The Burning

by Kathryn Lasky

  “Yes, we are. At least, most of the chaw…” Soren said with a tremble in his voice.

  “And this,” Moss looked toward Snorri and said something in Krakish, “this business with the Pure Ones is, I am not sure the words, a bad business—a nachtglaux, as we say here in Northern Kingdoms. It means ‘against Glaux.’ An offense to the Glaux from which we all come.”

  “Oh, definitely,” Soren said. “It is even more than an offense.” Soren took a deep breath. How would he say what needed to be said next? Moss and Snorri lived far away from the Pure Ones and flecks. It might be hard for them to grasp the urgency of the situation.

  Soren plunged into a history of the siege and the fall of St. Aggie’s to the Pure Ones. “They will consolidate their power,” he went on. “They will bring in thousands of hireclaws from the territory known as Beyond the Beyond, and they will launch another attack, first against the great tree, and then against every other owl kingdom on Earth. And they will not stop at owls.” Soren now looked over at Svall. “I know it is hard to believe that a creature as huge as Svall could be affected by something as infinitesimally small as a magnetic fleck, but he could be. Imagine if animals as big as Svall became the witless instruments of one of the greatest forces of evil in the universe. Just imagine.”

  “So Ezylryb wants the Glauxspeed division and the Frost Beaks.” Moss unfolded the paper again and regarded it. “Ja, ja, and he wants ach, hordo.”

  “Hordo?” Snorri repeated.

  “Ja, ja.” Moss nodded. “And,” he said, looking up from the paper at the young owls again, “he wants that you should be trained in the art of the ice sword.”

  “Ice sword!” Twilight nearly jumped out of his feathers. “Great Glaux, ice swords! I can’t wait. He really said that?” Twilight craned his head so he might better see the paper that Moss held.

  “Ja, ja, and he said that the Great Gray would be particularly excited, he did.” He paused again and looked at Twilight. “And so you are, I see. We shall go to Dark Fowl Island for the training.”

  “Dark Fowl! Where the rogue smith Orf lives?” Twilight said. “I thought we were only going there for battle claws. But training with ice swords!” Soren thought Twilight would burst with excitement.

  It is all starting to make sense, Soren thought. That’s what the rest of the letter must have said. We are not here just to get recruits for the invasion but to learn how to fight like the owls of the Northern Kingdoms, with ice swords.

  “Yes, you are to be trained. We can go now,” Moss said.

  So he has agreed to train us, but we are so few, Soren thought. What about the Frost Beaks and the Glauxspeed division? Dare I ask?

  “But it’s almost dawn,” Digger said. The nights were so short this far north at this time of the year that there was hardly time to fly. The sun was already glimmering on the horizon. “What about crows?”

  With this, Moss, Snorri, and Svall began to laugh. When the polar bear laughed there was a great deal of sloshing in the water. Ice floes crunched against one another and waves broke over the rocks on which the owls perched. “Very few crows around here, and if they come we fly low, and—Svall, show them what you do.”

  A glint sparkled in the bear’s dark brown eyes. And then with a mighty roar that shook icicles from the cliffs, the bear broke from the water and waved his arms and immense paws. The owls’ beaks dropped open in astonishment. They were stunned by the sheer hugeness of this bear. He was at least ten feet tall. For a brief instant, his white immensity was silhouetted against the blazing orange of the rising sun. He then plopped back into the water and waves crashed, sending spume flying up several feet into the air. A crow wouldn’t have a chance against those big, swatting paws.

  Now the owls were really excited. It was very seldom that they flew during the daylight hours, and in this strange treeless white land with its sea of ice veined with water leads, it would be a fantastic new experience. They were all excited; that is, except Soren.

  “Uh, just a minute,” Soren said. His voice was tight. “I just want to know one thing, sir,” he said, looking directly at Moss. “You have agreed to train us. But we are merely seven owls in all. Hardly enough to do much damage.”

  “You shall teach others when you return to the great tree.”

  Soren was getting that sinking feeling in his gizzard. “But what about the Frost Beaks and the Glauxspeed division?”

  “Aah, that is a big decision. It must wait until the parliament convenes.”

