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.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Great Tree Prepares
The Great Hollow was filled. Soren, Gylfie, Twilight, and Digger perched in the third balcony. Upon their return, they had immediately reported their findings to Boron, Barran, and Ezylryb. They also told the unexpected news of the forces that had gathered on Cape Glaux. In the tradition of owl kingdoms, a small delegation had been sent to try to make peace with these owls, but their efforts were in vain.
And now the owls of Ga’Hoole whispered in confusion as neither Boron nor Barran, but Ezylryb flew to the highest perch. The rest of the parliament perched in their usual places along with the two monarchs. Ezylryb began to speak.
“It is now tween time of this night, the twentieth night in the season that we owls of Ga’Hoole call white rain. A few hours ago, I received our monarchs’ commission, along with the approval and the wish and the will of our parliament, to form a war cabinet. I must, with great dismay and loathing, announce that our attempts to make peace with these baleful and most brutal owls who call themselves the Pure Ones have all been in vain. These owls are determined to lay siege to our great tree and seize our island most dear.
“So now we are at war. We will persevere at war. We will make war to the very best of our ability. They are nothing but a seething mass of criminals. On our side there is quality and there is a cause that sparks the spirit and rouses the gizzard. For we fight for a good cause—the cause of compassion, of freedom, of the belief that no one owl is better than another due to birth, breed, or kind of feather.
“Now the mists and storms of the winterlies wrap our island. The so-called Pure Ones, although their numbers are great, fear flying in such weather. But we owls of Ga’Hoole fear no such whimsies of weather. Have we not flown through worse?”
There was a loud cheer from the weather and colliering chaws. “This is a solemn moment in our tree’s history, but one supported by determination and hope. I would be foolish to say that the task ahead of us is not of a most grievous kind. There will be struggle. But let us not despair, for we are owls of valor, Guardians of Ga’Hoole—every one of us, young or old, Barn Owl or Pygmy,
Burrowing Owl or Boreal, Short-eared or Long-eared, Great Gray or Elf. It is in the very diversity of our breeds, the rainbow of our colors, the multiplicity of our shapes, that we find richness. We shall never submit to such a terrible and lamentable notion as that of owl purity or owl superiority. And in service to defeating such an evil and ruinous idea, we shall wage war against this monstrous tyranny that threatens all owl kingdoms. We shall wage war over sea and on the land with all the strength that Glaux gives us. Our aim is victory—victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror. Victory, however long and hard the war may be. For without victory, there will be no survival for Ga’Hoole, the great tree, and all we have stood for; no survival for the best of the urges and impulses of owlkind, those impulses for life, for honor, and for freedom. Come then, let us go forward together to preserve owlkind.”
The Great Ga’Hoole Tree thrummed with the hoots of the owls. Twilight, almost bursting out of his plumage, was already talking about how he hoped to get a set of the newest model of battle claws, the NASTs. NAST stood for Nickel Alloy Super-Talons. Bubo had forged a new kind of steel in his fires, which could be filed to a deadly sharpness. It was said that NASTs could split rock.
“What?” Twilight gasped. His unit leader, a Great Gray named Huckmore had just told Twilight, Soren, Gylfie, and the others that their mission was to lay air traps.
“We shall begin immediately weaving snares from the milkberry vines of the great tree. These have already been harvested with care. Since they are almost pure white, they will fade into the background of the snow-laden tree. But we all know how tangled these vines can get. So think of your task as setting a giant web,” Huckmore said.
“I’m not a spider!” Twilight hissed.
“Be quiet,” Soren hissed back.
“We have recruited nest-maid snakes from the weavers’ guild, as well as some from the harp and lacemakers’ guilds, to help us in the actual weaving.”
“What?” Twilight whispered in complete dismay. “I’m not a nest-maid, either!”
“We know that.” Gylfie gave him a kick. “We know you’re a big tough owl. So grow up, Twilight. War is not all battle claws and tearing out gizzards.”
“But weaving with nest-maids? You got to be kidding.”
The nest-maid snakes in the Great Ga’Hoole Tree all belonged to different guilds depending on their individual talents. Mrs. Plithiver, Soren’s old nest-maid, belonged to one of the most prestigious, the harp guild. She wove herself through the grass strings of the harp accompanying Madame Plonk, who sang the songs that marked the various events and times in the daily life of the owls in the tree.
“Work has already begun,” Huckmore continued. “Upon completing the snares, we shall fly out to place them at strategic points on the island.”
The snare unit, as they were called, followed Huckmore to a stand of tall, nearly branchless and leafless birch trees that were to serve as looms for the weaving of the webs. The warp, or the lengthwise vines, of the loom had already been fastened. At the ground level, a dozen or more nest-maids had begun to weave across the warp to create the weft, or the horizontal vines. Mrs. Plithiver was in charge of the nest-maid snake detail.
