The Siege (9 page)

Soren’s eyes blinked open. The cloudiness that dulled the deep black luster had cleared. “I can’t believe it. Hortense, Streak, Zan—all here. All alive.”

“And you!” Gylfie’s voice broke. “You’re alive, Soren. Alive!”

Y
ou see, this smith, the Rogue Smith of—” Streak had begun to speak.

“The Rogue Smith of Silverveil,” Twilight blurted out.

“We know her,” Digger said.

“She’s Madame Plonk’s sister,” Gylfie added. Madame Plonk was the elegant singer at the Great Ga’Hoole Tree.

“Well, she came to see Zan and me. But it was really Mist she asked for. She seems to see everything, and sometimes she dreams things that happen.”

“Just sometimes,” Mist added. “Remember, Soren and Gylfie, I told you that because of the heavy deposits of flecks that run in the streams and creeks of Ambala, owls from that region can be both blessed and cursed.”

Gylfie nodded.

“Remember I told you that my wings were small and malformed because of the flecks, and that I had a grand-mother who lost her wits entirely but my own father could see through rock? Well, I cannot see through rock,
but sometimes I have dreams that seem to—how should I put it—look into the future. I can see things that sometimes happen in the future.

“Ever since that night when I saw the owl they call Metal Beak kill Simon, I have had terrible feelings. Glaux, I didn’t realize it was your brother, Soren.”

Soren blinked. The more he heard about the death of this good pilgrim owl named Simon, a Glauxian Brother, the worse he felt. He felt partly responsible for Simon’s death. For if he had not wounded Kludd so terribly, Simon would have never crossed paths with him and tried to nurse him back to health.

Hortense continued. “I began to have dreams. And one of my dreams was of a great massing on a promontory that juts out into the Sea of Hoolemere. But it was all so vague. It was hard to understand the meaning of the dream, but then this rogue smith—never did give her name—came to us. And she was so agitated that she could barely tell her story. But it seems that she had heard on good authority that this awful group that chooses to call themselves the Pure Ones is led by your brother, and that they have been gathering Barn Owl recruits from all the owl kingdoms and forests. She said they are massing on Cape Glaux right now.”

There was silence in the hollow as the owls stared at the faded and fragile Hortense.

“But Cape Glaux!” Soren finally spoke. “No owls would ever stay on Cape Glaux—not this time of year—unless…”

“Yes, precisely,” Hortense said. “Unless they were planning an invasion of the Island of Hoole.”

“We have to get back now!” Soren said.

“Soren,” Gylfie pleaded. “You’re not strong enough. The winterlies are beginning to blow across Hoolemere. You’re now missing one whole tail feather—those don’t grow back overnight. How will you rudder?”

“We must go. We must warn the great tree. I’ll make it.” Soren’s dark gaze bore into the little Elf Owl. Gylfie knew him well enough to know he would never be swayed.

And so that night as First Black gathered in the Forest of Ambala, the seven owls made their preparations to leave. It was not an easy leave-taking, especially for Soren and Gylfie, who had never expected to see Hortense again.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Soren said as they perched on the branch of the sycamore. “Streak and Zan, once more you have saved me. Hortense, that you are alive thrills Gylfie and me more than you can imagine. Your
goodness and your selflessness have been a continuing inspiration for us. We would love for you to come with us to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, for you have the most honorable of gizzards and a sublime heart. You would make a knight, a guardian most noble.”

But Hortense just shook her head. “A visit someday perhaps, but my place is here in Ambala,” she said.

Then Soren turned to Slynella.

“Slynella, I owe my life to you. You could have chosen not to come. You have spent your precious venom on me. I know that it weakened you. Streak and Hortense have told me that each time a flying snake spends its venom, it takes longer to replenish. That you did so willingly with no delay was a true sacrifice. How can I ever thank you?”

“Worthy. You are worthy. A friend of Sssstreak, a friend of Zzzzan, and a friend of Misssst issss mossst worthy. Ssssoren is ssuch a friend.” As she spoke, Slynella writhed in and out of her S-shaped designs. She hung glowing in the First Black.