  But there isn’t time! Soren thought desperately. There isn’t time! He watched as the owls spread their wings and lifted off. Was he the only one of the band that found this uncertainty unbearable? Soren blinked and flapped his wings once, twice, and then rose from the rock to follow the rest of the band and the two Snowies.

  The four young owls, flanked by Moss and the skog named Snorri, set their course for Dark Fowl Island. Beneath them swam Svall, gliding through the water with an unmatched grace, softly batting away ice floes that intruded upon his path. The sun slid above the horizon like a thin coin gilding the water with reflected light. The bright reflection of the sun turned the dark water to a molten gold that flowed between the ice floes.

  By full morning, the water sparkled a fierce blue, the same color as the sky. Everything seemed incredibly crisp and clear. It was a blue-white world and, although Soren had never thought twice about the color of his feathers, he felt almost dingy compared to the Snowy Owls and Svall, who fit in so perfectly. Not only did he feel dingy, he felt completely devastated at his failure to gain any assurances from Moss. What was to happen to all of them? The great tree, owlkind? He looked down at Svall, so powerful as he stroked through the icy sea. But for how long would this beautiful white bear be powerful, be free?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Gragg of Slonk

  Good light. See you in a bit, Matron. You take good care of him,” the elderly Kielian snake said to Ifghar’s attendant and he slipped off, just as the sun was rising. The Short-eared Owl who took care of the ailing Ifghar blinked her eyes in contempt. “The old sot,” she murmured under her breath. “Off for his beloved bingle juice, he is!” She often thought how convenient it had been for Gragg to accompany Ifghar to the retreat. The Glauxian Brothers were known for brewing fine bingle juice, which they rarely imbibed themselves except for special ceremonies.

  But this morning, Gragg did not slither down in the tree trunk and out to the bingle brewery in the neighboring birch tree. Instead, he began a long ascent toward the top of a tree. There was a particularly sonorous branch that was slightly vented, and which was just above the hollow of the two Hoolian owls that had arrived from the famous great tree. He wanted to hear more of their conversation. This was his chance. And he did not plan to botch it with bingle juice.

  These two young owls, the Spotted one and the little Elf Owl, interested him. They came from the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, supposedly to do research. But there was something more, he just knew it. He had once had dreams of glory. But now neither the Kielian League nor the Ice Talons would have him and Ifghar. He was tired of life in the retreat. He was tired of living like an outcast between two worlds, sustained only by bingle juice, minding a dimwitted owl whom he had once thought was the most courageous owl in the entire Northern Kingdoms. He had given up everything for Ifghar. He had loved Ifghar the way only a snake who had flown atop his commander’s back feathers in battle could love another species. But at this glory-forsaken retreat, Ifghar had become more and more lost in his thoughts, his gizzard, like a guttering candle, giving a flicker only now and then, his brain growing duller and duller, the light in his yellow eyes dimmer and dimmer.

  And Gragg himself had given in to the juice. The old matron, the Short-eared Owl, more or less took care of them both. But she was a poor excuse for an owl herself. She hardly ever flew, except for meditation flights, because of a damaged wing. Not the sharpest claws in the cupboard, as the old saying went.

  Battle claws! How l
ong had it been since he had seen a gleaming pair of honest-to-goodness battle claws? He felt a tingle of joy as he wound his way up the tree to hang on a branch just above the hollow of the two young owls. Yes, he thought as he was approaching the branch, I’m sober, I’m still strong despite the years of juice, and these two owls might just be our way out of here and on to glory, the glory that should have been ours. He wondered briefly if Ifghar could still fly with him aboard. Oh, well, I won’t worry about that now, Gragg thought and looped himself in a double-knotted twist from the branch, then pressed his head against a knothole in the tree to listen.

  “Invasion? But why an invasion? Can’t you talk to them?”

  Invasion! A shiver ran through Gragg, causing his blue-green skin to shimmer with an eerie iridescence.

  “No, you don’t understand, Cleve.”

  Cleve, the prince from the hollow of Snarth, that lemming-livered, gizzardless…But Gragg broke off the thought and pressed his ear closer to the hole.

