(GoG Book 08) The Outcast (15 page)

Perched on a rock outcropping were two owls that had been watching him from the start. It was one of the few times in her life that Otulissa was completely silent. Gwyndor stood motionless, as if holding his breath. Both
of their gizzards were in a frenzied state. They sensed what was coming.

Except for the screech of the wind and the occasional howl of a gnaw wolf, a hush had fallen over the Sacred Ring. This was Coryn’s fifth circle of the ring. He could see Otulissa and Gwyndor watching him. He spotted Hamish on the ground.
He must be off duty
, Coryn thought, for he had stopped loping the trail between Dunmore and Stormfast. Coryn felt bad that he had paid such scant attention to his friend these past several days. He hoped there would be time later. He hoped there would be a later!

But despite this grim thought, Coryn was calm, as calm as he had ever been in his life. His gizzard was trimmed and fit for the challenge. Part of this challenge was patience. He knew someplace deep within his gizzard that it was not a matter of guessing which volcano the ember lay buried in. It would come to him in some inexplicable way and he would know
that one
is the volcano.

On the very fringes of the dark red shadows cast by the volcanoes, another owl lurked. If anyone had noticed her, they would have thought she flew most awkwardly for a Rogue smith. She set down her tools with a clank but no one heard it above the wind. Every creature’s eyes were focused on just one thing: the young Barn Owl flying
now for the sixth time over the top of the cones of the volcanoes—every creature, that is, except for the gnaw wolves on the cairns. Their hackles had risen the moment this other owl had arrived. A silent scent message went out.
Beware! A graymalkin is here.
Would she try to fly up where the young Barn Owl was circling? It could prove a difficult intercept if the two of them were fighting over the ember. Never in the history of the Sacred Ring had two owls attempted at the same time to recover the Ember of Hoole.

But the wolves were wrong. This owl would not attempt to retrieve the ember before Coryn. No, Nyra had it all worked out. She was not diving into some boiling volcano. Let Coryn do it and if he died, he died. He was no more the heir of Hoole than she was. But if by some freakish incident he did get the ember, well, then, she would wrest it from him. She would kill him and take the ember back to the MacHeaths. And if no one got it? Her plan would still work. She had promised to restore the MacHeaths to their glory as the true members of the Sacred Watch and then, with them by her side, she would begin to dominate the world of owls.
If only Kludd were here to see this. Kludd!

Coryn looked down into the boiling crater of Dunmore. It was in Dunmore’s cauldron that the bonk
coals he caught on the fly had been born. And even though those coals had revealed to him the image of the Ember of Hoole, he knew in his gizzard that the great ember was not buried in that boiling cauldron. He flew over Morgan and peered in, and then Stormfast and Kiel. So far, he had been flying high, but it was as he approached Hrath’ghar that he noticed a strange phenomenon on the slopes just beneath the cone’s opening. He began to hover. He blinked in dismay and now felt a quickening in his gizzard. The sides of this volcano seemed suddenly luminous. Now they were turning a pearly opalescent, and then the gleaming swirls started to glow and become translucent. Were the others seeing this, too? The night was strung with that wild savage music of howling wolves. Owls were flying in the lower levels around Hrath’ghar, but suddenly Coryn knew that they were not seeing what he was seeing at all. They had come to this volcano merely because he had been hovering so long. They did not see that the volcano was turning to glass!

And through that burning glass, Coryn saw the Ember of Hoole, orange with the lick of blue at its center ringed with green—the green of wolves’ eyes. Just like those of Gyllbane! The ember was cradled in a black pocket of a lava bubble. Through the glass, he saw how the boiling lava sea grew still and the pocket in which the Ember of
Hoole rocked began to float to the surface of that black sea. Other embers, sizzling and popping from the crater, seemed to hang suspended for just a moment in the air.

Only Coryn could see this. This was the moment to seize. He spiraled up, high above the crater. Then, laying back his wings so they were flat to his sides, Coryn rocketed down into the crater. His last thought was
I have flown through the Shredders, I can fly through this.
He was amazed that he felt no heat within the crater and when he dipped his beak into the lava for the ember, it felt almost cool.