Then, as the dwenking moon climbed into the sky, the seven owls rose in the night. The Chaw of Chaws was heading home, but not before stopping on the fog-shrouded cliffs of Cape Glaux to see if what the Rogue Smith of Silverveil had reported was true.

The night was thinning as the black faded to gray. It was twixt time, that minute between the last vanishing drop of gray and the first tinge of the rose of the dawn. But today there would be no rose or pink or any of the pale seashell colors that sometimes stained the morning, for the winterlies were blowing hard. The morning was sloppy with spume and icy sheets of rain. The visibility was terrible and only an owl like Twilight, hatched on that silvery border of time between day and night, could see. He left the others and flew alone. Twilight could navigate in that dim time when the world was not quite black nor yet light, when the boundaries and the shapes of things became blurred with shadows and fog, and they almost seemed to melt away.

And now as he flew out from the sea-lashed cliffs under the cover of fog, he was seeing something that stilled his gizzard. Beneath him on Cape Glaux, spots of white were melting out of the gray fog. Hundreds upon hundreds of Barn Owls were gathered, their pale, heart-shaped faces tipped toward the sky studying the weather. They did not see Twilight, for with his plumage of silver-and-gray feathers, he blended in perfectly with the swirling fog. He plunged into a lower fog bank. Twilight strained his ears to see if he could pick up a scrap of anything they were saying, but it was useless. Still, he hovered in some
dim hope. Then he detected the shapes of two Barn Owls who were apart from the rest. They were most likely keeping a watch, or perhaps they had flown out to scout the conditions at sea. Twilight flew into the thickest part of the fog and listened closely.

“We can’t fly in this, Wortmore,” said one of the Barn Owls.

“No. I doubt the High Tyto would want to risk it,” replied the other.

“These winterlies can’t keep up forever, though.”

“There’s bound to be a break soon. Wind should back around to north by northwest.”

Dream on, fools!
Twilight rejoiced silently. This was their chance. The Chaw of Chaws could fly it. And within the Chaw of Chaws was the weather chaw—Ruby, Otulissa, Soren, and Martin. Those four could fly through anything, for they had been taught by the master, Ezylryb.

Twilight returned. His report was brief. “The bad news is there are hundreds of them. Maybe even a thousand. The good news is they are scared to fly.”

“Maybe a thousand, you say?” Digger’s voice quavered.

“They could outnumber the owls of the great tree,” Otulissa whispered. “How did they ever get that many?”

Soren regarded the chaw. They were scared. He was scared. And fear could be as awful as any disease, as terrible
as the fever he had just survived. It could spread. It could rage. He must do something to stop it.

“We are the Chaw of Chaws. Do you forget that?” Soren asked. “We have already battled Metal Beak once. We have flown into the heart of tyranny in the St. Aegolius Canyons and flown out again. You heard Twilight say the Pure Ones are afraid to fly. We must not be afraid. You are noble birds. Never has it been more true that we seven, this Chaw of Chaws, are Guardians of Ga’Hoole. Our island stands in danger. We must go forth to warn and protect our island and our great tree with every bit of strength we have. We must not hesitate, for the battle will soon come to the shores of our island. So set your wings and point your beaks to slice the raging winterlies of Hoolemere. Bend your gizzards to the task. Let us fly, mates. Let us fly!”

F
ar across the Sea of Hoolemere, on a small patch of beach shaped like a crescent, Ezylryb swept low and then lighted down on a pile of tangled seaweed. He studied the way the foam of the sea curled into swags. He squinted his eyes toward the Lobelian current. He had dropped his current markers two days before for a weather experiment over the dark stream that flowed out of the Ice Narrows. Ah, yes! He spotted one now in a tangle of seaweed. The current was moving at a swift pace, and the first of the winterlies was hovering above it.