  “You see…” It was the other Spotted Owl speaking now. Gragg could tell by the slightly baying tone she used. Sounded very hoity-toity to him. He could not understand all of the Hoolian but enough, and occasionally the Spotted Owl would speak Krakish with Cleve. He had to admit her Krakish was pretty good, as right now when she explained that one could not simply talk to these owls who called themselves the Pure Ones.

  As he listened to the owls, Gragg began to realize that this invasion they spoke of really could be his chance to redeem himself and Ifghar. But, in all honesty, he knew that he was thinking of himself more than Ifghar. He, after all, was considered just a no-snake from the provincial backwater of Slonk. All the other Kielian snakes looked down on those from Slonk. Slonkish, they called them. But hadn’t he proven himself when he had flown with Ifghar? Hadn’t he seen action at the Tridents and all over Firthmore, not to mention the battle of the Ice Dagger? Hadn’t he served well before they had turned feather and scale to fight for the League of the Ice Talons? But a snake from Slonk could get nowhere within the Kielian League. They were all so snooty. Just thinking of it made him wish that he could have a tot of bingle juice.

  But no. He would not succumb to temptation. If he could make a new life for himself and Ifghar where they would be recognized for the truly distinguished creatures they were…My liege. Yes I used to call him that, for Ifghar was my lord and I was his vassal. And I vowed to serve. But it all went wrong after the League of the Ice Talons lost. Oh, he and Ifghar had tried to rally them to fight once more. But they wouldn’t. Bylyric, the old Snowy commander of the Ice Talons, wanted nothing to do with them. In his defeat, he had turned against them, blaming the turnfeather owl and the turnscale snake for everything. Those last scalding words of Bylyric still made Gragg shiver. You know what we do with turnfeathers and turnscales, don’t ye? We turn them out!

  And that was exactly what they had done. But now there was a chance. And Lyze was still alive! That was the most important thing of all. Lyze, whom these owls called Ezylryb, lived. And Ifghar still nurtured his deep hatred for his brother.

  So, Gragg thought, all we need to do is find out exactly what these Guardians are planning, and then alert the Pure Ones. If they then defeat Lyze and the Guardians—because of the invaluable information that we brought to them—well, would not these Pure Ones honor us as true heroes deserved to be honored? Both glory and vengeance will be ours!

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Island of Dark Fowl

  That’s it, Twilight, that’s it! Slash down on the diagonal.” Moss and Orf, the blacksmith of Dark Fowl, were perched on a jutting needle of rock while Twilight fenced with a member of the Glauxspeed unit. Their ice swords were swaddled with lichens and mosses so as not to cause injury.

  All the owls of the Chaw of Chaws were back now from their individual missions. Some of these missions had been less successful than others. Soren was acutely aware of this. Otulissa perhaps had the most success. In the library, she had discovered some vital information concerning something called cold fire. Martin and Ruby felt that Hoke of Hock would indeed speak passionately for their cause when the parliament convened and had even received Hoke’s assurances that he would begin the groundwork as only these snakes could do with the other Kielian snakes. But Soren had received no assurances and no indication that Moss would speak passionately to the parliament.

  For two days now, the young owls had been training on the island of Dark Fowl under the tutelage of Moss and Orf. Owls from two of the most elite forces, the Frost Beaks and the Glauxspeed units, had been called in to spar with them as they learned the use of ice in combat. Twilight, of course, was in ecstasy. “Just think of it, Soren,” he kept saying. “The weapons we’ll have! After all, we basically invented fighting with fire.”

  This was not quite true. The Guardians had fought with fire before, but it was the Chaw of Chaws, particularly those owls of the colliering chaw, that had advanced the art in a single battle when they had spontaneously begun to fly with burning branches. This was when they had been attacked by Kludd and the Pure Ones during the rescue of Ezylryb. “And now,” Twilight continued, “we’ll be able to fight with fire and ice. And they say that the ice here is sharper than the sharpest battle claws.”

  That was all well and good, Soren thought. But the real experts at fighting with ice were the members of the Kielian League. They had won the War of the Ice Claws years and years before. The companies and divisions of the Kielian League had continued to train all through these years of peace. Why couldn’t Moss convene the parliament early to ask for the recruitments? It was so frustrating.

