Miltin sighed in relief. The danger was over.
Tilosses coughed and quickly pressed his beak against his chest feathers to muffle the sound. But it was too late. The scrawny raven spun around, throwing his knife at the noise. The long blade whirled as it sliced through the air, moonlight gleaming on it. It struck the bark of the tree that Tilosses was leaning on, barely an inch from the old bird’s throat. Not a single slavebird moved.
Narrowing his eyes as he scanned the darkness, the raven quietly walked toward Tilosses. His clawsteps were the only sounds in the night.
He stopped right before the bush that concealed Glipper. Glipper crouched lower and pressed his head to the ground. The other slavebirds were horror-stricken. Yet they could do nothing. The raven looked right and left.
Miltin was hiding in the shadow of an elm tree only a few clawsteps away. He picked up a round stone without making any sound and stood up very carefully. Everything was silent and still. All of a sudden he threw the stone as far as he could and then ducked down.
The thump of the stone on crisp leaves drew the raven’s attention. He turned sharply and rushed toward the stone, which was a safe distance from the slavebirds. He found nothing, of course.
The raven growled to himself, taking a last look at the trees and shadows where the slavebirds were hiding. Then he jogged off to catch up with the rest of Slime-beak’s regiment. His figure soon became a tiny speck in the distance.
Slime-beak and his battered troops finally arrived at the gate of Fortress Glooming. It wasn’t a pretty sight, half the soldiers hopping, walking, or running and the other half flying. The captain knew he would be in deep trouble. When he had set out to battle, he’d had about fifty soldiers in all. When he retreated, there was only a sad number of thirty or so.
Normally Slime-beak would fly over the tall gate, but because his wings were sticky with bean soup, he had to call the guards at the other side of the gate. “You, in there! Open up!” Slime-beak called. No response. “Guards! No sleeping. You hear?”
Sensing that something was wrong, the captain sent a raven to check on the guards. Moments later, the raven croaked, “The guards are tied up and unconscious.”
“They-slavebirds!” The words caught in the captain’s throat. He dashed away to check the slave compound.
Slime-beak rushed into the musty, reeking place and tripped over something soft near the entrance. It was the body of the compound guard. Horrified, he stood up and looked around. There seemed to be lumps and bird-shaped shadows, but something was not quite right. It was quiet. Too quiet.
“Come on, sleepyheads! Get up and follow me!” There were no replies, only echoes. Slime-beak tore the sheet from a slavebird’s bed, uncovering a reed-made dummy. He howled with rage. Bug-eye, the slave driver, was nowhere around.
“Soldiers!” Slime-beak ordered. “Use your skills now, and find those slavebirds! If you don’t catch them, I’ll use your hides to make shoes! Come on! Look! You miserable bunch of featherballs!”
The soldiers rushed out in different directions, investigating shadows and listening for noises.
Slime-beak quickly scrubbed and dried his wings. Then he led a squad and flew some distance before landing and investigating. One of his crows squinted at some moving shapes not far off. “What are those?” another soldier asked, holding a lantern in his claw.
Seeing the shapes moving rapidly away, Slime-beak charged at them. “Quick! Get the escaping slavebirds!”
When Glipper heard the crashes and the yells of the pursuing soldiers, he made a quick decision.
“I’ll be the rear guard,” Glipper said to Miltin. “You lead. No ifs and buts. Go! Hiding means nothing now!”
The slavebirds flew as fast as they could. Arrows whistled by their ears. A few unfortunate birds were hit and fell to the ground.
Slime-beak called out to his birds: “Soldiers! Fly to the other end and surround the slaves! Make sure no one escapes or I’ll peel your hides and send you all to Sky Land!”
The soldiers quickly obeyed, filling up the sky. In a flash, screams pierced the air as the slavebirds were caught.
Miltin felt a stab of pain in his shoulder and he crashed to the ground. He grimaced. An arrow shaft was sticking out. Through the shock of being wounded, the robin glimpsed a clump of dense, tall bushes by the dim light of the moon. He looked right and left. Nobird was paying attention to him. Silent as a shadow, he vanished behind the bushes and crouched there, waiting. He held a bloody claw over the wound, panting slightly. Behind him Miltin could hear the haunting screams and yells of other slavebirds. He closed his eyes momentarily, taking in big breaths. Though Miltin yearned to fight side by side with the other slavebirds, his instincts told him to stay put, for he knew he could only save them by finding Aska’s tribe. Gradually the screams and noises faded and died away; only then did Miltin open his eyes.
The night was noiseless now; the crickets sang no more. Only Miltin’s labored breathing broke the silence. He felt his bloody wound. I cannot stay here; it’s unsafe! Miltin clenched his claw around the arrow and pulled it out. He took a deep breath and tried to fly once more. But his wounded shoulder failed him and he dropped again. The pain worsened. He forced himself to get up and started to stagger north. Blood flowed down his side in thick streams, so he grabbed a dock leaf in his beak and pressed it to his shoulder.
He did not know how long he had been stumbling, and the pain grew worse with every step. Blood throbbed in his head, almost pounding his brain to bits. Thoughts whirled inside. Glipper and Tilosses…Aska and her tribe…Fortress Glooming…peace…freedom…
Suddenly Miltin tripped over a stone and fell facedown. He didn’t bother to get up, just lay in the dirt with his eyes closed. Oh, he was tired. Oh, his wounded shoulder hurt. Though his feet still kicked wildly as if running, his efforts were in vain. Blood had covered his right shoulder and a part of his right wing and had now dried in layers. Despite his tiredness, he struggled to rise once more. The pain was too intense; tears squeezed out of his eyes as he tried. Panting, he lifted his head a little. In the distance he could make out a camp of some sort. He was tired. So tired. Darkness began to take over Miltin’s mind. “Freedom!”-that was the last word he wanted to shout out, just before he fell unconscious.
Off we go to the mountaintop,
What lies ahead we do not fear.
No obstacle will make us stop,
Till we reach the land so dear.
May the wind under our wings
Be smooth and fair on this journey!
– FROM EWINGERALE’S DIARY IN THE OLD SCRIPTURE
14 THE LEASORN GEM
Miltin opened his eyes with a feeble moan. He heard a voice: “Miltin!”
He smiled weakly as he recognized a face. “Aska,” he managed to whisper. His questioning look prodded her to explain.
She gestured to a far-off place through the branches. “My tribe found you not far from the northwest shore of the Silver Creek, unconscious. We managed to get you here and call for a medicine bird. I expect him to arrive any minute now. Hmm…since you’ve escaped, no doubt there will be trouble from that hawk again.”