With his odd, lurching gait, Ezylryb walked up to the bright bunch of feathers that he had dyed and tied to a bobble. But as he was about to pick up the marker, his eye caught something else. It was a sodden and warped book, the letters of the words bleeding into undecipherable clouds of ink. The old ryb’s gizzard seemed to seize up and then give a mighty wrench that shook his entire body. It was the book he had given to Otulissa. Despite the blurred
ink, he would recognize it anywhere. How had it come to this disastrous end?

The old owl was confused. His first instincts were to go to the parliament and report this. But then he blinked. No! Absolutely not. He would tell no one. He would let events take their course. He would be watchful and keep his own counsel. Time would reveal all. He was sure of one thing—this was not Otulissa’s fault. No one revered books as much as that young Spotted Owl. He would bring the book back. He had learned the art of book repair from the Glauxian Brothers. He would dry it carefully in the heat of embers. He would oil its spine. He would care for the book as best he could. He bent over to pick up the book in his beak but, as he did so, there was a damp whispery breath halfway between a sigh and a moan and the spine of the book split. The sodden pages fell onto the beach. The surf, friskier than usual, lapped high and Ezylryb watched, stunned, as the water caught the remnants of the book and carried its pages out to sea.
I am a scientist,
he thought.
I am a rationalist, a reasoned thinker. I do not believe in omens, or superstitions. But something terrible seems to brew anon, on the cusp of these winterlies.

And it was as if on the ruined pages of a book brutalized by the sea, a new story was being written.

I fear for Hoole,
thought Ezylryb.
I fear for the great tree!

Kludd perched high in the tallest tree on Cape Glaux. Beside him was Nyra, a female Barn Owl. She gazed at the High Tyto. Finally, he was hers. Together they would rule the kingdoms of owls—not just the southern ones, but the Northern Kingdoms as well. She had picked him out when he was just a nestling. True, she was older, but what did it matter? She was not that much older. She had been so young when she was with the old High Tyto. She had spotted Kludd on one of their recruiting missions through the Forest Kingdom of Tyto. There was a look in that nestling’s eye. She knew he would be perfect. The old High Tyto couldn’t last forever. There was no one else except herself who could lead. But they needed more heirs. There must always be eggs in a nest. They had to think of the future. The kingdoms should all be populated with Ty-tos, with Pure Ones. And it would be, as soon as they got to the Island of Hoole. For it was on that island in the great tree that Kludd and Nyra would have their first true nest—a nest with eggs! Young Pure Ones to hatch by spring! Oh, the very thought of it made her dizzy.

Kludd looked at his mate. His black eyes glittered darkly behind the mask. She knew he was anxious. “Soon, my dear, soon. These winterlies will ease off,” she said to him.

But Kludd was lost in his own thoughts. Yes, there would be eggs. But before that, there would be death. The death of his brother. He and Nyra would plan it meticulously, as they had planned the murder of the former High Tyto more than a year before. How thrilling those early days had been when he had escaped his pathetic family. From the very start, from Kludd’s first moments in the hollow of the old fir tree he had known that he had hatched into the wrong family. He was so different from them all. They were weak and stupid. He was strong. All they seemed to care about were the foolish old legends.

Oh, yes, his father knew a lot of history from the old owl kingdoms. He even had a great-grandfather who had fought in the Battle of Little Hoole and lost an eye. But all he talked about were the blessings of peace. He wouldn’t even permit them to speak about battle claws. That, of course, was what caused the first really big fight between Kludd and his father.

It happened just before Soren hatched. Kludd had seen a Barn Owl fly by with battle claws. He would never forget the flash of those claws through the leafy green canopy of the forest in the full summer. It was dazzling. His gizzard had trembled with such excitement, he thought it might pop. For days, that was all he could talk about. He couldn’t understand why his father had no interest in visiting
the rogue smith who made them. Then the St. Aggie’s raids began, and there were the rumors of egg snatching. Other families in Tyto began getting battle claws from the rogue smith to defend their hollows, and Kludd thought his father would get some, too. But he had still refused, and he continued to forbid talk of such things.

