"Wait here." Smalls looked up, surprised.
"How come?"
"Because Mr. Jemison won't appreciate you knocking any of his glasswork over." Wilfred replied, hand on his sword.
"I wouldn't knock it over." Smalls protested, thinking this behavior odd of Wilfred. He knew that Smalls was careful, he was worried about something else. Something else had been going on ever since Wilfred had gotten that letter from Nick Hollow a couple months back. A letter that he had quickly hidden from Smalls and wouldn't show no matter how many hints Smalls dropped about it.
Then he'd said they had to stop in the First Warren. Smalls hadn't liked that, but he hadn't protested either.
"I'm going inside." Wilfred said, pulling his hood up and acting as if he hadn't heard Smalls. "Keep watch. If there's even a hint of trouble-"
"Signal. Yes, I know. This isn't the first time I've done this, Wilfred." Smalls reminded him. Wilfred relaxed slightly.
"You're right. I should trust you. Be careful." He disappeared into the dark shop. Smalls began to pace, hand on the hilt of his sword.
He 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. Smalls thought he would go insane if he had to remain in the city any longer than a few days. The place was just bad memories.
It was a night, and clouds were gathering above, blocking out the sickle moon. Smalls could see raptors circling high above, waiting, waiting, for someone to make a wrong move. Smalls knew they could see immensely far, and hoped the dark back-road and high buildings around him would protect against there sight.
He fiddled with his sword pommel, tempted to draw it simply to feel safer. It was still chilly at night, but spring was coming on, and Smalls was grateful. Traveling was easier when frostbite wasn't a threat. Footsteps approached, and Smalls squinted in the darkness to make out the form of Wilfred, whose sword was drawn.
"What was that about?" He asked, hoping for a legitimate answer this time. Wilfred had a bad habit of withholding information until the very last possible moment.
"Some intel." Wilfred replied vaguely, swinging his pack onto his shoulders in one clean movement and re-sheathing his sword. Smalls wondered why Wilfred had needed his sword for something like this. 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?"
"I don't like it here." Smalls admitted. "It's…all wrong." Wilfred sighed.
"I agree. This place isn't what it should be, the occupation has twisted it into something demented and evil." Smalls 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. He also remembered all the blood on the ground the day that Falcowit had finally put an end to it all. "It won't always be this way." Wilfred added.
"I hope so." Smalls replied. He debated momentarily pursuing (or pestering) Wilfred for more information but decided against it. Wilfred never said anything until he was good and ready, to Smalls' eternal frustration. "Where are we sleeping tonight?"
"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, ever since Wilfred had gotten that letter. He didn't know what to make of 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 younger years together and had stayed in touch consistently ever since they'd been split after the massacre. Smalls put 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."
"Unfortunately, no."
"But we can use the tunnels, 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. 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.
There were tunnels underneath it, 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 there traveling until afterwards, but Smalls and Wilfred went right through it. Ironically, it was safer to travel then, because no one else would be on the road.
The tunnels were cramped, dark, and wet.
"What time is it?" Smalls 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, then stuffing it in his pack. They couldn't leave any trace of themselves. Now it was utter darkness, and Smalls was left to 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. All Smalls could think was; good luck.
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. Wait, this wasn't right. No, they hadn't walked far enough. This hadn't been there 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.
Wilfred drew his sword, and raised a hand, a signal to wait. Smalls waited, sword drawn, poised for action and hardly able to wait for it. Wilfred held up his hand, closing it into a fist and reopening it. 10. 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 hand. Winslow was standing behind Daggler himself, no weapon insight. Coward. Before Smalls could move forward to his brother, one of the other rabbits leaped forward, and he was forced to spin to avoid losing his head.
The soldier's face was one of pure hatred, 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.
"You make things worse for yourself, little brother." He said. Smalls shook his head, regaining his breath and saying,
"I would rather die than see you remain on our father's throne."
"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 went a pitch higher, "And Ambassador Longtreader saved us when he submitted to Morbin!"
"You disgust me." Smalls was livid, but he kept his tone even. "He murdered our father and burned our home to the ground."
"And he will burn a thousand more to seek you!" Winslow screamed. "Even ten thousand!"
"And even if that is so, it will not be the end." Smalls replied, meeting his brother's wild eyes with a cold, hard gaze. "It will never be the end."
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, popped up, and took off running for the forest. He could sense Wilfred behind him, and the huge shadow of the hawk blocking out the moon.
"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!"