Urchin and the Raven War (17 page)

“But it wasn’t well done, sir!” cried Corr. “I didn’t know there were so many of them, and I never thought they’d escape—I thought they’d just drown! Then I saw them all croaking and cawing and flocking inland, and it was my fault and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. I couldn’t”—he gulped and tried again—“I couldn’t warn you! I tried, but I couldn’t get here in time! They all flew to the tower!”

“Mm,” said Fingal. “They did, it was entertaining.”

“Entertaining!” cried Crackle.

“Oh, yes,” said Fingal. “We got a croaking-to from the Taloness. She seems to think there’s more than one of her.”

“Fingal!” said Crackle. “It isn’t funny.” Fingal looked at Crackle, and she giggled.

“But, sir, it was a stupid thing to do,” said Corr bitterly. “I just wanted to do something to help, and I knew I could sink their boat, so I did. I thought I’d done something really great, but it was bound to be stupid if I thought of it.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Fingal. “Sounds like the sort of thing I would have done myself, if I could have swum that far. It was very brave of you! I just wish I understood how you managed it. You must have lungs like bellows. And it did some good.”

“Did it?” Corr felt a bit better.

“You must have drowned some of the vermin,” said Fingal. “You’ve done far more than I have today, I should think. And the ones who came and attacked us—they probably would have done it anyway, sooner or later. Crackle, is there any more soup? Not for me, for him.” He held out Corr’s bowl. “And because you did this, if we make a calculated guess about the number of boats, and assume there’s a hull full of ravens in all of them, we can more or less work out their numbers. It’s like this, Corr. There are some animals, like my brother and the king and queen, who always manage to think one step ahead; they work out what somebody else will do next. The rest of us just muddle through. You’ve done well, Corr.” He glanced toward a spider swinging gently from the fireplace. “Get this soup down you before something drowns in it.” He patted Corr’s shoulder and slipped over to Crackle. “I’ll see if Fir is awake,” he whispered. “If he is, Corr can go and see him.”

He hurried through the passageways to the chamber, where the soft light and air of holiness subdued even him. Fir was awake, with life still sparkling and dancing in his deep dark eyes, but the king was at his bedside. It was no time to interrupt. Fingal slipped quietly away. Corr would have to wait a little longer to meet Brother Fir.

“Dear Crispin,” Fir was saying, “we have faced worse than this. Be strong. All the island prays to the Heart, and the Heart hears us. Don’t you feel it?”

Crispin wished he could rest his head on the bed and sleep it all away. Brother Fir hadn’t seen the flocks of ravens darkening the sky, or heard their voices scarring through the daylight. But Crispin knew what he meant. They had faced darkness and treachery from within Mistmantle in the past. Now the enemy was from outside. It could be seen, measured, and touched. But what an enemy!

“Prevail, Crispin, by the strength of the Heart,” he said. “Are the young safe?”

“Yes, Brother Fir.”

“And you will die for the island if it is required of you,” said Fir. “I know, I know. Hm. You can offer nothing more, but”—he took a deep, slow breath—“I think you will have to live for the island, and that may be harder.”

Presently, Fir drifted into sleep. Crispin slipped away to Juniper’s side as Hope tiptoed about, filling up beakers and water jugs.

“Of course I’ll die for the island—I mean, for the islanders—if I have to,” said Crispin. “But, Heart forgive me, Juniper, I don’t want it to be yet. I want to put the island together again after this. Catkin isn’t ready to be queen; she’s only a child. I want to stay alive with Cedar and my children. I want to be a good king, and it could all be destroyed by petty, spiteful birds, just because there are so many of them.”

Juniper remained quiet and thoughtful for a while. Then he said, “We will win, King Crispin, because it’s impossible.”

Crispin rubbed his face with his paws. “I’m too tired for riddles, Juniper,” he said.

“It’s not a riddle,” said Juniper. “It’s obvious. We are being called to fight beyond all that our strength and numbers can do. It’s not only
their
strength and
their
numbers that we’re up against. It’s that powerful, poisonous evil that drives them from inside. It’s beyond us. But it’s not beyond the Heart. Nothing is—so we call upon the Heart to fight our battle for us, and the Heart will.”

He gave a sudden gasp, as if pain had struck him. Crispin caught him as he reeled.

“Juniper, are you ill?”

Juniper’s fur stood out stiffly. He stared, then shuddered violently again.

“Where’s Urchin?” he demanded.

“Curlingshell Bay,” said Crispin. “Why?”

“He’s not!” said Juniper. “He’s in danger! Somebody has to find him!”

In the workrooms, the windows had been boarded up to keep out the ravens. The most ancient and precious Threadings had been taken down and hidden, but the unfinished ones remained in their frames. Needle took a lamp to examine them and came to Myrtle’s work.

No. Heart have mercy, please, no. If only I hadn’t looked.

She turned her head and closed her eyes, then looked again. It was still there. A yellow poppy, its petals turned back to show the tall black stamens.

The death of royalty.

Oh, Heart, no.

CHAPTER TWELVE

ILBERT THE SQUIRREL
was not exactly lost. He just didn’t know where he was.

