you’ve lost. Sure, you may kill me, but my comrades are more than capable of carrying on without me. They will rebuild despite this day’s losses, while the comrades you’ve chosen rip each other apart for scraps of Morbin’s kingdom. And so you have betrayed your rightful king, your family, your own species, only to see all your schemes dashed.”
Advancing towards Helmer, Garten snarled. “Is this the part where I’m supposed to beg for your forgiveness? To confess the error of my ways and throw myself on your mercy? My own niece tried that, Helmer-and I killed her.”
“Yes…I’d heard,” Helmer said with a tone that was almost bored. “I must say I admire her determination. But the key difference, Garten, is that I know you in a way that Heather didn’t. She saw you as her father’s brother, and knew some but not all of your treachery.
“Poor Heather didn’t see you plead, with urgency and apparent sincerity, for me to undertake a mission you insisted was vital to the safety of the kingdom. She didn’t watch you order the murder of bucks who remained faithful to the king that you betrayed out of bitterness and lust for power. You didn’t chain Heather to a tree by one arm and make her watch as you captured King Jupiter in a prelude to his murder by Morbin Blackhawk. The difference between Heather and I, Garten, is that she was no doubt shocked that you could turn a blade on your own kin. As for me, the only thing I found shocking was how long it took you to do it.”
Roaring in anger, Garten came at Helmer, sword swinging. Anticipating the strike, Helmer moved out of the way as best he could in his weary condition. Despite this, the blade struck him in his sword arm, and pain shot up it like fire. Clutching it with his good arm, he turned to face Garten, knowing that his enemy would come after him again.
Just as Garten was about to do so, however, a loud screech distracted him. Helmer, out of the corner of his eye, saw a pair of Fowlers collide with Garten’s raptor. Intent on the battling rabbits, the bird had failed to notice his own death approaching. The blades that struck him were not as formidable as the starsword, but they were wielded by Coleden Blackstar…and Picket Longtreader.
Perhaps Garten recognized his nephew. Or perhaps he simply recognized that the death of his raptor mount meant that his own escape had become an impossibility. Whichever the reason, the traitor froze, his sword lowered. And Helmer, spurred by a surge of adrenaline he was amazed he still had, took advantage of the respite.
Throwing himself at Garten, Helmer mustered his failing strength and jumped. Seeing him, Garten started to break from his stupor, but too late. Helmer landed a kick on the gray rabbit’s chest, knocking him backwards. The force of the blow carried him to the edge of the standing stone…and over.
Cole and Picket landed behind him, rushing up on either side as he panted from his last exertion. Then, with a grunt of pain, Helmer staggered forward to look over the edge. He arrived just in time to see Garten hit the water. The struggling form, tiny from this height, was carried towards the Brute’s Gorge by the raging flood.
“Master…your arm.”
Concern in Picket’s voice drew Helmer’s attention back to his injured limb. Garten’s last blow had dealt a terrible wound, added to those Helmer already carried from the day. Helmer was experienced enough to know that he would never use the arm again. Still, as he looked down again to see where Garten had vanished, and then upon Morbin’s broken form, he knew that the loss was a small price for today’s victories.
“Helmer…was that Garten?” Picket’s voice once again drew Helmer’s attention, as did the sensation of him tying a tourniquet around Helmer’s upper arm. Looking at his beloved student, Helmer saw a troubled expression in his eyes. Turning, he raised his left arm and placed it on Picket’s shoulder.
“Yes, son…it was. There is other news, too, that will undoubtedly be both a sorrow and a comfort to you. It seems Heather did not die by Garten’s hand after all…but she is dead. But now we can at least lay her body…and that of Prince Smalls…to rest.”
“Did that really happen, Uncle Helmer?”
Bringing his rocking chair to a halt, Helmer looked down at his listeners. He sat on the porch of his old family home, with a small gathering of younglings forming a rough semicircle around him. Smiling, he marveled at the idyllic scene, so different from the terrible day of his last battle. Fixing his gaze on the speaker, a buck not much higher than his knee, he nodded to his right side.
