(GoG Book 07) The Hatchling (6 page)

Indeed, no one knew how closely he had studied them and yearned for their power with the deepest part of his gizzard.

“But first,” Nyra continued, “you must learn to hate.” She regarded her son closely as she said this.

“Hate—why hate?”

“My dear, hate can make you strong. Very strong.”

“But I don’t hate anything.”

“Give it time, my little hatchling,” she said. “I shall help you learn to hate. These are the facts of life and death, my dear.”

Nyroc felt as if his gizzard were cracking with fear. He knew he was wilfing in front of his mother’s eyes. He was trying to be brave. He tried to summon the image of his father’s battle claws. “You will help me?”

“Of course. I’m your mother. What are mothers for but to teach their little ones?”

“To hate?”

Nyra nodded. “And here is your first lesson. You know who Soren is.”

“My uncle,” Nyroc answered. “The owl who killed my father.”

“Well, it’s as easy as that.”

Nyroc’s eyes shined now. “You mean I am supposed to hate him?” he replied excitedly.

“Exactly.”

“Well, that’s not hard, Mum. I already do.” And in Nyroc’s mind’s eye an image blazed: his father’s battle claws on his own talons tearing through the backbone of Soren. He could hear the crack of the bones, could see the blood. Nyra watched her son and observed how his black eyes grew blacker and harder just as his father’s once had.
Killer eyes!
The likeness to his father almost took her breath away.

“You see,” Nyra finally spoke, “hate comes easily. There will, however, be harder lessons.”

But this did not concern Nyroc. This first lesson had been easy. It was natural to hate his father’s killer. He felt his gizzard stir with a heat he had never before known.
So this is hate,
he thought with great wonder. It was a most powerful emotion. If this was what his mum meant by hate, how hard could the other lessons be?

“Yes,” said Nyra. “You must learn to hate him. You must think of your da’s broken spine every time you hear Soren’s name, every time you hear the words ‘Guardians of Ga’Hoole.’”

“Yes, Mum, yes. I shall hate. I promise.”

“Swear upon the battle claws of your father,” Nyra whispered.

Nyroc hopped over to where the claws hung on the
stone wall and raised one talon. “On these claws of my great father, I do swear to hate.”

“And to kill,” his mother added softly.

“And to kill,” Nyroc repeated, and once more his eyes turned black and hard. Like black diamonds with a fierce sparkle at their very center.

Nyra peered out of the hollow and saw the last scraps of the night dissolving into the gray of the new day. “It is nearing twixt time. Go to sleep now, my little hatchling. I am proud of you. Know that.” But deep in Nyra’s gizzard there was a tremor of doubt. She did not know why. It made no sense. She had seen the dark glitter in those eyes so like Kludd’s. He was her perfect hatchling and yet she thought,
There is something too sweet in this lad’s gizzard, something too sweet. If I could only drain that sweetness from his gizzard and replace it with the gallgrot of his father. But his eyes. His eyes are killer eyes
—
are they not?

T
he family of Burrowing Owls looked at the Rogue smith who had tumbled out of the sky with his bucket of coals, tongs, and hammer. Kalo, their daughter, entered the burrow. Her father asked, “Did you find the last coal?”

“I think so, Da. It was under the edge of that boulder.”

Burrowing Owls were known for their walking abilities. Their long, featherless legs and their talons were extremely strong. They dug holes to live in, much preferring a ground hollow to one in a tree.

“Well, he’ll be pleased with that when he wakes up,” her father replied.

“I hope it’s soon,” said Kalo. “He’s moaning like he’s having the worst daymares ever.”

“Screaming about scrooms and crows,” her mother added. “Crows are what got him, I think. They always go for the tail feathers first.”

“And to think he was being attacked in the sky right above us and we didn’t even know it,” the father said for the third time.

“Harry”—his mate, Myrtle, looked at him—“what could we have done, really? We have no idea how many crows there were. They could have outnumbered us and then we would all have been finished.”

“But maybe they wouldn’t have outnumbered us,” Harry said. “See, this is what comes of living underground.”

Harry, the father of this brood, was a bit of an eccentric. For some time, he had been trying to persuade his family to have at least a summer home in a tree someplace.

“Harry, we’ve gone through this a million times,” his mate said.

“Myrtle,” he said.

She knew what was coming.

“Need I remind you,” he went on, “that myrtle is a plant that grows on a tree? You’d be a natural.”