Like a fiery comet, Coryn whistled out of the crater. A blazing rainbow of sparks streamed from the ember in his beak. The wolves howled. The owls hooted and shreed and shrieked and crooned. Then the unique call of a Boreal Owl sounded like chimes in the snowy wind-ripped night, proclaiming: “The new king lives! Long live Coryn, Heir of Hoole.”

The chant was taken up by all the gnaw wolves, wolf birds, and owls. Even a wandering caribou herd, which joined the braying in their own way: “Long live Coryn, the King!”

Otulissa, weeping, joined the chorus.

In the shadows, Nyra waited patiently. She said nothing. She merely glared, and because she was some distance
from the rejoicing crowd, no one noticed her strange silence. But there was one owl who had been watching her since she had arrived. A great Snowy Owl. His name was Doc Finebeak. His white plumage blended in well with the surroundings. He had perched on a drift not far from where Nyra was. He wore a crow feather stuck jauntily among his back feathers. Known as one of the best trackers, he lived in the Beyond and, like hireclaws, had few scruples. His last job had been for Nyra, tracking down her errant son, who somehow had managed to fly through the Shredders to escape the Pure Ones. Ever since that job, he had vowed never to work for the tyrant again. His conscience had finally caught up with him that day on the far side of the Shredders. He had been shocked by her response when Nyroc, as he was then called, had survived. His mother had actually preferred that he die. Disgusted by the very sight of Nyra, he turned his gaze away. He looked across from where he perched to a nearby cliff and blinked. “By Glaux, it is Uglamore!”

He had heard that the former lieutenant of Nyra’s was in the Beyond, that he’d deserted the Pure Ones shortly after Nyroc had escaped from the Shredders. The Guardians of Ga’Hoole didn’t want him. He could never return to the Pure Ones, even if he wanted to. He was a marked owl as far as they were concerned, to be killed on sight. And
this was where marked owls came. Doc Finebeak observed that Uglamore was certainly much the worse for wear. His feathers were tattered, with not a hint of luster. He was alarmingly thin. Just as Finebeak was looking at the old owl, Uglamore swept his head around and caught sight of him. The two owls locked eyes, then they blinked.

Uglamore had not seen Finebeak since the horrible days when Nyra had hunted down her son. Uglamore himself had always had a soft spot for Nyroc. And when he first heard that a young Barn Owl was in the Beyond, he had a hunch it might be Nyroc. Then he had spotted him that day at the carcass of the moose. He knew immediately it was Nyroc. The son resembled the mother right down to the scar he bore. He had heard a rumor that she had attacked him and scarred his face. So he had taken to following the young’un. Little did he imagine that it would lead to this.
Odd,
Uglamore thought,
that we are all now here together—Finebeak, myself, and the young’un, Nyroc.

Uglamore had heard the rumors coming from the dire wolves that this owl was special—perhaps the one to retrieve the ember. But wolves were dramatic and naturally superstitious. He never paid much attention to their talk. But what he was now seeing was making him believe. This young Barn Owl, this fugitive from the Pure Ones, raised on hate and the vitriol of their vicious notions, this
outcast of all outcasts, had grown noble. Here, indeed, was the true heir of King Hoole.

In that very same moment, Doc Finebeak was thinking the same thing. It was enough to bring a tear to a very cynical eye. And it would have if Doc Finebeak hadn’t resolved to stay alert. He had to keep an eye on this female, the tyrant owl who was seething with such hatred, he could feel its heat through the frigid wind-whipped air.

She’s going to make a move any second! I know it,
Doc Finebreak thought.
And everybody’s so drunk with joy they’ll never notice it.
He looked around. He was going to need help to stop what Nyra was planning. But there was only Uglamore. As quietly as possible, Doc Finebeak signaled the old lieutenant to stay put—that he would join him on the ice shelf where he perched. Uglamore nodded.

When he lighted down beside the old raggedy owl, he whispered to him, “She’s going to do something.”

Uglamore nodded.

“She’ll make a move soon. We have to be ready. Are you up to it?”

Uglamore nodded again. A grim fierceness burned in his eyes. It was almost miraculous. The old lieutenant seemed to grow young. “All right,” he said.

Nyra spread her wings as Coryn began one more circle of the Sacred Ring with the ember firmly clamped in his beak. The colliers were flying madly below him trying to capture the sparks from it for their buckets. It was said that a spark from the ember ensured bonk coals in a Rogue smith’s forge forever.