“Well, I didn’t lose this arm harvesting cabbage.”
Strictly speaking, he hadn’t lost the entire arm; a stump still remained attached to his shoulder. Honestly, Helmer didn’t mind; he’d never understood how Frye could put up with having his own mangled arm bound to his body. Of course, Frye had not spent years wishing he could have traded that arm, or his life, for that of King Jupiter as he had vowed. And though the lost limb was a painful reminder of old losses, what remained no longer bore the scar left by Garten’s cruelty on the day of Jupiter’s death.
Eyes went wide around the partial ring of younglings, even though most if not all of them had heard the story before. Before they could ask further questions, a pair of rabbits emerged from the house behind the main gathering of them. Weezie Longtreader, aglow with the happiness of motherhood in the Mended Wood, smiled as she looked over Helmer and the children. Beside her, her husband also wore a look of fondness as he regarded that included both his mentor and some of his own children.
Lord Captain Picket Longtreader was dressed for travel and, if necessary, fighting. His pack, which could be converted into a glider, also contained light armor. Picket had grown into a strong buck, not as tall or bulky as Helmer but lean and well-muscled. His sword, the same blade given to him by Prince Smalls years ago, now bore an emerald in its hilt just as Helmer’s lost weapon had, a token of his rank as one of the highest officers in Natalia.
“Not scaring your great-nephews and nieces with horror stories, are you Uncle?”
“As if there’s anything else to scare them with, Weezie dear,” Helmer said with a snort. “Your husband and his bucks do such a job keeping what few raptors and wolves seem to be left in Natalia so far away that most younglings have never even seen signs of them. I have to make do with what I have, or don’t have, as the case may be.”
“I’ll keep that in mind the next time one of the children comes to me with nightmares, Master,” Picket replied good-naturedly.
Jo Shanks and Coleden Blackstar-the latter of whom smiled fondly at his own children in the gathering as he passed-emerged from the house as well. Both were dressed similarly to Picket, and both also shared his rank of Lord Captain. There had been some controversy when Queen Emma had appointed Cole to the position, given his role as heir apparent to the lordship of Kingston. But his father Victor Blackstar was still in his prime, and likely to remain that way with the gift of True Blue to sustain him.
Following Jo’s gaze, Helmer saw the rest of the new Lord Captains waiting on the path passing the farm. Almost all the old secret citadels and Terralain were represented among them, with Jo and Cole of course hailing from Halfwind and Kingston, respectively. Harbone no longer existed, but its survivors were among the most dedicated to maintaining a watch on those regions to which the surviving predators had retreated. It was on a tour of those regions that the Lord Captains were leaving now, at the behest of Queen Emma and her husband, King Morgan Booker.
“Don’t lose any sleep yourself out there, Ladybug,” Helmer replied. “If you hooligans don’t waste too much time on the road, you should be back just in time to help with the carrot harvest. Weezie needs more help than one grumpy one-armed buck.”
Waving in acknowledgement, Picket joined his fellow former Fowlers in marching out to the road to join their comrades. Helmer watched them go with a curious sense of both admiration and wistfulness. He could not have asked for better students, and they were worthy successors to him and his old friends who had served King Jupiter. And yet, though he was content to leave the defense of rabbitkind to them, part of him wished he was going with them in more than spirit.
“Uncle Helmer, tell us another story-please?”
Returning his attention to the younger rabbits, Helmer smiled again and leaned back in his chair. “Well, have I ever told you about the time your father and mother-or Uncle Picket and Aunt Weezie, to some of you-met? And how Weezie shot an arrow that flew between us as we walked towards this very house?”
One of Weezie’s daughters squealed. “No! Was she trying to scare you off?”
“Truth be told,” Helmer said with a wink, “she’d actually aimed for Picket’s head.”
The End