Myrtle blinked. “Harry, somewhere out there, there’s a Barn Owl whose name is Dirtle, just plain Dirt for short. Do you think her mate is trying to persuade her to set up housekeeping in a burrow?”

“And besides,” Kalo said, “I don’t want to be the only Burrowing Owl living in a tree. What would my friends think? It’s just too weird.”

The family continued their good-natured bickering, not noticing that Gwyndor had begun to stir.

“Where am I?” Gwyndor said in a low, rasping voice.

“My goodness! He’s awake!” Myrtle gasped.

“Sir.” Harry stepped forward. “You are in our burrow. You seemed to have fallen out of the sky.”

“My coals! My coals!” Gwyndor cried hoarsely.

“Don’t worry.” Myrtle bent down to speak to him. “Our daughter, Kalo, fetched them all—at least we think she found them all.”

“How many did she find?”

“Nine, sir.” Kalo had stepped up next to her mother. “And your hammer and tongs and the bucket,” she added.

Gwyndor sank back on the soft bed of rabbit fur with great relief.

“Were you mobbed, sir?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Gwyndor replied. “There were three of them.”

“Three against one!” Myrtle said, her voice hushed with awe. “And you survived!”

“I survived, no doubt thanks to you.”

“Your wounds don’t look too bad. We’ll just send our daughter out for some fresh worms to put on them,” Harry said, and then with some emphasis added, “Nestmaid snakes are hard to come by here. They prefer trees, I guess.” He spun his head toward his mate.

“Drop it, Harry! Our daughter is just as good as any nest-maid snake at digging up worms.”

“I must be on my way immediately,” Gwyndor said, struggling up from the rabbit fur. He had forgotten how very good Burrowing Owls were at rabbit hunting with their finely honed talons, and how they lined their nests with the soft fur.
Lovely practice,
Gwyndor thought.

“You’re going? You can’t be serious, sir,” Harry said.

“Oh, but I am. It is essential that I get to my destination as soon as possible.”

The entire family of Burrowing Owls blinked in astonishment as Gwyndor staggered to his feet, then reached for his kit. “I cannot thank you enough. I shall never forget your kindness.”

“But, sir,” Harry interrupted.

“No, I must go—without delay. Good-bye and Glaux bless.”

A few seconds later, they heard the flutter of his wings as Gwyndor took off.

T
he contrary winds had eased up, making flying less difficult. As the Great Horns came into sight, Gwyndor at last allowed himself to feel his fatigue. He ran over his plan in his head. He had to get Nyroc alone. He would ask Nyra if her young son could help him set up the forge for the fire claws. He would say that as a Rogue smith, he had a sense about which young’uns would make good blacksmiths and he thought that perhaps Nyroc might be one. He felt this would be an irresistible idea for Nyra. If the Pure Ones had their own smith they would have an endless supply of weapons.

And then what?
Gwyndor thought. How was one supposed to go about telling a young owlet, a near-hatchling, that he was going to be asked to kill another owl in cold blood? And after that, what? There were many parts of Gwyndor’s plan that were not worked out. But he would just have to take it one wing beat at a time, as his dear old
mum used to say. The words of the Snowy still haunted him:
These lessons are perhaps best learned on one’s own.

“Nonsense!” Gwyndor muttered to himself. First, he would have to find a spot to set up his forge. The making of the fire claws was actually a ruse so it did not matter much where he set up. A plan began to fall into place. As soon as he told Nyroc the true meaning of the Special ceremony he would have to leave—leave or be killed. If Nyroc wanted to leave with him, he could. Gwyndor didn’t much like company, but he could point Nyroc in the right direction, suggest some region where he might find a safe hollow to hide in. But then again, even at this young age Nyroc looked a great deal like his mum. He would immediately be identified as one of the Pure Ones, who were welcome nowhere.

Suddenly, a call cracked the air. “Hail, the Rogue smith has returned!” It was one of the lookouts from the watch perch on the Great Horns. Gwyndor spiraled down toward the Pure Ones’ outpost in the canyonlands.

He saw some owls, Nyra among them, come out from their stone hollows and gather on a ledge.

As he lighted down, Gwyndor looked for Nyroc. Was he too late? Had the ceremony already happened? He then spotted Nyroc on a ledge looking quite fit. Even elated. He must have once again performed some task flawlessly.

“Welcome, sir.” Nyra nodded to the Rogue smith. “I trust you’ve brought the proper tools for making our fire claws.”

