Nick Hollow

Burning.
Just the word sends awful memories of screams, fire, and terror spiraling through my head. I didn't want to see anything like what's happening to the home of Uncle Whittle ever again. Prowling around the burning tree, teeth bared and eyes hungry, are a regiment of wolves. Smalls and I drop behind a bush before they can spot us, but Uncle Wilfred stands rooted to the spot, fists clenched. He takes a step forward, and almost without thinking, I grip his arm and jerk him behind the bush.

"No!" I hiss, glaring at him.. "Stop it." My voice is still a whisper, but it's easy enough to tell that I'm serious. "I am sick and tired of being the responsible one. I am not going to let myself rub off on you. Charging into danger is my thing. If you want to save them, you've got to stay here. Don't be stupid, that's my job."

Smalls is staring at me, and Uncle Wilfred tips his head down, but not before I catch the tears in his eyes. Smalls and I present logical explanations of why we don't like Uncle Wilfred's plans. But neither of us have ever grilled him.

Feeling guilty, I reach over, and squeeze his hand. "It'll be okay." My voice trembles, but I steady myself and peer through the brambles. Ancestral panic jolts me when my eye finds the snapping, snarling wolves. A grey, rabbit shaped form is darting through the smoke, while three of the wolves work to subdue it. Uncle Whittle, I realize with dismay. Uncle Wilfred still looks like he might do something reckless, so I work to distract him, my eye roving the meadow for something, anything. There. Across the meadow in another patch of brambles are a white rabbit, and a shorter, golden brown rabbit.

"Look over there," I nudge Uncle Wilfred, and he follows my gaze to where the two are hiding.

"Heather and Picket," He mutters.

"Picket?" I whisper back. I remember Heather, but not Picket. He must have been born after they left. Across the meadow, Heather whispers something to Picket, and they both take off in opposite directions. I fiddle with my eyepatch, and chew my bottom lip. Ten Wolves have broken off from the regiment, following Heather and Picket. Uncle Wilfred waits til the wolves by the tree are obscured by smoke, and then motions for Smalls and I to follow. We creep through the bushes, and come up on a rise overviewing a row of evergreen trees, where Heather is headed, followed by the ten wolves and–No. It can't be. I don't want to believe it, but I have too.

Red–Eye Garlackson.

We thought he was in the north, but not this low. And why is it so important for him to go chasing after children? It's not, I realize. But he's got nothing better to do, except track us, which is undoubtedly why he's here in the first place. Winslow, that traitor. He knew where we'd go.

Picket is headed toward the third mound of seven small hills, with no wolves following, which probably means they don't know where he is.

"Go after Heather, Sabine." Uncle Wilfred whispers. "Smalls and I will follow Picket and cut off Red–Eye when he gets there."
"Got it," I murmur, and Smalls nods.

As I inch through the bushes behind the wolves and Heather, I think. She seems like she has things under control, and if I blow my cover now, the only winner will be chaos. But there's a problem. Red–Eye and the four other wolves break off and head for the tree at the beginning of the row of pine trees. I follow them, hoping that poor Heather will make it on her own. I have to remind myself that she's not a baby, like she was the last I saw of her. Just as I hoped, Heather has outrun the wolves behind her and is pounding, unaware, towards Red–Eye and his sinister followers. When she sees them, her eyes widen, and then narrow with determination. She keeps running. She's getting closer, closer. Do something, Sabine, I'm telling myself. But just as I'm about to dash out of the bushes and Red–Eye points his spear towards the charging doe, Heather jumps, soaring up, up, over Garlackson, and landing on a low pine branch.

A smile plays across my lips. Of course she doesn't need my help.

She jumps again, springing higher and higher until she coils to leap again, and springs to the next tree in the row, grabbing a branch as she begins to fall. The wolves on the ground are catching on. They're rushing to the third tree in the row, climbing up to intercept her. I need to distract some of them. I, being confused, angry, and a bit panicked, leap out of the bushes, and shout the first thing that pops into my head:

"Oy! Pea Brain!" Garlackson turns on me, his eyes sparking with malicious glee when he realizes who I am. He barks an order, and two of the four other wolves come rushing toward me. Heather looks back toward me, confusion written all over her face. I send her a silent message with my one good eye, and pray that she understands. Go. With the slightest nod, she turns her attention back to the wolves climbing after her. The two wolves are just feet away from me now, and they skid to a halt in surprise as I pull the double swords from the sheath on my back, and utter three words.

"Gladius geminus signifer." To me, this is Latin for "Double sword bearer," but to these wolves, it's gibberish. I smile, and lash out with my deadly weapons. Ugly number one leaps forward, and recieves a blow to the shoulder. Ugly number two is more wary, pulling out a sword of his own, and growling. If I wasn't a decent rabbit being, I would growl back, but as I am, I just thrust out. While Ugly number two is busy with my first sword, I use my second one. The second Ugly number one is on the ground, Ugly number two is back, but not for long. As I step over the dead wolves, wiping my sword on one of their tunics, my heart stops. Heather has made it to the end of the row, and she's pounding towards a cave in the middle of the third mound, her brother's face peering out of the hole. But when she jumps for it, she doesn't make it all the way in. She's stuck.

Following after her, face twisted in what could only be called a smile on a wolf, is Garlackson.

Shout out to a friend of mine, who may be reading this even now! He's new to Fanfiction.