A Guide Book to the Great Tree (5 page)

General Kai continued to argue with her, but Struma's mind was set. Finally, the Snowy gave in, because he had much more to do before the battle. He assigned Struma to the reserves.

They called it “Operation Breakspear.” General Kai and the others had devised a bold strategy. Since the crack was narrow, roughly ten pytes at its widest point, only a few enemy owls would be able to fit through it at once.
The owls of Little Hoole would block the only entrance to the glen by attacking, in waves, in a tight formation inside the passageway. There would be little room to maneuver, and falling back would not be an option. The advantage lay in the terrain. If the Ice Talons were to get through the narrow pass, they would be able to surround the owls of the Kielian League and defeat them easily. By keeping the battle in the pass, General Kai and Sarissa hoped that they could render the enemy's superior numbers useless. All the owls had gone through countless close combat drills, and their skills would be tested now. Three owls had been dispatched to request reinforcements from the Firth of Fangs. Their job would be the most difficult, for they would have to evade the enemy.

“Hoooo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo,” the first scout barked his warning as he spotted the enemy in the distance. “Hoo-wah,” a second scout confirmed.

Fear filled Struma's hollow bones like ice water. Along with the rest of her unit, she was in position along a ledge high up in the narrow passageway. It was First Black. A light snow was falling. It reminded Struma of her journey to Little Hoole. She had flown within pytes of sheer rock faces then, too. To think, she had thought
that
was difficult. As she waited, she heard a disturbance in the glen—a disturbance caused by the beating of a thousand wings.
They were coming. Struma's eyes searched the narrow sliver of sky. First, there was a faint shadow against the moonlight. Within a few heartbeats, the shadow grew closer. They were here.

Seeing the enemy brought about an odd feeling of calm in Struma. The waiting was the hard part. Now, as the battle was about to start, her gizzard unwound. She flexed her talons, unlocking her battle claws. An ice sword lay at her side. She was ready.

“Hold your positions! Hold…hold…” General Kai commanded. “Assume attack formation, NOW!”

The first unit flew into position. They formed a phalanx—moving as one in close formation. Immediately, the enemy was upon them. A pair of Boreal Owls rushed the phalanx with ice swords in their talons. Struma watched one and then another fall out of the sky as members of the phalanx slashed and stabbed in unison. The sight was surreal. Struma realized that she had never seen death until today. Yet it did not frighten her. Waves upon waves of Ice Talons stormed to the front, flying high above the bodies of their fallen comrades, only to die themselves.

The Kielian League's second unit was called in to replace the first, whose members had begun to tire. A second phalanx flew into position swiftly and precisely as the first
fell back. It was a carefully choreographed war dance. This unit was led by Maia. For all her talk of retreating the day before, she fought as fiercely as any owl. She wielded a fearsome ice scimitar and felled a dozen enemies with just a few slashes. Struma saw that at least a hundred Ice Talons had been either killed or wounded, but more kept coming. The losses on the Kielian League's side, meanwhile, were few.

The third unit, led by Sarissa, now replaced the second as smoothly as the second had replaced the first. But, unbeknownst to the fresh crop of fighters, the enemy was about to alter its tactics. Realizing that they were losing despite their numbers, the commanders of the Ice Talons called a stop to the waves and waves of indiscriminate attacks. Instead, the soldiers were to focus on one point in the Kielian League's phalanx, to try to weaken it and break the formation. The enemies swarmed one owl at the top of the passageway, overwhelming him.

To General Kai's horror, the Ice Talons' change in tactics was working. The battle was turning. He was losing soldiers left and right. “Reserves, engage!” he shouted amid the clang of battle claws and ice weapons.