It had been very pleasant chatting with the young folks on the shore. That young hedgehog, Brindle, was a thoroughly nice chap, and they’d even done a bit of fishing together. But there was no time for all that now, dear me, no, not with all this bother. He’d done his bit in the battle by hiding in the hollow of a tree with a bow and arrow and leaning out to shoot. He wasn’t sure if he’d killed any of those birds, but there were so many of them, he must have winged a few. He’d got a nasty knock on the head, too, from jumping out of his hiding place and banging his head on the tree trunk. Those knotholes were harder than they were when he was a lad. In fact, he’d had such a bang on the head that he felt a bit dizzy now, and couldn’t quite remember where he was meant to be. He’d had some notion of going to the tower.
Tower. Tower.
Which way was that again?

In these days of attack, animals were supposed to stay belowground as much as possible.
Tunnels?
Filbert had looked but couldn’t find one big enough.
Never cared for them anyway.
By the time he had trudged and stumbled his way to the edges of Anemone Wood, his head was spinning and he had forgotten all about tunnels. He had almost forgotten about the ravens.

The Silver Prince was perched in a tree with his escort. He preened his feathers and tossed his head. Everyone feared and honored him; everyone admired him. Quite right. He was born to be their idol. It was time they saw what the Silver Prince could do.

Tipping and tilting his head, he surveyed the ground. He was lucky. A tree-rat was traipsing through the wood. Slow, for a tree-rat. Stupid animal. He could take that one easily. Too easily. He’d have some fun with it first.

“Watch this!” he shouted to his escort. He spread his wings and wheeled down. The escort followed close behind.

“Leave me alone!” he cawed. “Watch me!” He tossed his head, flew down, and landed rather heavily in front of the traveler.

With a puzzled grunt, Filbert jumped back. He scrabbled clumsily for a stick that lay on the ground, but stumbled. The Silver Prince grabbed the stick in his beak and smashed it on a tree trunk. Filbert struggled to his paws and turned to run, but found the Silver Prince had flown over his head and was grinning at him.

He tried to dodge around a tree, but the raven was leering down at him. He backed away. A powerful wing knocked him over. Whichever way he ran, or tried to run, the raven was ahead of him, cawing and sneering. Talons flexed in front of his eyes so that he blinked and flinched. The black wings were ready to fold him…That beak!

“Ow!” The Silver Prince had pecked cruelly at his ear. “Get off, you! Get off!”

The Silver Prince was enjoying this. He pecked at the top of the squirrel’s head; then as it ducked, he snatched a tuft of fur out of its tail. This was fun. He’d go on tormenting the tree-rat until it cried, groveled, and begged for its life.

Filbert thrashed out to beat the raven away, but the cruel beak pecked at his paws. The bird cackled and pecked Filbert’s head again as he ducked and covered his face. Dazed and staggering, Filbert pulled off his cloak to flap it in the bird’s face—but the raven caught it and tugged it from his paws.

“Vermin!” yelled Filbert. Clinging to the cloak, he found himself sprawled on the ground. He was still trying to crawl—if he could only grab the vermin’s foot, he’d give it a good biting—when a powerful female squirrel voice rose from the ground.

“Leave him alone, you evil gray bat! Pick on someone your own size!”

Filbert tried to look around and see where the voice was coming from, but the raven flew down to peck at him again, dropping the cloak, which Filbert grabbed at and pulled over his head to protect himself—then he was sliding backward, sliding downward, someone was pulling him down—without understanding how he got there, he found he was half in and half out of a burrow with his cloak still over his head.

“Breathe in, can’t you!” said the female squirrel behind him. “Just you squish yourself up a bit smaller, come on, make an effort, put your paws down and heave, get your head down—why can’t that bird just go home and mind its own business, great big ugly thing. Now you push and I’ll pull, it’s a tight squeeze, but I got down here, I don’t know how I managed it, but I did, and if I could do it so can you, one more push, come on, put your back into it!”

With an enormous effort, a grunt, and a mighty tug from beneath that made the earth walls crumble about him, Filbert thudded in the burrow. The cloak flopped on top of him. Amid the tangled tree roots stood a well-rounded female squirrel looking him up and down, her paws on her hips.

“Good thing I was here,” she said. “The Heart must have sent me, for I don’t usually live around here, but there’s burrows all over the island going to be used that isn’t usually, and we have to make sure they all got water and food, blankets, all the little necessaries, so I was along here with them little necessaries when I heard you shout. These birds, what will they do next, ooh, I don’t know your name, Master Squirrel, I’m Apple, pleased to meet you.”

“I’m Filbert,” he said. His voice seemed to come from far away and was not quite under his control. He might have been imagining it, but there seemed to be a waft of something in the air, a smell that reminded him pleasantly of his childhood. “Most grateful to you, miss—madam—most grateful. Pardon me, madam, I’ve had a nasty bump on the head. And that business with that big bird. Bad. Horrible, horrible.”

“Ooh, silly me!” cried the squirrel. “You’re not well! Let’s get you warmed up. What’s that great bullying bird done to you?” She folded away the cloak and, in the feeble light, peered at his injuries. A bruise was swelling on his forehead, and there was blood on one ear and on the back of his head. A tuft of tail fur was missing.