Then one day when both his parents were away, along with Mrs. Plithiver, some Barn Owls flew by—large, strong ones, and all with battle claws. One of the owls was Nyra. They stopped to chat. Kludd could hardly take his eyes off their shining claws. They didn’t speak of long-ago legends. They spoke of parts of forests they had conquered, small rulers they had driven out—some they had killed. Nyra was the largest and most beautiful female Barn Owl that Kludd had ever seen. Her white feathers were so dense and gleaming, it was as if she held the moon in her face.

Kludd later discovered that there was a story told about Nyra. Like the ancient Nyra for whom she was named, she had hatched on the night of a lunar eclipse. According to some stories, the moon had dropped from the sky that night, and had risen in the face of a young hatchling. When an owl was hatched on the night of an eclipse, an enchantment was cast upon that creature. This charm was sometimes good and led to a greatness of spirit. But sometimes
it was bad and led to pure evilness. In Nyra, the enchantment was bad. She was as evil as any owl could be. And when she had first glimpsed Kludd, she knew he would be perfect for the kingdom that she dreamed of—this kingdom of the Pure Ones that would rule the earth.

She could tell that, even as a nestling, his gizzard was full of blood and rage. She had spoken to the former High Tyto about the young Barn Owl. They had decided to wait until he learned how to fly, and then they would invite him to one of their ceremonies.

The ceremonies of the Pure Ones were somewhat different from those of other owls. Most owls marked the passage of their young from hatchlings to mature owls with ceremonies that celebrated such events as their consumption of First Fur on Meat, First Bones, and First Flight. The ceremonies of the Pure Ones were tests of fierceness and loyalty. There were even tests of rage. For the Pure Ones valued rage above all else. They equated it with courage.

For Kludd’s first ceremony, he was required to kill a nest-maid snake of a neighboring owl family. His next ceremony demanded that he attack and maim an owl—not a Tyto, of course. A Northern Saw-whet had been found for this purpose. Kludd performed beyond Nyra and the High Tyto’s wildest expectations and proved himself to be
an efficient but brutal murderer. The last ceremony was often the hardest. One was required to sacrifice a family member. But Kludd was ready for the task. He had hated Soren from the moment his younger brother had hatched. He sensed that Soren was the preferred son. Soren was so much like his father. He loved the old legends, cared not a whit about battle claws, and was always the perfect little owlet. It drove Kludd mad. So pushing him out of the nest was a joyous task. He was sure that Soren had died. A defenseless owlet on the ground all night, unable to fly, should have made a tasty treat for a ground predator. Raccoons spent long evenings feasting on flightless owls and other hatchlings that had fallen from nests. When there was no sign of Soren in the morning, Kludd was sure the raccoons had gotten him. He never suspected St. Aggie’s! And he would never forget his horror when Soren came flying to Ezylryb’s rescue in the Devil’s Triangle in Ambala. Soren had seemed full of a rage that almost matched his own! Kludd had never been so shocked in his life. He had never hated Soren so much. He had never
hated
so much. Not even when he had fought the previous High Tyto for the favor of Nyra and had first been maimed.

But even maimed, Kludd was beautiful to Nyra. She loved him more than his family ever had. In her eyes, he could do no wrong. Her passion for him was great. It was
mighty, and it made him powerful. She sometimes spoke in the fragments of an ancient language of the owls of the Northern Kingdoms, from where she originally came. She would say to him in her lovely, lilting voice:

Erraghh tuoy bit mik in strah.

Erraghh tuoy frihl in mi murm frissah di Naftur, regno id frahmm.

Erragh tuoy bity miplurrh di glauc.

E mi’t, di tuoy.

The meaning of her passionate words were:

Your rage will be the jewel of my crown.

Your rage burns in me like the fires of the Naftur, ruler of the flames.

Your rage is my life’s blood.

And mine, yours.

Whenever Kludd thought about this declaration of rage and love, he knew that there was nothing he could not conquer—not an owl, not a kingdom, not even the great tree. Soon it would be theirs. The winterlies were lessening. On the morrow, the siege would begin.