Struma lifted off her ledge with her ice sword in her talons. She flew to a spot in the phalanx that looked thin. Immediately, she was engaged in talon-to-talon fighting.
The enemy was so close that she could scarcely swing her sword. No matter, she had her battle claws. She cut down her first enemy with calculated precision. Her gizzard was on fire. Her muscles and hollow bones, strong and finely honed from the endless drills she endured, took over. It seemed that with the addition of the reserves, the owls of Little Hoole were turning the battle to their favor once again. Another hundred Ice Talons fell, but still more kept coming.

The sun was just beginning to fill the sky with its first orange rays. Struma saw that all three units, as well as other reserve fighters like herself, were now in the pass. They were doing all they could to maintain formation, but they were losing their numbers and confusion was beginning to set in. Meanwhile, she was doing her best to fend off the attackers closest to her. Snow continued to fall, turning the battlefield white. A Barred Owl flew directly at her with battle claws extended. She brought her ice sword up just in time to keep the metal-covered talons from slashing her face. With another thrust of her ice sword, she sent the Barred Owl reeling with a gash in his chest. Within a single heartbeat, a Pygmy Owl took the place of the fallen Barred Owl, her ice splinter coming within striking distance of Struma's eyes. Struma stumbled backward in fright, barely evading the jab. Before she
could recover, an enormous Great Gray was upon her, his ice scimitar glistening with blood. In her struggle to regain her balance, her ice sword fell from her talons. In that instant, the world slowed down.
This is it,
Struma thought,
I'm about to die.
Her life did not flash before her eyes, and she felt no fear. She simply watched the blade of her enemy's scimitar come toward her.
Any second now, the world will turn black.
She was sure that the Great Gray was attacking with great haste, but to her, it all seemed so slow, so unreal.
Is this what dying feels like?

Before she could refocus her eyes, a white blur appeared before her. Sarissa! The Snowy lunged at the Great Gray. The Great Gray flapped his enormous wings once and lunged back. Sarissa expertly parried the Great Gray's attacks, darting back and forth. Finally, she thrust her sword forcefully at the Gray's port wing, almost severing it.
She's done it, she saved my life!
Struma was stunned. But she quickly managed to regain her balance, and picked up her ice sword. She was ready to rejoin Sarissa in battle.

Just then, the dying Great Gray thrashed about wildly, as if in shock. Suddenly, a gash appeared on Sarissa's side, staining her white feathers red. The Gray had slashed her with his scimitar. It would be his last act.

“No!” screamed Struma as she watched her mentor fall from the sky. She dove toward Sarissa in desperation.

“Defend yourself, Struma!” Sarissa yelled as she fell.

Struma turned her head toward the sky just in time to see the Northern Saw-whet who was diving toward her brandishing a deadly ice splinter.
She saved me again,
Struma thought as she came out of her dive with her sword poised to strike.

Struma realized now that Sarissa could not be saved. She needed to focus on the battle, to live to fight another day as the old saying went. She would mourn after the battle was over, but now, she would avenge Sarissa by killing their enemies. Down went the Northern Saw-whet.

On and on the battle went. The situation was growing more dire by the minute for the Kielian League. If the remaining owls of the Kielian League were pushed out of the pass, it would all be over. Struma was more tired than she had
ever
been. Still, she fought on. She looked at her comrades fighting beside her. Their numbers had grown thin while the enemy seemed endless. This was their last stand.

The enemy continued pushing toward the glen. Soon, if she did not die, she would be pushed back into Little Hoole.

Then, without warning, the Ice Talons far back in the pass turned their backs on the glen.

“Incoming!” an owl yelled in the distance. “Friendlies!”

The snow stopped falling and the air was clear for the first time in a moon cycle. “Reinforcements from the Firth of Fangs, sir!” It was Dag calling out to General Kai. Somehow, he had gotten past the Ice Talons at the start of the battle and brought back at least five units of fighting owls from the Firth.