  Soren flew off to another perch where he could see how Gylfie and Martin, the two smallest owls in the chaw, were being trained by the Frost Beaks in ice splinter work. It was a delicate and deadly piece of fighting they were learning. He sighed as he watched them. They were doing well. But without the help of the entire Frost Beaks division, he thought, they will all be flying into a gaping hagsmire of certain death in the invasion of St. Aggie’s. Soren continued to watch. These splinters, although smaller, were even sharper than the swords. When they were launched and hit the right place, the result was usually instant death. But it was a challenging business fighting with ice splinters. One had to have a steady talon and dead-on accuracy, all while flying at very high speeds.

  “More speed, more speed, Gylfie!” a rather grizzledlooking Flammulated Owl was shouting in her whooping voice. All Flammulated Owls spoke in low and somewhat mellow whoops. They were the smallest of all the Horned Owls, but still not as small as Gylfie. All of the small owls, of which there were few in the Northern Kingdoms, had been trained in the warfare art of the ice splinter. “Aim for eye, Gylfie, and then it goes right into the brain and then it is kerplonken!”

  They had all learned the word “kerplonken,” which meant “all over”—brain-dead, gizzard-dead, wings gone yeep. Gylfie and the owl she was sparring with, a Pygmy from the Frost Beaks named Grindlehof, wore protective goggles, the lenses of which had been cleverly ground from pieces of what they called issen blauen, or blue ice.

  During a break, Soren flew up to Gylfie.

  “So what do you think?” the Elf Owl asked breathlessly.

  “What do you mean?” Soren replied.

  “Do I have a chance as an ice splinter fighter if I pick up speed?” Gylfie paused and looked up for a second. A red blur was hurtling through the clear blue sky with a flashing ice scimitar. “Wow! Look at Ruby!” Ruby, a Short-eared Owl, was the most powerful flier of all of them. Now she seemed like a comet searing the sky, her feathers like red flames, the curved edge of the scimitar flashing in the sunlight.

  But Soren worried. “We’re going to need more than Ruby and you with scimitars and ice splinters. It doesn’t matter how good you get. If Moss doesn’t come through with the recruits…” Soren hesitated. “Well, I guess you can say it’s kerplonken.”

  “No word from Moss yet?”

  “The parliament of the Kiel
ian League has to meet. They are the ones who decide. The worst part of it is that the parliament doesn’t meet until after we leave.”

  “That’s tomorrow! Can’t they call an emergency session?”

  Soren looked at Gylfie and blinked. “Gylfie, there is one thing I have learned since being in the Northern Kingdoms—these owls are set in their ways. You can’t budge them. They have their own way of doing everything, from hunting to preening, from nest building with moss and down…”

  “To harvesting ice,” Digger said as he settled onto the outcropping with Soren and Gylfie.

  “Harvesting ice?” Gylfie and Soren both said at once.

  “You bet,” said Digger. “I was just learning from a couple of Snowies how to split office shards for swords, splinters, daggers, and scimitars. A very precise piece of engineering work it is. And if you think the owls are set in their ways, you should see the Kielian snakes who were teaching me how to bury the swords to preserve their sharpness and keep them from melting. You can call it ‘set in their ways’ but I think it is really just part of surviving in this ice-locked kingdom. There are no second chances here. You do it one way or die.”

  Soren looked hard at the Burrowing Owl as he spoke and when he had finished, Soren blinked. This was so like Digger. The most philosophical of all the owls, Digger was always, as his name suggested, digging beneath the surface of things, prying loose the obvious to find a deeper truth in the obscure—the hidden facets and meanings of life. Soren now flipped his head around. “See that owl, Snorri, up there on that cliff?”

  “Yeah,” Gylfie said. “What’s she doing?”

  “She’s the skog,” Soren replied.

  “But what’s she doing?”

  “Skogging,” said Soren. “She’s the teller of stories, the keeper. I found out that skog means not only ‘telling’ but ‘keeping.’”

  “Well what in Glaux’s name is she keeping or telling up there?” Gylfie asked.