“Attention! Nest-maids,” she called out. “Our unit commander has arrived.” She coiled to attention, then waggled her head and touched it with her tail in a jaunty salute.
“At ease, Mrs. Plithiver,” Huckmore said. “I see progress has been made.”
“Yes, sir. We have almost two feet from the ground up already woven. Now, if the owls of your unit can commence weaving from the top down, I think we could easily have this finished before the Golden Talons rise in the night.”
Since Mrs. Plithiver was blind, she had never seen the constellation of the Golden Talons in the winter night sky. It was said, however, that nest-maid snakes had been blessed with extraordinary sensitivity. Although they could not see, they could detect minute changes ranging from alterations in atmospheric pressure to the movements of celestial bodies in the sky.
It did not take the owls long to get into the rhythm of weaving themselves in and out of the warp with the long strands of berries. In fact, Soren found the work rather enjoyable. If only he could forget for a moment or two the reason they were doing this. He certainly enjoyed working with Mrs. P. Normally, their schedules were so different; it was not often they got to see each other during the night.
“Lovely, Soren, lovely. You have the knack for this,” Mrs. P. said. “Gylfie, dear, pull a little bit more on that last vine you flew into place.” She paused and hung herself upside down. “I sense Dewlap approaching. Oh, dear.”
Just then Soren caught a glimpse of Dewlap flying up to Huckmore, who was overseeing the work from a high limb in a nearby b
irch. He saw Huckmore shake his head wearily.
“What’s going on?” Gylfie asked. With the tail end of a vine in her talons, she slid into flight next to Soren.
“I don’t know. But ever since that thing with Otulissa and the flint mop, Dewlap gives me the creeps. It’s almost time for my break,” Soren said. “I’m going to fly around behind that tree and listen in.”
“You think you can hear what they’re saying from that distance?” Gylfie asked.
Soren gave her a withering glance.
“Oh, I forgot. Barn Owl!” Barn Owls were renowned for their remarkable hearing skills.
“I wish you would stop worrying about the vines, Dewlap,” Huckmore was saying. “This is war. As Ezylryb said, sacrifices will have to be made. This is not going to damage the overall health of the tree. Yes, we are going to have to make do with fewer berries during the lean days of winter, but we have a good reserve and no one much cares for the berries of the white rain, anyway. They are awfully bitter.”
“But I just don’t think this is responsible. I am a care-taker of this tree. I can’t stand by and see all these vines stripped from her,” replied Dewlap.
“Look, Dewlap, I don’t know how I can put this more plainly. It is a matter of life and death. If we are defeated by these owls, there is no more Ga’Hoole as we now know it. This tree will be inhabited by a bunch of criminal owls. You think they’re going to take care of this tree? I don’t think so, Dewlap.”
Something stilled in Soren’s gizzard. Huckmore was right. If the Pure Ones captured Ga’Hoole, Kludd wouldn’t spend a moment thinking about the health of the tree. Why didn’t Dewlap realize this? This was what it meant to be a Guardian of Ga’Hoole. They needed the tree and the tree needed them, but sometimes there were sacrifices to keep things in balance and to guard those, as Ezylryb had called them, impulses for life, honor, and freedom.
At daybreak, Soren and his friends returned to their hollow. Digger was with a unit of Burrowing Owls from the tracking chaw, and they were assigned to digging cache holes for extra supplies around the island. Soren was anxious to talk to him.
“Listen, Digger—how’s Dewlap been behaving in your unit?”
Digger blinked. “She isn’t in my unit.”
“What? I thought all of the Burrowing Owls were assigned to digging cache holes. I thought she was the leader.”
“No. Sylvana is.” Sylvana was the head of the tracking chaw so this made some sense, but she was much younger than Dewlap. Usually unit leaders were older owls.
“Well, what unit is she with?” Gylfie asked.
“Internal excavation, I think. They’re enlarging some of the bigger storage hollows to hold more supplies if it really gets to be a siege. Speaking of which, Ruby in the hunting unit brought in a huge haul of those big shore rats. She is some hunter!”
Twilight yawned. “I wish I was in the hunting unit. This weaving is a bore.”
“Don’t worry, Twilight,” Gylfie said. “By tomorrow afternoon it’s going to get more interesting. We have to fly out with the snares and place them.”
Soren was not listening. He was still preoccupied with his thoughts of Dewlap. Why hadn’t the war cabinet placed her on the cache-hole mission? He yawned now, too. He was completely exhausted, and they would have to get up early tomorrow—by noon—to finish the last of the weaving and then set the snares. He was too tired to think about anything. He was almost too tired to dream.
But what if the snares don’t work? was his last thought before he fell asleep.
