Urchin and the Raven War (7 page)

Pitter thought there must be a wonderful story in all this. She wished she knew more of the story of the poor young squirrel and how she had died, and what happened to the prince. She imagined how good it would have been if the princess had been her sister, or even better, her mother. One of the things that held her up, in these miserable times, was to see the princess’s grave, and know that the young princess slept there quietly, where the ravens couldn’t get her. In her head, she made up stories about the princess. She imagined the squirrel princess leading them into battle against the ravens, a sword in her hand and a crown on her head, and herself fighting at the princess’s side.

Caw! Caw!
That was the sentries again. They always cried out twice. A third call meant that they were alarmed about something and were calling for help and reinforcements, but there was nothing here to trouble them for long. The swans had fought against the ravens at first, but those who survived had flown away. Lord and Lady Arcneck had abandoned them. It was all right for swans, who could fly. One band of brave squirrels had built a boat and tried to escape, but the ravens saw them and tore them to pieces. The thought of the ravens feasting on the bodies made Pitter’s stomach lurch. She pressed further against the tree, craning her neck to see the pile of stones, wishing that the princess could help.

High above in the gray dawn, Crispin of Mistmantle rode with Russet of the Circle on his right and Tipp the mole on his left. Three by three, swans and their riders circled the skies.

A little closer. Closer. Crispin crouched lower over the swan lord’s neck and strained his eyes through the grayness to see the swans take their places above the island.

“Now,” he whispered.

Caw! Caw!
Before the sentries could utter a third cry, the swans had gripped them by the throat. Crispin’s sword ran through one, Russet’s through the other. As the bodies tumbled to earth, a few raven wings ruffled, but none of them fully woke.

“The ravens are very big, Your Majesty,” whispered Tipp.

“They’re only birds,” Crispin whispered back. “But you’re right not to underestimate them.” He wouldn’t tell Tipp that he, too, was astonished by the size of the ravens. Those huge sharp beaks were terrible weapons.

He would not kill a sleeping enemy, but they would wake in his time, not their own. With the island ringed by archers on swans, this was his time. Wherever a sentry strutted, a swan threw it from its perch. Squirrels scrambled down trees, and a rush of swan wings made the ravens wake, yawn, and look about them, raising their wings to attack, tipping back their heads to rasp out war cries, and opening their beaks to the deadly rain of arrows. Crispin and Lord Arcneck swerved away from the raised wings, then soared and swooped. Lord Arcneck bit into the neck of the raven flying down on Tipp.

“Fire!” yelled Crispin, as the three swans soared above the Mistmantle archers. The next wave of arrows sang from the sky. Black shapes, losing the rhythm of flight, tumbled raggedly to the ground. From every part of the sky came the enraged screeches of the ravens. Those who fell were finished off by the squirrels and moles on the ground—those who tried to fly above the archers were met by swans and warriors.

Crispin, Russet, and Tipp wheeled higher and looked down over the swans’ necks. Below them, the ground grew black with feathers.

“They’ll soon have the sense to stop flying into our arrows,” yelled Crispin. “We won’t give them time to choose the ground. Just give the moles a bit longer.”

He leaned sideways to have a better look. Mistmantle squirrels and moles were running into cover in the undergrowth, ready to spring out with sharp swords. He could feel the eyes of Tipp fixed on him, ready for a signal.
Not yet. Not yet…
From the corner of his eye he saw a dark shape to the right, and heard the swish of Russet’s sword as a raven fell to the ground.

Now!
At the raising of Crispin’s sword for the attack, the swans dived toward the earth, a flurry of black wings following them. Squirrels and moles leaped and rolled to the ground. As the swans rose to battle in the air again, the Mistmantle animals fought with swords, teeth, claws, and all their strength and determination. Tipp slashed wildly about, fell, scrambled to his paws, then remembered all he had been taught—
Go for the belly or the throat, whichever is nearest as it lands. If the bird tries to peck you, slice off its head as it darts forward. Strike quick and clean. Stand together, watch each other’s back.
A bird’s head, with cruel black eyes and a savage beak, leaned toward him, and he lashed out with a blow that only overbalanced it, but the next killed it instantly. He staggered back, tripping over the outstretched claw of a dead raven, and plunged his sword two-handed into the neck of the bird that squawked over him. Then another mole was dragging him to the cover of the heather.

“Well done, son,” whispered the mole. “Now we lie low and get our breath back, and do it the easy way.” He pushed Tipp deep into the heather. “Get down.”

The ravens were searching for them. One harsh black beak tore at the heather and stabbed hard into the earth.

“It’s looking for us!” whispered Tipp. The other mole rolled onto his back and stabbed upward.

“Found us, then, didn’t it?” said the mole. “Keep moving about, now. Don’t give 'em a chance.”

From a straggling nest high in a birch tree, the Archraven watched, flexing his talons. He had sharpened them for such a battle as this, and their edges were jagged. They could rip an enemy open. On one side of him was his son, the Silver Prince and, on the other, his sister, the Taloness.

“Kill and devour!” cried the Silver Prince. “Kill and devour!” It was the call that served the ravens for everything. It was their anthem, their battle cry, their solemn vow, their cradle song and their death lament, their celebration and their reason to live.