“Yes, madam. I need only now to find the right place to set up my forge.” He cast a glance toward Nyroc. “Madam, if I might proffer a suggestion?”

“Yes?” Nyra said.

“I would like some help in the setting up of my forge.”

“Of course.” She turned to her first lieutenant. “Uglamore?”

“Oh, madam, that is very kind of you,” Gwyndor hastened to say, “but I was wondering…”

“Yes?” she snapped. Owls seldom questioned Nyra’s choices.

“I was wondering if your son, Nyroc, might assist me.”

“Nyroc? Why Nyroc?” she asked Gwyndor.

“Because, madam, I think he has the gift for fire.” This was truer than anyone there, except Gwyndor, could possibly know. If Nyroc truly was a flame reader, his powers went far beyond those of a blacksmith.

“You think he could learn to be a smith?”

“Absolutely, madam, and a very fine smith at that. He may be born to command—eventually—but could he not in the meantime learn, and then teach, smithing?”

There was a stirring among the owls. “Well, this is
indeed an unexpected idea, and perhaps a blessing, if what you say is true.”

“I am seldom wrong about such things. Yes, madam, if he has the gift, I could train him—and he in turn could train others—other Pure Ones—to make all the battle claws and fire claws you will ever need.”

Nyra’s eyes shone. She ruffled her feathers, and her face seemed to grow even larger. “Come forward, Nyroc.” The other owls parted on the ledge to make a path for the young owl. “Did you hear what the Rogue smith said?”

“Yes, General Mam,” he said.

“You could start your apprenticeship directly following your Special ceremony.”

“And when is that to be, madam?” Gwyndor asked, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice.

“Tomorrow evening.”

“That is unfortunate,” he said.

“What is the problem?” Nyra asked.

“It is essential that I find a place for my forge and get my fires going immediately. I have brought special coals. The first step of a young apprentice’s education is to see what kind of place makes for a good forge and the setting of the coals.”

“Oh, I see. Well, no harm in him accompanying you now.”

“Good,” Gwyndor said. At last he would have the chance to speak to Nyroc alone. It had been worth everything: the contrary winds, the mobbing by crows.
Yes, one wing beat at a time
—
one wing beat at a time,
his mum’s wise words echoed in his head.

N
yroc was overjoyed by Gwyndor’s words.
Who would have ever thought that the Rogue smith would invite me to be an apprentice? He says I have the gift, the gift of fire. I’m not sure what that means.
Nyroc was thinking all this as he and Gwyndor flew over a ridge on the far side of the Great Horns. They had been flying for a while before Gwyndor finally began his descent. Much to Nyroc’s surprise, the Rogue smith settled on a ledge high above the ground. There were no caves in sight.

“A ledge seems an odd place for a forge,” Nyroc said.

Gwyndor was about to blurt everything out, to say, “Nyroc, I didn’t bring you here to make a forge. We shall not be making any forges.” But once again, the Snowy Owl’s words coursed through him:
Truth must be revealed and not simply told.
Perhaps he could build a fire and see what it revealed to the young’un. If the Snowy Owl was right, the truth might be stronger coming from the fire, might go deeper—right to the center of Nyroc’s gizzard. “You’re
right,” Gwyndor replied quickly. “This is no place for a forge. I just need a bit of a rest. It was a hard trip back. Headwinds, you know.”

Nyroc looked at him. He wasn’t sure why they had stopped on the ledge. It had seemed at first as if the old Rogue smith was about to say something to him, something important. He was a curious, almost funny-looking old owl, Nyroc thought. Relative of the Barn Owl with the same almost heart-shaped facial disk except that instead of being pure white, a shadowy mask stretched across it. His beak had permanent dark smudges from a lifetime spent tending a forge. Nearly all of his leg feathers had been scorched off and his thin knobby knees poked through the remaining feathery bits. His talons were rough and blackened from working with the hammer and tongs. But now Gwyndor spread his wings and lifted into flight and Nyroc followed. Soon they found the perfect place for a forge. It was a cave in the base of a cliff with a good dirt floor. Gwyndor began to tear at the dirt with his talons, hollowing out a shallow pit. From his kit, he removed some twigs for kindling, then drew out coals that were still red-hot. Nyroc felt a stir in his gizzard as the first flames leaped up from the kindling. “Step closer, lad,” Gwyndor instructed.