“Good idea!” said Tilosses.

Glipper shook his head. “Chances are, nobird would be allowed outside alone,” he declared. “There’s little possibility of success, with all the risks and hazards.”

“But there still is a possibility, however small, so we should try it,” somebird in the crowd murmured.

Tilosses spoke. “Who will take the risk?”

“A bird who is wise, persuasive, and innocent. These are the right qualities,” chimed the goldfinch, cocking her head to one side.

The silence stretched for a long time. A twig crackled in the fire. Who will do it? Who? Who? The question hung in the air.

“I will!” The voice of a young robin piped up from the crowd of slavebirds. Heads turned to see the speaker.

Though all the slavebirds knew the robin’s name, they had no more knowledge of him beyond that. He was quiet, rarely speaking to anybird.

At first glance he seemed rather weak for his kind, yet when the slavebirds took a close look at him, they noticed that his agile legs and lean frame looked strong, able to endure. He had a speck of red among his black neck feathers. Despite his bedraggled, thin, and dirty appearance, there was something in his big, shining eyes that warmed the onlookers’ hearts.

“Miltin?”

The robin nodded, and the corners of his beak twitched into a smile. He looked so confident that everyone knew he should be the chosen one.

Glipper peered at the robin and grinned. “Miltin, I have a feeling that you are going to have quite some adventure.”

Outside, the wind whistled.

3 SQUAWK, SQUAWK, SQUAWK

Turnatt perched side by side with his captain, Slime-beak, drinking chestnut beer and wine and talking in a newly built room of Fortress Glooming. Magnificent blades and ancient weapons glistened on the walls, soft cushions adorned chairs of red cedar, and silken curtains draped the windows.

The hawk lord glared at his captain over the rim of his silver goblet. “You’d better finish the construction of my fortress in eight weeks,” he threatened, “or I’ll pull your feathers off to make me a duster!”

Slime-beak cringed. “I-I’m afraid finishing is almost impossible, milord.”

“What?” The flames of anger that blasted from Turnatt’s eye seemed hot enough to burn Slime-beak to a crisp. “You remember, when we first came here, you and I sat down and talked? Right there and then, with your beak flapping like an old shoe, you said it would be finished in early spring. Well now! It is close to summer, and you’re still nagging me about needing more time. What in the world of crazy captains is your reason?”

“Well…w-we’re short of wings now, mi-milord. Many of the slavebirds h-have been sick.” Slime-beak’s voice crackled in fright as he spoke.

Because Turnatt knew that was the truth, his anger subsided a bit. He still growled slightly as he talked. “Flea-screech will bring back more slaves soon. There are cardinals and blue jays nearby. They’ll make good workers. Kill the sick slavebirds as soon as we have new ones,” he commanded, setting down his goblet. The silver reflected the rising sun and became blood red. “And tell the scout, Shadow, to come here.”

“Yes, milord, yes, milord.” Slime-beak made his exit with springy, clumsy hops. The crow captain’s wings were tilted awkwardly as he walked, and the pungent smell of alcohol surrounded him like a thick mist.

As soon as Slime-beak’s clawsteps faded, Shadow glided in. He was a striking raven with amber eyes instead of black. Turnatt mentioned the blue jays and cardinals to him.

“Some cardinals and blue jays, you said, Your Majesty?” Shadow bowed his head respectfully and closed an amber eye. He seemed to melt in a puddle of darkness as he twirled the edge of his black cloak fancifully with a thin, bony claw. “Aye, sire, they’re north of us, not too far by the wing. We stole some food from their pitiful camps. Now each of them believes the others are thieves.” The scout reopened his eye and peered at the hawk. Turnatt growled his approval. Shadow beamed as he was offered a mug of beer, and he accepted it with ten times more flair than Slime-beak had. Sipping silently, he answered with words Turnatt would like to hear. “I will check on them again today and bring back some white grapes to make fine wine for you, Your Majesty. You are too noble for such a drink as beer, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, yes,” Turnatt urged. The effect of the liquor was starting to make the hawk lord drowsy. “Create even more disturbance and confusion for the cardinals and the blue jays. The more the better! Then they’ll be weaker when we attack!” The hawk’s eyes misted slightly. “Now go, Shadow.”

The raven scout dipped his tail in salute and left, his amber eyes shining with eagerness. He uttered a flattering remark as he left: “You are the mighty conquerer, Your Majesty. Farewell.”

As soon as the scout faded into the shadows of the hallway, Turnatt pictured a score of cardinals and blue jays in his power. Yes, he would whip some of them himself. Maybe he would pull feathers off a blue jay to make a fan and torture a cardinal with fire, watching his feathers get scorched… All the birds, his own! His own! Squawk, squawk, squawk. That’s what the birds would cry for mercy.

Turnatt laughed out loud. “Squawk, squawk, squawk…” he mused, speaking to himself. “Yes, they deserve that.” From a shelf nearby he took out a tome entitled the Book of Heresy and started to stroke the cover lovingly.

Outside the door Tilosses was eavesdropping, still wearing the apron as assistant to Turnatt’s cook. He had pressed a teacup to the door and drawn his ear close to it. “Oh, yes,” Tilosses said with a soft chuckle. “That’s what Turnatt will say after he finds out that the slavebirds have escaped. Squawk, squawk, squawk.”

4 THE BATTLE OF THE APPLEBY HILLS

Without a word Skylion dashed out of Glenagh’s study to organize his troops. Already the yells of the cardinals were very close.

“Seven to guard the food store, ten to protect the eggs and the weak birds! The rest of you, quick, form three rows, and go outside with backs to the trees! Hurry!” he hollered. The quiet halls were suddenly alive with action and noise. The blue jays took off from different perches and flew in quick formation to their assigned posts.

Skylion drew his sword and burst from the shadows of the leaves out into the daylight. “Attack! Bluewingles forever!”

They were greeted by the flashes of the cardinals’ swords and loud yells.

“Power of the sun! Sunrise, charge!”

The silent morning was instantly filled with clangs of metal. The cardinals circled warily, looking for the blue jays’ weak positions. The blue jays were cautious too, and whenever they sensed that the cardinals were aiming at a particular place, they sent more birds to fight there.

At first the blue jays’ defenses seemed to be holding. But then a lean cardinal managed to slip through into the food store and back out again, unnoticed by others. He had a bag in his claw. Stolen food! Skylion spotted him. With a roar he charged upon the cardinal, and the cardinal waved his sword in response. They parried each other’s moves, their figures almost lost in the whirl of silver that was their blades. Finally, Skylion sliced the rope around the neck of the bag, and the sack dropped into the grass below. Relieved of his heavy burden so suddenly, the cardinal lost his balance. For a moment his defenses were down and his neck was exposed.