Brantalis favoured Brink’s scheme. “I am thinking this is a good idea, yes! I cannot go until when the autumn leaves fall, when my skein comes down the coast from the north. I will know when the time is. Then I will be flying to the shores to meet them. Skyfurrows always fly together. So I am thinking, it will be many moons before I join my family. The hookbeak should go with you, Tiria!”
Pandion Piketalon hopped up onto the battlements. Spreading his wings, he stared regally down his lethal beak at Brantalis. “Karralah! I go to Green Isle with my friend Tiria. Let that waddling flatbeak linger here until he ventures forth to meet with his kind. Pandions do not fear flying alone. I need no gaggle around me!”
The barnacle goose flared up, beating his heavy wings aggressively. “Brantalis is thinking he was not named flatbeak. Beware, fish eater! A Skyfurrow’s wings can break bones!”
Tiria was forced to come between the big birds. “Don’t start again, you two! There’s no cause for all this disagreement and wing flapping. Either make your peace or begone from here. It is against our laws to battle within the walls of this Abbey!”
An instant later, the touchy situation was forgotten. Girry came hurtling across the lawn, leaping over flower beds and shouting frantically. “Quick, quick! Come to the attic above the library. Sister Snowdrop’s found something which you must see!”
10
Daybreak drifted sluggishly over Green Isle, dull and grey. Thick mist shrouded the lake and shores in a pall of silence, but the peace was rudely shattered by agonised shrieks from the pier.
“Hiiiyeeeee! My son, my Jeefra! Eeeeeeyyyaaaaarrrr!” Lady Kaltag howled and screeched like a wounded beast. Catguards crowded in front of her, barring the way to the sodden form which lay huddled and lifeless on the pier end. She fought tooth and claw to get past them, wailing dementedly.
Scorecat Groodl was in charge of the guards. He tried to slink away as he caught sight of Riggu Felis emerging from the fortress. The warlord was a nightmarish sight, his hideously injured face exposed as he carried his helmet and face mask in one paw. He stopped Groodl in his tracks.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Trembling, the scorecat tried to avoid looking at the wildcat’s maimed features. “Lord, we had to search for your son. Atunra told us to drag the lakeshore waters with ropes and hooks.”
Swinging his helmet, Riggu Felis caught Groodl a lightning swift blow, which knocked him flat. He snarled savagely at his catguards. “Get him away from here, fools, quickly! Bury him out of sight, far along the bank. Go!”
Pitru lounged casually in the fortress doorway, his face betraying nothing. Riggu confronted him. “You know more about this than you are telling!”
Pitru shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. Our boat was upturned out on the lake last night. Otters did it, probably that Shellhound one who broke Scaut’s jaw. I never saw Jeefra after we both went into the water. I searched for him and shouted for help, but none came. I had to make my own way back to the shore. That’s all I know.”
Kaltag was following Groodl and the catguards who were bearing Jeefra’s body away. Seeing her remaining son, she turned and ran to him. Seizing Pitru’s paw, she sobbed brokenly, “What happened to your brother? Tell me, my son, tell me!”
Wrenching his paw free, Pitru pointed accusingly at his father. “Ask him, he was the one who forced us to join the catguards. Jeefra would still be alive if he hadn’t!”
Kaltag flung herself at the warlord, scratching and biting. He held her off, shouting in a harsh voice, “Do you not think I grieve for the death of my son? It was you, always shielding and making excuses for them both, indulging their whims. You were responsible for turning them into spoilt cats. I have to rule as Lord of Green Isle, with no time to be a nursemaid, yet I decided to do something for them. I sent them to serve as catguards so they could grow up with some sense of responsibility. The death of Jeefra is a hard thing for me to bear, but he died like a warrior, honourably in battle!”
Riggu signalled to Atunra and two guards standing nearby. They managed to get Kaltag away from him. She was led indoors, yelling at him, “Murderer! Assassin! You killed your own son! What next, Riggu Felis, Great Lord of Green Isle? Will you slay both me and your other son so you can rule alone?”
Pitru shed his guard’s attire and gave his father a satisfied smirk before following his mother indoors.
Weilmark Scaut, still with his jaw in bandages, marched up and saluted the wildcat with the stock of his whip. “Lord, there was little damage done by the fire, we contained it before it could get a hold. The fortress walls are old and thick, so they hardly suffered, apart from a bit o’ scorched bark.”
If he expected any thanks for the information, Scaut was sadly disillusioned. The warlord vented his spleen on the unwitting weilmark. “So, you think that makes everything alright, do you? One of my sons is slain, the otters freed the prisoners, they tried to burn down my fortress and they had all my catguards chasing their own tails. They made fools of us!”
The sight of Riggu Felis with rage stamped on his unmasked face was a frightening thing to behold. Scaut backed off, keeping silent lest his Lord’s wrath descend upon him.
Slamming on his helmet, Riggu grabbed his war axe. “You will summon my catguards, every one of them. Have them lined in ranks on the shore by the time this mist breaks. I’ll straighten their backbones!”
The weilmark did not know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or apprehension as the warlord strode off to his tower chamber.
Out on the coast, just above the tideline, were cliffs with thick vegetation hanging down over deeply undercut rock shelving. This had once been the habitat of all the Shellhound sea otters, but Leatho was the last survivor of his clan. The long, low-ceilinged cavern was well disguised, and was on a stretch of the coast seldom visited by any creature.
On that misty morning, every free otter gathered there in force to celebrate the victory over their foes. A huge cauldron of kelp and seafood stew bubbled over a sizeable fire of driftwood, charcoal and sea coal. A jubilant air prevailed overall, with little ones playing games of jinkshells and elders gathering round the far side of the fire to gossip and exchange news with friends and relatives. Ould Zillo the Bard sat in a corner, composing a ballad of the night’s heroic events. Otterwives doled out freshly baked pawpad turnovers and bowls of stew.
A jolly, wide-girthed old grandfather named Birl Gully was pouring tankards of his home-brewed invention from a barrel to a waiting line of clanbeasts. His vast stomach wobbled with merriment as he passed out the stuff.
“Hohoho! Come on, me bhoyos, drink ’earty now! There ain’t nothin’ like my Gullyplug Punch t’put the curl back in yore whiskers. ’Twill give ye a rudder like a rock an’ backfur like velvet moss!”
Big Kolun Galedeep carried two tankards outside the curtain of vegetation which covered the cave front. Leatho was seated on a rock outside, staring into the thick, rolling mist that lay upon the calm, ebbing tide. Sitting beside the outlaw, Kolun gave him a tankard of Birl Gully’s punch.
“Git that down yore throat, matey. ’Twill warm the cockles of yore ’eart!”
Leatho sipped pensively, still silently watching the sea mists. Big Kolun was not renowned as a sipper. Emptying his tankard in two swallows, he wiped the back of a hefty paw across his mouth.
“Well now, Shellhound. The clans seem t’be enjoyin’ theirselves in there, while yore mopin’ about out ’ere. Wot ails ye, mate? You can tell me.”
Leatho swilled the punch around in his tankard. “One single victory don’t mean we’ve won the war, Kolun. That wildcat ain’t goin’ to hold still after wot we’ve done. Felis is bound to come back at us hard as he can. I don’t know exactly how the villain’ll do it. So ’tis up to me to try an’ outthink him.”