Urchin and the Raven War (16 page)

Swords and shields were wielded by shoulders that already ached. To Crispin, every blow seemed to use the last strength he could find, but he struck again and again, the noise of battle clanging in his ears until Docken’s voice rose above the rest.

“Your Majesty!” roared Docken. “They want to parley!”

Crispin shook sweat from his fur. The ravens were settling on the shore, finally falling silent. On a flagpole perched a great, glossy raven, her beak and talons sharpened and silvered, with more ravens circling her. Another came to perch near her, but he was so well guarded that Crispin could hardly see him. The female raven threw back her head.

“We will speak with the king!” she screamed. “And if any creature attempts to harm us or any of our ravens, and if any animal seeks to approach the Silver Prince, we will tear it apart.”

Fingal, who had been fighting beside Padra at the gate, leaned on his sword and strained to hear her. “Who does she mean by ‘we’?” he asked.

“Speak, raven,” said Crispin.

“We are the Taloness,” she announced. “You killed our brother, the Archraven. For this we will lay your island to waste. The name of Mistmantle will be a curse.”

Crispin said nothing, so she continued.

“You sent water vermin to attack our ships,” she said. “It was a bad move. The birds in the hull were reinforcements. We could take this island without them, but they were ready for battle. When our ship was sunk, they flew to join the fight.”

“Sunk one of the boats?” whispered Fingal to Padra. “Beyond the mists?”

“Shush,” said Padra. “Listen.”

“There are many more ships,” called the Taloness. “All filled with ravens who long to feast on tree-rats. Will you surrender this tower now? Or shall we disturb your rest in the morning?”

To the watching animals, Crispin appeared as calm and strong as the beech trees in Anemone Wood. His voice carried through the evening air.

“We will take no rest,” he said, “until every savage beak and claw is swept from this island. Our shores are already littered with your dead. Do not add to their number. Go, and we will not pursue. But if you stay, Taloness, your ranks will fall around you. By staying here, you put all your lives in danger.”

The Taloness raised her head and gave such a long, rasping croak that she seemed to be choking. But it was a terrible laughter, echoed by the ravens around her, growing as all the armies of ravens took up the cackling, so loud and coarse that it hurt the ears. Even more were still flying to join them.

“Don’t cover your ears,” said Crispin to whoever was near enough to hear him. “That’s what they want.”

The Taloness stopped laughing and tipped her head to look about her. As she stopped, her armies instantly did the same. Her silvered talons flexed.

“We will inspect this island tonight,” she announced, “and choose where we shall settle. This island is ours already, and is forfeit to the Silver Prince. We only require your tower for our stronghold and your bodies for our feast. In the morning, we will have both. We have warned you. You have all night to be afraid.”

“Go, bird of vermin,” said Crispin.

The Taloness raised her head. “Kill and devour!” she screamed.

“Kill and devour!” shrieked the ravens about her as they flew across the island.

Fingal and Padra looked up at the wheeling, croaking birds.

“If she devours me, I’ll poison her,” said Fingal. “They’re disgusting, Padra, they make a mess everywhere, even when they’re flying. If we have to be invaded, can’t it be by something house-trained?”

“We’ll send you out with a bucket and mop when all this is over,” said Padra, and pointed. “Do you see that one?”

A large raven with a gray sheen to his feathers circled the tower. Another five surrounded him.

“That must be the Silver Prince,” said Padra.

“Do you think so?” said Fingal. “That’s not silver! That’s gray. He’s just a great fat gray lump of a bird. Why is he swerving like that?”

“Probably showing off,” said Padra.

“So he’s conceited as well as everything else,” said Fingal. “And no more silver than I am. I’m disappointed.”

Arran came to join them. “Yes, that’s him,” she said. “Apparently he does look silver in strong sunlight from the right direction.”

“So does a wet otter!” said Fingal. “Oh, here’s Crackle. Crackle, I’m the Silver Otter.”

“No you’re not!” Crackle giggled.

“I will be after a swim in a good light,” said Fingal.

“Don’t hang around chatting,” said Padra. “We need to send otter parties out to prepare our boats, as Crispin said. Go by water as much as possible—I doubt that the ravens will attack you there—and put some bitter stuff on your fur. You too, Crackle.”

“That’s what I came for,” said Crackle. She glanced nervously up at the sky, and they retreated to the shelter of the tower walls, where she fished a dusty old bottle from the pocket of her apron. “We found this in the cellar, and it’s old and very strong. It’s had pickled walnuts in it for years.”

“Fingal, put that on,” ordered Padra. “And before you make any clever remarks, I don’t care if you’d rather be eaten by ravens than smell like a pickled walnut; just use it.”

“Only if there’s enough for the littlies in the Mole Palace,” said Fingal.

“And,” said Crackle, “have you seen Scatter? I’m worried about her. I haven’t seen her since the ravens first came.”

The otters glanced at each other. Arran shook her head.

“She’s probably been sent to look after the young,” said Padra. “Don’t worry about her, Crackle.”

