“That’s a little too risky, isn’t it, Tilosses? What if the guards at the gate give the alarm?” questioned a waxwing.

Tilosses smiled. “By great fortune, tonight’s guards are to be Crooked-shoulder and, what’s the other’s name, oh yes, Large-cap. What luck! Crooked-shoulder’s eyelids always close during his shift, and Large-cap wears a cap over his eyes. That’s one advantage for us.

“Add to that, Miltin on his wood-gathering mission learned that the woodbirds live north of us.”

“But what if they find out that there’re no birds in our compound? Then what will we do?”

Miltin smiled craftily, his big eyes shining. “Ah. I was about to get to that point. A couple of bundles of grass here, a lump of lumber there, and dummies will do the job.”

“I can almost see old Bug-eye’s face when he finds the dummies.” Tilosses laughed. Then he became serious. “So if everything goes well, we’ll escape. In the morning it will be too late for the soldiers to find us.”

“So,” concluded Glipper, “let’s hope all will be as smooth as cream.”

In the topmost chamber of Fortress Glooming, Turnatt sat on his throne as usual. During the past few days he had caught a cold. It wasn’t a serious one, but it limited his outbursts. The dizziness in the hawk’s head made him dreamy and slow in thought. But at times he could still snap at his captain and soldiers, to discourage any thoughts or plans against him.

Bone-squawk, the cook, scurried into the room, carrying a blue jay egg and a cardinal one in a silver tray. The eggs stolen from the red and the blue were carefully sorted by Turnatt himself, who tapped them gently with a spoon to test their quality. Turnatt wearily inspected one egg and then the other. He chose the blue jay egg and gestured to Bone-squawk. He had eaten a cardinal egg the day before and wanted to have a different taste. The cook stepped forward, carrying a long, sharp needlelike knife. Turnatt grunted as he pointed to a spot. In went the knife, with a small crack. After Bone-squawk withdrew his tool, a good-sized hole appeared, neat and clean, with just a bit of egg white dripping out. The cook, after fumbling in his ingredients bag, poked lemon juice, onion powder, parsley, and a bit of pepper into the egg. He carefully inserted a small spoon through the hole, slowly stirring without disturbing the eggshell. Turnatt watched drowsily. Bone-squawk, with a final bow, backed out of the hawk lord’s room. After a long time Turnatt finally put his beak into the hole of the egg and slowly, slowly sipped with his eye half closed.

The hawk lord was getting sleepy. He drained the egg with a final slurp, licking his beak unhurriedly. Turnatt wished his cold would go away. Little by little he drifted off with his head against the empty eggshell. He dreamed about the past.

IT WAS NOT SO LONG AGO, when he had first made plans to build a fortress, a place to house his army and to store the stolen eggs. He would need many new slavebirds, he knew.

After taking rolled-up maps from his bookshelves and stretching them out, he hunted for a tribe that would be his next target. Far and wide on the maps he searched. At last he found an ideal tribe, the Waterthorn, near the Rockwell River. Robins were the birds there! They would certainly make good, hardy workers.

That night Turnatt started planning his attack.

The next morning he set out for the Rockwell River with fifty crows flying behind his left wing, and fifty ravens behind his right. Half a mile from the destination they split up into two groups. Some birds would attack directly as a decoy to draw out the warriors of the tribe. The rest of his horde would then take over the tribe trees, taking the birds left behind for slaves.

At first all worked according to Turnatt’s plan. To Turnatt’s delight, there were a lot of able-bodied birds in the Waterthorn tribe. He led the raid on the camp himself, while the other half of his army engaged the warriors. Out of the corner of his eye, Turnatt noticed some birds flying to the top of the highest tree. One held a small, shining object in his beak. Turnatt paid no mind. His soldiers had rounded up a dozen birds, mostly young birds and nesting females, and were busy putting their legs in cuffs and fighting back the few that tried to resist.

Much to Turnatt’s surprise, some birds began singing a song. The rest, though outnumbered, still bravely struggled with Turnatt’s soldiers. Again the shining thing caught the hawk’s eye. This time it was even brighter, sending rays of light right through the clouds. What foolish trick was this?

Suddenly a flash as bright as lightning streaked across the forest. Turnatt looked around. There were no rain clouds. Instead in the sky hovered a huge bird. He was pure white, like snow, like clouds, like the foam of the waves of the sea. He had a long sword in his claws. To Turnatt’s shock, the bird was much larger than he was.

“Release the robins of the Waterthorn,” the bird said in a booming voice.

What? Give up his hard-earned slaves just because the bird said so? Nobird could tell Turnatt what he should do.

Turnatt glared at the bird. “Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?” he bellowed.

The white bird made no movement. “Release the robins,” he repeated in the same calm voice.

Turnatt didn’t like it at all. He was a lord, a tyrant! The bird should bow down before him, not command him! “No! Go away!” Turnatt laughed and, with one swipe of his claw, knocked aside a robin who flung herself at him.

“No?” the white bird questioned, stretching the syllable.

Turnatt didn’t answer. The next thing he knew, the bird had unfolded his large white wings to their full extent, raised his sword, and pointed it at him. Again there was a streak of light. Turnatt screeched in pain. He felt for a moment that his left eye was on fire, a fire that would never die. Turnatt knew he had greatly underestimated the white bird. He could barely see to fight. What if the bird blinded his remaining eye? Turning back, he fled with his crows and ravens.

All of the slavebirds he’d caught were lost, except one that was smuggled away, a thin robin with shining eyes and long, skinny legs. He was called Miltin. Yet he had been expensive. The lives of eighty-four of Turnatt’s soldiers, not to mention the hawk lord’s left eye, were gone in exchange for one little slavebird.

The hawk lord woke up with a start; the old dream had haunted him again. Infuriated, he smashed the empty eggshell in front of him. Slavebirds! They were the cause of all his troubles. As soon as Slime-beak came back, Turnatt would send him to check on the slavebirds’ compound and make sure they were not up to anything. After all, you couldn’t be too careful.