“Kill and devour!” rasped the prince. His father looked down through heavy, hooded eyes. This was his son, his only son. He had killed his wife, the prince’s mother. She had not been careful enough of the prince, not respectful enough. She had not understood how honored she was to be the mother of the Silver Prince, so he had killed her. The Silver Prince did not need a mother. He was a true raven, proud, vain, greedy, bullying, and noisy. He was the Silver Prince.

The Archraven and the Taloness jerked their heads left, right, forward, and back, watching the scene. The flash of weapons was beautiful. Such shining, such silver, such glitter and slash! It set the battle hatred in a hard, fast pulse through their veins. Stretching out his wings, the Archraven wheeled over the island. Near the shore, the fighting was fierce. The clang of swords was a challenge that rang and stung like sword points. Those flashing swords, and the warriors wielding them—he would have them all. He flew back to the Taloness and the Silver Prince. The Prince had much to learn.

“Watch me, Silver Prince!” he croaked, and held a wing over the prince as they flew. “Come! Learn!”

“Pitter!” squealed her uncle. “Get away from there!” When he tried to drag her from the hole in the tree trunk, she shook him off, and with a mutter of “Get yourself killed, then!” he retreated farther into the tree with her aunt and cousins. Pitter’s claws curled, and she bit her lip. Moles darted up from the ground with their bright swords, squirrels leaped from branches to slash and stab, and swans seized ravens by the neck to finish them with a bite and a shake. Around the princess’s grave, the fighting was furious. When a raven landed on it, Pitter growled, but a squirrel jumping from a tree landed on the raven’s back and speared it before springing to the ground. Another raven flew down, and again a mole jumped up to strike.

The raven turned its head, and Pitter saw, too closely, the power of the curved beak. With a stroke of that beak, the raven flung the sword from the mole’s paw. As the disarmed mole struggled to rise, the raven raised its talons, stretched and sharpened to kill.

Pitter ran from her hiding place, sprang across the open ground, and grabbed the raven’s claw with both paws. As the raven lowered its beak to strike at her, she swung clear but clung on, biting and tugging. It gave Tipp the mole the moment that he needed to find his sword again. As she ducked and swerved, there was a terrible sound like tearing and a rasp from the raven’s throat, and the bird lay dead, its wings still spread.

Pitter looked up. The young mole had picked himself up from the ground again, when with a cry of “No!” Pitter pushed him over, rolling with him across the outstretched black wing of the dead raven. A stone thudded down on the place where they had stood.

“The princess’s grave!” screamed Pitter in fury. “They’re on the princess’s grave!” She had looked up just in time to save him, and had seen the ravens scratching and pulling at the stones on the princess’s grave, rolling them to fall on the enemy.

“Get your head down!” shouted the mole, and pushed her under cover of the heather. “And humble thanks for saving my life; consider me in your debt. Tipp of Mistmantle at your servant, Mistress… ?”

“Pitter,” she gasped. “Never mind that; they’re destroying the princess’s grave!”

Tipp raised his head a little to squint through the heather. “The swans have seen them,” he said.

Swans swooped down to grab at the ravens as they tore up the stones. In a blur of red, a squirrel leaped from the back of a swan, twirling his tail for balance as he landed on the cairn. With two swishes of his sword, two ravens toppled to the ground.

“The king!” gasped Tipp, scrambling to his paws to fight beside him. “I have to defend him!”

A hoarse shriek, as if the clouds were being ripped apart, made every animal and every bird stop fighting and look up. There were fewer ravens now. The swans and Mistmantle were winning, and dead ravens were heaped on the open ground. The Archraven, circling the island, had seen who led the squirrels, his attention caught by the flash of gold from his head. If he killed and devoured their leader, they would lose heart, but he must do it unaided. The glory of this kill must be his alone.

Crispin, sword in hand as he stood on the cairn, kicked away a raven’s body to make room for Lord Arcneck. Above them wheeled the Archraven.

“Kill and devour!” he cried. “We will kill and devour you, tree-rat! Who dares come against us?”

“Lord Arcneck of Swan Isle and Crispin of Mistmantle,” cried Crispin. “We come for the creatures of this island, for their freedom and their right to live in peace.”

A terrible sound broke the air all around them—crackling and cackling like swords sharpened on stone, strident and harsh. Crispin couldn’t tell what it was—a war cry? Behind him, Lord Arcneck hissed as he lifted his wings.

“They are laughing! The ravens laugh at us!”

He rose into the air, but as he did so, six ravens fell on him, seizing him by the beak, the wings, the feet, and grappling him to the ground. Swans and squirrels rushed to help Lord Arcneck, but this was what the Archraven had hoped for. For a few seconds, the squirrel leader on the cairn stood alone. The Archraven flexed his talons, lowered his beak, and swooped.

“Your Majesty!” cried Tipp, lurching through heather toward him. Until the last split second, Crispin stood still. Then with a twist and a spring he was high in the air, flinging himself onto the Archraven’s back and raising the sword in both paws. He stabbed down with a sword thrust that ran through the raven’s body.