It was utter chaos. The Ice Talons' generals had lost all control over their soldiers. Some tried to surrender while others slashed madly at any owls who went near them. Struma wasn't sure what to do. She was awaiting orders when a Barn Owl came at her, screeching deliriously. He had his ice sword raised within inches of Struma's outstretched wing. Just then, another white blur appeared in front of Struma.
Sarissa?
The ice sword in the Snowy's talons cut down the Barn Owl swiftly and mercilessly.

Was I just saved by a scroom?
“Sarissa?” Struma asked disbelievingly.

The Snowy Owl turned to face her. “No. The name is Barran. Glad to be of service.” And quickly as she came, Barran left to check on conditions in another part of the battlefield.

The battle was finally over.

The mood at Little Hoole was one of elation. Fifty owls had stood against hundreds and successfully defended what was theirs. Struma was jubilant and heartbroken at the
same time. She had survived her first battle, having done her part to defend Little Hoole. But she had also lost a mentor and many friends. After the victory celebration was over, Struma retired to her nest and slept. She slept from Deep Gray to First Lavender, and to Deep Gray the next day. No one could begrudge her sleeping in this time.

Shortly after the battle, Strix Hurth and Strix Otulinn were reunited with their daughter. Struma was going home. As the family was saying their good-byes to General Kai, he whispered to its youngest member, “Well done, Strix Struma.” With those words, General Kai bestowed a great honor upon the young Spotted Owl. Since ancient times, Spotted Owls have eschewed honorifics. To distinguish those who show great courage on the battlefield, they are given the title of Strix. Strix Hurth and Strix Otulinn nodded their approval and felt nothing but pride for their daughter.

The Battle of Little Hoole would go down in history as one of the most heroic ever fought. But Strix Struma never boasted about her role in it. She simply called it a “learning experience.” She died on the night that she told me this story. I find it fitting that she was as valiant in her first battle as she was in her last. The great tree will forever miss her.

IFGHAR AND LYZE OF KIEL

The following pages came from a diary. I found them in the hidden chamber in Ezylryb's hollow after his death. The diary appears to have been written by Ezylryb's brother, Ifghar. I have taken the liberty of translating it from the original Krakish. The pages were creased and worn, but it was obvious that great care had been taken to preserve them.

There was so much that I didn't know about the strife between these warrior brothers, so much I failed to understand about the lesser brother; so much more to this turnfeather than I ever could have guessed.

From the day I hatched, Lyze took it upon himself to watch out for me. He was in my very first memories, even more so than Ma was. He guided me through every little thing that an owlet does, my First Insect, my First Meat, the first time I branched…I cannot remember a single event in my young life that did not include Lyze. My big brother was always by my side, watching out for me.

He wanted to make me the best owl I could be. He wanted me shrewd—a quality that he thought Lysa had lacked. He wanted me strong—as all warriors of the North were. He wanted me tough—as tough as he

believed himself to be, and as tough as Pa was when he was alive.

He hadn't watched out for Lysa. He was an owlet himself, after all, and nobody could blame young Lyze. That is, except for Lyze himself.

I don't know exactly what had happened in the year before I was hatched. From what I was able to piece together, Lysa was days from branching when it happened. It was early evening. She was sleeping peacefully in her nest. Ma was out hunting. Pa was on the front lines, as he had been for many nights. And Lyze had just begun branching. He did this on his own, Pa was not there to help him. Too often fathers, and sometimes mothers, were not around to raise their chicks; the war took them away from their homes.

Lyze had hopped through the branches of the tall, slender pine that had been our home. He was almost fully fledged, and so close to flying. From branch to branch he went, getting farther and farther from our hollow. He heard a soft chirp, and looked down to see little Lysa, having woken from her nap, at the edge of our hollow. She looked up at her big brother, longing to join him in his fun. Before Lyze could react, Lysa tumbled down to the ground. Lyze called out in the staccato bark of alarm that we Whiskered Screech Owls use in times of danger.
But it was useless. He watched as a coyote snatched his downy little sister in his jaws, and disappeared into the eventide.