Coryn himself could hardly believe it. At this moment, his gizzard was brimming over with joy and something else—deep, deep gratitude. Until this moment he had never realized how many creatures he loved for the love they had given him—everyone including the beautiful cream-colored wolf, Gyllbane. He looked below for her now but couldn’t find her. And Hamish and Otulissa and Gwyndor, dear Gwyndor who had hinted of such destiny but, more important, told him of free will. Yes, he had come here of his own free will. And Mist! Dear Mist. But right now he wanted to find Hamish and Gyllbane.

“Stop her!” he heard someone scream.

What was it? Coryn turned around.

Nyra!

“Come to Mama! Give it here!”

His gizzard screamed,
No!

Coryn went into a steep spiral up, but then something caught his eye on the ground. A wolf was staggering near
the edges of the ember beds. Sizzles went up as foam dripped from his mouth.
The sick wolf!
Suddenly, he had an idea. He spiraled down directly toward the foaming-mouthed wolf that was trying to bite its own tail.

“Look what the lad is doing!” Doc Finebeak said. “Brilliant! He’s herding the old witch right into the jaws of the wolf with the foaming disease. Let’s help!” Uglamore and he were off the ice shelf in a split second.

In no time, others picked up on Coryn’s strategy. Hamish and Gyllbane seemed to come out of nowhere and began lurching at the sick wolf, driving him toward Nyra. Coryn was determined to keep flying low. If he flew low, Nyra would fly low. Everyone was joining in the attempt to drive the hated owl into the jaws of the sick wolf. They were in a fever. For eons, they had waited for a king, and now their young king was threatened.

Nyra did not quite know what was happening. She had thought it would be an air battle between her and Coryn, but she was actually being forced toward the ground. She wasn’t a good ground fighter.
What’s happening here?
She was now tightly surrounded.
Where is Nyroc?
Behind her were the biggest wolves she had ever seen. There was the cream-colored one from the MacHeath Gadderheal.
What is she doing here?
Nyra wondered.

“I’m on your side,” she said in a desperate whisper as Gyllbane closed in on her.

The wolf’s eyes glittered so brightly they cast a green glow on the patch of snow on the ground. “No, you’re not! You’re on no one’s side but your own,” Gyllbane said through bared teeth.

Nyra suddenly caught sight of the sick wolf. She could hear its rough breathing and see its foaming mouth. She realized now what they were doing as the other owls and wolves edged her closer and closer to him. She knew of this sickness. She knew it drove animals mad and that they died horrible deaths. She looked up for an escape.

“Uglamore, you old fool! What are you doing here?” she shreed.

“Watching you die,” he replied in an even voice.

“Uglamore, you can’t do this to me.”

“Yes, he can,” another voice said.

“Doc Finebeak, you’ll help me, won’t you?”

“Not on my life.”

Above her, a phalanx of birds closed in, making escape impossible. Below her were walls of wolves and above them all, Coryn flew with the bright jewel of the Ember of Hoole clutched in his beak.

There had to be a way out of this. She hadn’t lived this
long to die now. She knew every trick. She would figure out something. The wolves were strong and huge, but many of them were missing limbs. That’s where the gaps in the wall of wolves would be. She scanned the legs. If she found a gap and was quick and flew low, she might get out.

But just at that moment, the sick wolf lunged. There was a flurry as all the birds and wolves leaped back to avoid the flying flecks of foam. One speck in the wrong place could mean death. But Nyra saw her chance.

I’m free!
She spread her wings to rise, but Uglamore swooped down upon her. She tumbled sideways, stunned.

Uglamore!
Coryn shreed silently.

It was unbelievable. The old lieutenant was now in the foaming jaws of the wolf. All eyes were on Uglamore and the disease-maddened animal. In the desperate confusion of the moment, Nyra flew off.

“He’s dying! He’s dying!”

Gyllbane charged the sick wolf, which dropped Uglamore’s body on the ground, howled, and ran directly into the coal beds. In its frenzy, the wolf had thrown itself on its back and was now being consumed by flames.

The wolves and the owls had raced to Uglamore, who now was dying, for the wolf’s fangs had stabbed right to his heart. “Stand back, stand back,” Fengo, the chief of the
Sacred Watch, was saying. “You must not touch him. It is sure death.”