20

THREE HUNGRY BIRDS

STAR’S EYES FLEW OPEN. “ACK!” HIS FLANK FELT like it was on fire. He lurched upward, scrambling to get his hooves under him, and then he sank back into the weeds feeling faint. Something was stinging or biting him. He strained to get a better view of his leg, panting and flailing his wings, but he saw nothing.

Then he felt it again, and this time he glimpsed his tormentor. It was a vulture. He raised his head and saw the stinky bird pecking at his open wound. Star gagged, and the field spun around him. Another vulture flapped its wings in Star’s face, and a third circled above him. He jolted out of his stupor. He wouldn’t die this way. He kicked the vulture with his good leg, knocking the creature back. It hissed like an angry goose.

Star shook his head. He was going crazy out here in the Vein. Where were Morningleaf, Bumblewind, and Echofrost?

His body was burning hot, but he was shivering. It was early evening, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten or drank. The other vulture landed, and the three of them faced him, big and bald. He swiped at them with his long wings, and they jumped back, exchanging hissing noises.

Star forced himself to his hooves. If this was his last battle, he’d fight it standing up. He whinnied, amazed that he wouldn’t be assassinated by an over-stallion, he wouldn’t receive his power from the Hundred Year Star, and he wouldn’t heal or destroy the herds—he would die in a final battle against three hungry birds, and after he died there would be nothing left of him but bones.

“He has plenty of life left in him,” said one of the birds. Oh no, they were talking. Star blinked, sure he’d gone mad.

“We have to hide him before the others find us.”

Star peered at the sky. Were more vultures coming?

“Let’s herd him.” The three birds opened their wings and tried to herd him like a horse toward the woods.

“You think I can’t hear you?” he said to them. He opened his wings and flew away from them, but they followed, flying beside him.

“Star, please land,” said one of them, sounding like Silvercloud.

The world blurred, and Star watched the ground rush toward him. How did that get there? And then he crashed into it. A scream erupted unbidden from the depths of his chest when he landed on his swollen flank. The vultures landed, and one fanned him with its wings while another stroked his tense neck. “How do you know my name?” he asked them.

“It’s me, Silvercloud, now Silverlake.”

“But you’re a vulture,” he said.

She brushed his forelock out of his eyes. “There were vultures here, Star, but we chased them away. You’re sick.”

Well, that was true. “You look like a vulture.”

Silverlake snorted. “No, Star, it’s me and Dawnfir, and Sweetroot.”

“Sweetroot,” he whispered, “what’s wrong with me?”

Then he heard her comforting voice. “You have a serious infection, and I can help you, but first I need you to walk to those redwood trees where no one will spot you from the sky.”

“Is this a trick?” he asked.

“Well, if it were, would I tell you?” Sweetroot scolded. “You’re going to have to trust me and get moving. You’re too big to carry.”

Star obeyed; he had no other choice. They looked like big vultures to him, but they sounded like his friends. He let them herd him into the dense forest. As soon as he was under the cover of the trees, he lay down. Sweetroot went to work right away. “I have to drain this wound, Star. It’s going to hurt.”

He nodded.

“Bite this.” She offered him a piece of bark. “There are a lot of pegasi out searching for you; we can’t be discovered, so be as quiet as you can.” Sweetroot bent over his flank and sliced the wound open with her teeth. Star clenched and bit the bark in half, tears pouring from his eyes and sweat dripping off his hide. The old mare squeezed the wound, and a gooey mixture of greenish pus and red blood shot out and splattered a tree.

And for Star, everything faded to black.

When he woke, it was dark. Dawnfir was huddled against his back, warming him with her body. His fever had broken, and he could see clearly. “You’re not vultures,” he nickered with relief.

The mares whinnied, amused. “Drink this,” said Sweetroot, holding out her cupped, watertight wings. “It will control the infection and reduce your pain.”

Star drank the pungent water treated with herbs. He noticed that a poultice of leaves and chewed roots had been packed into his festering wound.

“What about my leg? I think I broke it.”

“No. It’s bruised and swollen, but it will heal. You’re going to be fine, Star.”

Silverlake stood guard over the group, and Star relaxed. They spent the evening in silence. Star sensed that they had bad news, but he was in no hurry to hear it. He would rest before he asked about the captured weanlings and the fresh battle wounds he noticed on the mares.

The next day they brought Star water, late-blooming crab apples, and more medicine. He hobbled on his hooves and grazed. “You’ve grown a lot since I last saw you,” said Silverlake.

Star nodded, remembering. When he and Silverlake had crossed the Drink, he’d been smaller than she, still on the long-legged side, and unable to fly.

“How do you feel?” she asked him.

“Better.”

The four of them grazed near a bubbling forest creek. It was time to talk. Silverlake gave the worst news first. “Rockwing joined with the other herds, and they attacked us two days ago. We lost.”

Anger flared in Star’s heart. “Where’s Morningleaf?” he asked. “Was she hurt?”

Silverlake sighed. “She’s alive but captured, along with Thunderwing and the rest. I was banished for hiding you from Sun Herd, but I came back for the battle.” She paused. “But, Star, Grasswing is dead.”

Star crumpled. “No.”

Dawnfir spoke. “He went against Rockwing in a standoff. His death ended the battle. We—we weren’t winning anyway. Grasswing saved many lives with what he did, and he gave Rockwing wounds he’ll have scars from forever. He will never forget this fight.”

“Grasswing is a legend now,” said Sweetroot. “Like your mother.”

Star hardened himself against the grief that threatened to overwhelm him. Grasswing had been like a sire to him. He swallowed his anger so he could focus on Morningleaf and his friends. “Where is Sun Herd now?”

Silverlake answered, “The battle happened in Sky Meadow, but because of all the . . . blood . . . Rockwing has probably moved them all to his territory by now.”

Star saw her brace herself against the memory. “How did you escape him?”

“We didn’t,” said Silverlake. “He let us go to bring you back, and we will, but not until after you receive your power.”

Dawnfir sighed. “That’s right; if you go too soon, Rockwing will kill you, or try to force a pact with you.” She glanced at Silverlake. “He’s cruel.”

Star sighed. “So what’s your plan?”

“We’ll hide here until your birthday. After you receive the fire from the Hundred Year Star, we’ll rescue Sun Herd, and everyone else he’s captured,” said Silverlake. “One way or another, this will be over.”

Star didn’t miss the implication in her words “one way or another.” Silverlake still had doubts about him, and he couldn’t blame her. He remembered the forest fire, Echofrost’s capture, Crabwing, and the sea creature that snatched Snakewing in its jaws—Star attracted destruction, and yet he lived. Malformed, motherless, unable to fly, marked for execution, and mortally wounded—he had rebounded from all of it. It appeared he would fulfill his destiny as Silverlake predicted—for better or for worse.

“Okay,” he agreed, “we’ll wait.”