Soren saw something very black and glistening, but it was just a speck at the center of a white forest lacy with snow. How curious, he thought as he flew closer. The speck swelled. Then his gizzard began to tremble as he counted eight huge legs. It is just a spider, a mere insect. I am a powerful bird. But the spider was changing before his eyes. The legs were coming together, congealing, turning from black to a feathery brown dappled with spots. And the face—the glinting face was sheathed in metal. And then he felt his own wings catch. He simply stopped flying. He had not gone yeep, but his wings, which were spread out on either side of him, were entangled in a crisscross of vines.
“Caught in your own trap!” It was his brother’s voice.
“A bit of your own medicine, little brother?” Now it wasn’t Kludd who spoke, but a beautiful owl whose face was whiter than the moon.
“Let me go! Let me go!”
“Wake up, Soren! Wake up.” Digger and Twilight were both shaking him.
“Great Glaux.” Soren was panting. “I had the worst dream. I dreamed I was caught in the snare.”
“We’re setting the snare for them, Soren,” Twilight said. “Not them for us.”
“I know that! But something happened and we got caught.” He hesitated but Kludd’s words flowed back. Caught in your own trap. And who was that owl with Kludd? She was quite beautiful.
Later that afternoon while they set the snares, the dream kept haunting Soren, especially the moon face of the beautiful owl. Had he just made her up in his imagination? Or was the dream like the ones Hortense sometimes had? Was he able to see into the future?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
At War
And so, Ezylryb, as I understand it, you are proposing that we launch our first air advances in a decoy movement in order to lure them into the snares,” Boron said.
Soren, Gylfie, Twilight, and Digger huddled in the reverberating roots deep beneath the inner chamber of the parliament where the war cabinet held its most secret meetings. Soren realized that they had no right to be there. But they couldn’t help it. They were just too curious, and Soren kept telling himself that maybe something good would come of it. Although he was not sure exactly what. Still, they pressed their ear slits closer to the roots. And Soren held his breath as he heard Ezylryb unfold the strategy for war to the other members of the war cabinet that included Bubo, Strix Struma, Boron, Barran, and Elvanryb, who led the colliering chaw along with Ezylryb.
“It is my suggestion that we launch this as a light-armored air division. None of our fanciest battle claws, not the NAST—at least not yet.” Soren felt a tremor of excitement pass through Twilight at the very mention of the word NAST. “Let them think we’re just a rag-tag outfit. There is no one better at playing decoy than Strix Struma,” said Ezylryb.
“The Strix Struma Strikers shall be ready, Commander,” said Strix Struma.
The four looked at one another in amazement. “She’s so old!” Gylfie beaked the words silently. Strix Struma was almost as old as Ezylryb, or at least it seemed that way to the four young owls. It had been years since she had flown in battle. She had had a distinguished career and had been awarded the Ga’Hoolian Guardian Medal of Outrageous Bravery for her action at the Battle of Little Hoole. At that time, acting as windward flanking subcommander, and with no concern for her own personal safety, she had flown straight into a wedge of the advancing enemy unit, fracturing their formation and thus shattering their forces. But that had been years ago, long before any of them—or even their parents—had hatched.
Bubo then gave a report on the coals he had buried with special insulation to keep them hot, so that they could fight with fire when necessary. The four owls felt very proud when it was mentioned how successful the Chaw of Chaws had been in both the use of fire and the rescue of Ezylryb, months before. Ruby, in particular, was mentioned. So it seemed as if the four of them and Ruby, Martin, and Otulissa might be called upon in any fire-fights. The rest of the meeting was rather dull, mostly talk about supplies and cache holes.
The four owls were careful to leave the roots separately and take different paths back to their hollow. They had vowed not to talk about anything they had heard except in the privacy of their hollow, for one never knew who might be listening. Now all they had to do was wait for their orders, and for the Pure Ones. But Soren had to admit that there was comfort in knowing that some were not simply waiting. Strix Struma would be flying out just after First Black wi
th her light-armored division, the Strix Struma Strikers, to engage the enemy.
“I wonder who is in the Striker division,” Gylfie said.
“It’s top secret,” Twilight replied. “Probably only the most experienced warriors.”
“Great Glaux, I hope they aren’t all as old as Strix Struma,” Digger said.
In another hollow, Otulissa was waiting, too. She waited and trembled. Her gizzard had not stopped flinching all day, ever since the afternoon when she had been awakened and told that they would fly tonight. Now she was scared to death. How had it all changed so quickly?
When she was told that she had been selected for the elite and secret Striker force, she had been so excited. Her main worry was that she would accidentally tell her friends—especially Twilight. Glaux, Twilight would be so jealous. And to be chosen for her hero’s special force! She had never imagined anything so sublime. For Otulissa had always worshipped Strix Struma. Strix Struma was her model for everything—manners, brains, elegance, gizzardly instincts. But now it was war, and all those proud feelings seemed to vanish. She could die within a few hours. It had been different in that battle in the forest when they had rescued Ezylryb. There were fewer owls to fight, and it had all happened so quickly. There wasn’t time to get nervous.