“I’m going to ask Slime-beak for permission to gather wood now,” he said in a calm voice. He scanned all the birds in the crowd. Glipper gave him a wing tip-up. Tilosses nodded. The rest of the birds were looking at him. As unruffled as possible, Miltin spun on his heel and marched out of the slave compound.

“Wow, I don’t know how he’ll do it, but he’s taking some risk,” a slavebird commented. “If he’s caught talking to a native woodbird…”

Tilosses was anxious too. He wished luck to the robin with a worried smile.

The rain was beating down harder than ever, creating a foglike curtain that concealed nearly everything. Turnatt growled unhappily, staring at the window and glancing at the door. The rain had halted work on the fortress. It made everything damp and forlorn. Turnatt nibbled at a roasted salmon that had gone cold within minutes. He washed the unappetizing meat down with white grape wine. The hateful rain! Anger boiled up in the hawk lord. He looked around, disgusted, and tightened his grip on the salmon carcass. The hawk growled again. He tossed the fish at the door just as it opened creakily. The salmon missed its target and hit Slime-beak full on the beak with a loud smack, causing him to stumble. Turnatt whipped his head around, his eye glaring. Slime-beak realized as he peeled the fish from his face that this wasn’t a good moment to talk to the hawk lord. But as he brushed sticky scales from his feathers, he knew that he couldn’t simply walk away. He was trapped.

Turnatt let out a deafening yell of rage. All of his feathers stood up on end, making him look larger and more terrifying. Slime-beak shuddered slightly. He began to edge back through the door.

“What business do you have here, you rubbish of a crow?” Turnatt thundered. “To make trouble, eh? I’ll send you to the torture rack before sunset. That will teach you who’s in charge!” The mere mention of the rack chilled Slime-beak’s blood. He stared helplessly at the ground.

“W-w-what did I do wrong, milord?” the crow captain squeaked out as he nervously twiddled with a piece of salmon tangled in his neck feathers. “I told Bug-eye to put the slavebirds on half rations and double work, made the soldiers run five laps every morning, and had them pay tribute to you as you told me to, milord. I made sure the old slavebird on kitchen duty wasn’t up to anything and I-”

Turnatt scowled. “Silence, crow!” he boomed. The whole place shook with the impact of the piercing voice, and the crow captain stopped picking at the fish, only to whimper in fright. His small, beady eyes were darting around nervously. Turnatt continued: “I hear that you and your birds have been slacking too much. The soldiers are too lazy and fat! And now you’re planning to let a slave outside to gather firewood. Have you ordered a soldier as an overseer?”

“N-no, milord…but he has t-to check with me before he g-goes, milord-”

“Oh, you crow! Haven’t you got any brains?”

“Milord! Even if he escapes, it’s just one slavebird!”

“No, no. I don’t think you’ve got any brains at all! What if the slave finds the native woodbirds? My plans will be ruined. Ruined! To think that you are a captain! Why, crow, you’re not even fit for a soldier. Find that slave! Go out in the rain and be his overseer! One more false move and you’ll feel the consequences of such actions, worthless crow!” The words were nearly enough to make Slime-beak faint from dread. But he was too frightened to fall.

Lord Turnatt stared down at the crow captain. His eye narrowed into a glowing golden slit that hypnotized the crow. “Well?” the hawk demanded. “Get!” All of a sudden Slime-beak felt his feet again. With an unexpected burst of energy, the crow dashed off on wobbly legs, stumbling twice, with the hawk’s voice still ringing in his ears.

“Go and find that slave, you crow!”

Slime-beak dashed into the slave compound to find Miltin. The startled birds inside quickly stood at attention as the nervous captain paced from one wooden wall to the other, searching for the face of the robin slavebird who had asked him for the job of getting firewood. No, it can’t be! The bird was nowhere to be found.

“What are you gaping at? Go back to what you were doing!” Slime-beak shouted as he dashed off. Tripping and yelling, he made toward the fortress’s gate.

Miltin hopped rapidly toward the gate of the fortress. He ventured over rapid streams of muddy rainwater, slid over slippery, smooth rocks, and vaulted over large, moss-covered sticks as quickly as he could. Miltin squinted blurrily at the fortress gate before him as rain trickled down his neck and shoulders and onto his tail. Twice he slipped and fell, but that only made his pace quicker.

He had reached the farthest his chains would allow him when Slime-beak almost ran into him.

The captain glared. “What? Hide-and-seek? I gave you permission to gather wood, not to wander hither and thither. And why do you want to go out and get wood in this weather?”

“Sir! Captain, sir! We’ve run out of wood, sir, and if I don’t gather any more, we’ll perish with cold and fever and be unable to work, sir!” Miltin answered.

Slime-beak growled, “Fine, fine, as long as you don’t catch fever yourself and pass it on to the others.” The captain detached Miltin’s chain from the wall and secured it to his claw. He opened the gate with a key and pushed the slavebird out. “Now go! Get the firewood!”

Miltin obediently started out into the rain, with Slime-beak trailing behind, muttering curses about the bad weather.

Miltin and Slime-beak gradually reached the fringe of the forest and the shadows under the tall pines. Miltin felt a little troubled. How can anybird be out in the rain? And even if I find them, with that captain right behind me… He glanced back at Slime-beak’s tired, sour face. I have to try.

With a cautious air the robin used his claws and beak to lash together the driest wood he could find with grass stalks. He pretended to be deeply absorbed in his task. Down came his head, his eyes glued on the wood. Up came his tail, twitching as he decided which piece was the driest. He peeked at his surroundings now and then and started, very slowly, to go farther and farther away from Slime-beak. Miltin carved every detail and landmark into his memory. Farther, farther away…The robin worked his way toward a small creek edged with clumps of tall grass… Farther, farther…

“Robin slave! Where do you think you’re going?” came the angry rasp.

Miltin thought fast. “Oh! I think I heard the hunting cry of a falcon! Help!”

“What? From where?”

Miltin put on a show with frantic hops and gestures. “There! There! It’s closer! Can’t you hear it?”

When the confused captain turned around, Miltin dived into the tall grasses and crawled silently out of sight. His intention was to investigate something-something blue, barely visible between the stalks.

“Hey! Hey, slave! Where are you lurking? Trying to escape?” The cry of Slime-beak was faint in the distance.

The noise of rustling was surprising. Aska looked around. “W-w-who’s there?” she asked in a trembling voice. She saw a long, sharp stick lying on the damp ground below and quickly grabbed it and pointed it in the direction of the noise. “Who are you, and what are you doing there?” she demanded. The noise stopped.

“Shhhhhh!” Out from the shadows a robin appeared. Judging from his expression, Aska knew that the bird was almost as surprised as she was. There was no greed or evil in his eyes, and he carried no weapons. He certainly bore no resemblance to the birds that had chased her. She decided this bird was friendly.

Miltin lowered his voice. “I’m called Miltin, a slavebird from Fortress Glooming. You are native to here, I suppose?”