Fingal, Arran, and Padra were among the animals who worked through the night, sending out orders for boats to be made ready, setting guards, strengthening the defenses and narrowing doorways and entrances. Fingal, thinking it might be useful, explored the underground waters and passageways he had discovered by accident long before. He and Padra made one last patrol of the shore and stopped when a sleek dark head bobbed up from the waves.

“Heart help us!” cried Fingal. “Him again! Padra, let’s get him out!”

Corr could hardly swim. His fur was so heavy with seawater that it was all he could do to hold his head high enough to breathe. But when Padra and Fingal swam out to him, drew him to the shore, and hugged the warmth into him, he wanted to lie on the sand and die of wretchedness.

He tried to speak, to say that he was sorry and he was only trying to help, and how he’d expected all the ravens to drown when he sank the boat. It had never occurred to him that they’d fly straight over the mists to join the attack on Mistmantle. He had only seen that as he swam back and saw them darkening the sky above him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

RCHIN HAD FALLEN INTO
a light sleep with his sword still in his paw, half waking now and again. He dreamed he was in a cell on the Isle of Whitewings and had to escape from King Silverbirch, but when Brindle shook him awake he knew exactly where he was, and fought the urge to close his eyes again.

“Message from the king,” said Brindle. “There’s a mole here called Grith, carrying a king’s token.”

“Urgent business of the king,” said a hoarse mole voice. “Is Urchin here?”

Urchin remembered the voice of the mole who had fought bravely at his back the day before. The crumpled leaf he held up to the lamplight bore the clear scar of Crispin’s clawmark.

“I’m Urchin,” he said, and smothered a yawn. “Where did you get that?” He was losing track of time, but it seemed impossible that even a fast mole could get to the tower and back so soon.

“Mole called Swish,” said Grith, and passed the token to Heath, who had just woken. “She was trying to reach you, but the ravens attacked her. She got under cover, but she’s in a bad way.”

“Have you sent for a healer?” asked Heath.

“There’s one with her now,” said Grith.

“What on all the island was she doing aboveground?” demanded Brindle.

“Trying to rescue someone,” said Grith. “Typical. I don’t know if she’ll come through. And I’m not here to talk about her. She said”—he lowered his voice—“that there’s a young animal in here under special protection. She needs moving. Sharpish.”

“Where to?” asked Brindle.

“Burrow,” said Grith. “Underground, between the Tangletwigs and Anemone Wood. Urchin, you’re to escort her.”

“I should come too,” said Brindle.

“You’ll be needed here,” said Grith.

“Excuse me,” said Brindle, “but it won’t do. As far as I’m concerned, I’m still under orders to look after her. I’ll take her to safety, then come straight back, Heath.”

“I know you will,” said Heath. “Wake her up, give her a cloak and a flask of water. Heart keep you all.”

“They’re altering tunnels all over the island,” muttered Grith. “And now we need one big enough for a full-grown hedgehog. I’ll find the quickest way through. No time to lose.”

Catkin appeared, her eyes wide. She had splashed cold water on her face to make herself wake up properly, and realized that the situation was serious. She slipped into place behind Brindle and Grith with Urchin following, his sword in his paw.

Corr sat by the fire in the tower kitchen with a blanket around his shoulders. The blur of memories from the last half hour began to settle themselves into order. Fingal had half carried him up the beach and dragged him into this kitchen with his fur still full of sand. He had been introduced to another otter, Padra’s son, Tide, who was keeping tower supplies of wood and water. Then a pastry cook called Crackle had taken one look at his soaked fur and chattering teeth, ranted at Fingal for not taking better care of him, and seated him by the fire with a bowl of soup.

“I remember you!” she said. “You were half drowned last time you came here, too! You told us about the raven ships, didn’t you! And you brought that lovely seaweed for Brother Fir!”

Still shivering, Corr nodded.

“I haven’t forgotten about it,” she reassured him. “It’s beautiful seaweed, I just haven’t had time to do anything with it, so I’ve dried it out. It’ll keep. It’s all drinks and quick meals for the warriors just now, but I’ll make that seaweed cake as soon as I get the chance.”

“Please, Master Fingal,” said Corr, his voice low and shaking with cold, “there’s no need to stay with me. I’ve caused enough trouble, and you’ve got important work to do.”

“What important work?” asked Fingal. “Shoving stuff into boats? Any animal with paws and half a brain can do that. Somebody has to sit in the kitchen keeping you company, eating toast, and getting under Crackle’s paws, and it’s me. What have you done that was so terrible?”

Corr swallowed hard. It would be hard to tell, but at least it would be honest. Fingal wouldn’t go on thinking he was a decent, sensible otter. He’d know how stupid he’d been, and how he deserved to be sent straight back home to stay there and do no more damage. So Corr put down his empty bowl and told Fingal about his journey, his hopes, his plans, and his meeting with Lapwing. Finally, looking down at his crinkled paws because he couldn’t look Fingal in the face, he told how he’d taken the knife, swum out to the raven ship, and sunk it.

“Oh, was that you?” said Fingal. “Well done!” Crackle glanced with a frown at the knife rack.