Otulissa made a wide circle overhead, banked and turned, and began her spiral. She swooped in on a glistening orange coal bed at the base of one of the rivers of embers that ran down the slope. In no time, she was back with the coal in her beak. She faced front, then twisted her neck to the side and flipped her head almost completely around and back so Coryn could observe the Classic Grank Grip from all angles. After this, she dropped the coal into Gwyndor’s bucket. “Sorry, Gwyndor,” she sniffed. “Very inferior, class B, if that.”
“Never you mind, ma’am. I’ll take any bonk I can get.” Otulissa gave the Rogue smith a withering look as if to say, What’s happened to quality these days?!
“Now, Coryn, you try it. Remember all I said.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Wind check, then loose circle, steep bank…”
Otulissa kept talking as Coryn took off. But then just as he was about to pull out of his banked turn and begin the downward spiral to the ground, the volcano belched vigorously and a column of fiery embers shot high into the air. All the owls immediately began spiraling to earth to catch these hottest of bonk coals. All the owls, that is, except one.
“What in hagsmire is the young’un doing?” Gwyndor gasped.
“Coryn!” Otulissa screeched as she watched her pupil spiral upward at a dizzying speed.
Instinctively, he flew through the rain of coals, tipping his wings this way and that, catching first one coal on the fly in his beak, then another in his port talon, and then a third in his starboard talon.
“My Glaux,” Otulissa gasped. “He’s coming in fully loaded! Well, I never.”
Coryn dropped all three coals in the bucket. The three owls peered into the glow.
“Magnificent,” Otulissa said.
Three blue coals, with a flash of yellow in their centers. “Now, that is quality, Coryn. Those are bonk coals.”
“I’ll say so, ma’am. I should pay you for coals like this.” Gwyndor was jubilant.
“Nonsense,” Otulissa snapped. “Besides, I don’t approve of accepting payment for coals from a sacred site. It’s vulgar.”
“Yes, ma’am, anything you say. Thank you very much.”
“I need no thanks,” Otulissa replied, and then turned to Coryn with tears in her eyes. “Seeing this young’un fly so exquisitely through that rain of embers is reward enough.”
But what next, thought Otulissa, what next? Oh, Strix Struma, you have brought us here. But what am I to do? The young’un still does not know himself. He does not recognize his destiny.
Coryn was alone with his own troubling thoughts as he peered into the bucket.
Now what is that young’un seeing in those coals? Gwyndor wondered.
For Coryn, the coals in the bottom of Gwyndor’s bucket seemed to breathe like living creatures. Coryn’s fire sight was so powerful now that he did not need flames. The coals offered shapes and images as clear as the ones he read in fire. And what he saw first in these coals was the face of his mother, Nyra. And, as before, when he had seen her in the fire in the Gadderheal, her face was no longer white, but sooty and stained with smoke. There was a wolf figure near her. He wore a headdress of bones. So she had been there, Coryn thought, or perhaps is there right now with the MacHeaths.
Coryn felt the old fearful twinges in his gizzard exactly like the ones he had felt so often in the hollow he had shared with his mother in the canyonlands. But suddenly, his gizzard grew still. What was that deep in the coals? It flickered like the reflection of another coal. He blinked. There were only three coals in the bucket, but now each one was reflecting an image. The same image. It was orange, but at its center was a lick of blue and then around the edge, there was the green—the green of wolves’ eyes. This was not an image of a bonk coal. This was the reflection of the Ember of Hoole!
But where? How? What am I supposed to do?
You will know, Coryn. You will know, a voice whispered in his head.
Was it a scroom? Was it Mist?
When he lifted his eyes from the bucket, he saw Gwyndor and Otulissa staring at him hard. It was Otulissa, however, who shivered. “By Glaux, I felt as if a scroom floated by me.” And then she churred a bit, as if to say, Nonsense. I don’t believe in such things.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A Blood Oath
So I might stay as long as I care to, Lord MacHeath?” Nyra had just revealed her true identity. She had just told them that she was no Rogue smith but Leader and Supreme Commander of the Tytonic Union of Pure Ones.
“You bring us eyes that are green like ours. You hunt for the hare and share your meat and now you bring us what you have said is a great secret that could turn our clan into the most powerful wolf clan on Earth.”
“Yes, but in exchange I need some information that you have,” Nyra said.
“Sir Ross, take the talking bone to our honored guest, Nyra, Supreme Leader of the Tytonic Union of Pure Ones.” This was a sign that Nyra was to give her information first. A black wolf took the bone and placed it at Nyra’s talons. She clamped it firmly down with one talon.
“As the Supreme Leader of the Pure Ones, I would like to propose an alliance between the dire wolves of the MacHeath clan, which I know number many, and the Pure Ones.”
“And what is the purpose of this alliance?” MacHeath asked.
“To destroy the Guardians of Ga’Hoole and take control of the owl world.”
“The owl world,” the chieftain growled. “What does that have to do with us?”
“A lot!” Nyra answered.
“Please explain.”
The next part of Nyra’s proposal was based on a mixture of falsehoods coupled with many things she had found out about wolves and their ways in the Beyond. In the short time she had been in Beyond the Beyond, Nyra had visited many clans and had very skillfully ferreted out the dire wolves’ strengths and weaknesses. She had listened to gossip. One rumor in particular had inflamed her gizzard. There was a young Barn Owl new to this desolate region that had somehow impressed the dire wolves with his special powers. She needed to know for certain who he was and, more important—what he was here for. The dire wolves would prove most helpful. She found out their grievances, discovered what was at the bottom of their endless feuds with one another. She studied their fears and hopes. The MacHeaths, she realized, were the most desperate of the clans and that was exactly what she needed. Desperate wolves, jealous wolves, who felt they had been cheated out of their birthright, their due, their power! She would offer them power even if she had to spin lies to do so. If she did it right, they would be unable to resist the temptation. So she began:
“As you know, the Ember of Hoole, which is buried in one of the Sacred Volcanoes, has been guarded for the ages by dire wolves of the MacDuncan clan.”
“We know this all too well.”
“And you also know that it has been claimed that the MacDuncan clan was chosen for this honor by King Hoole himself when he returned the ember to the volcano.”
“Has been claimed?” A light flickered in the green depths of the chieftain’s eyes.
“Precisely—claimed. In other words, it is hearsay.”
“How do you know this?”
“Can you read, Lord MacHeath?”
“No,” he replied.
“Well, I can.” This was a lie. Nyra could barely read. Although she intended to learn as soon as she captured the great tree with its magnificent library. “I succeeded in infiltrating the Great Ga’Hoole Tree some years ago and read an ancient document that proposes that it was not the MacDuncans who were chosen by King Hoole but the MacHeaths.”
“No!” There was a great growling mixed with yips and barks among the wolves in the Gadderheal.
“If you help me, I shall help restore to you what is rightfully yours.”
“What is rightfully ours!” The chieftain’s eyes blazed with such intensity, Nyra almost had to look away. “Madame Supreme Leader of the Tytonic Union, if indeed you can restore us to the
Sacred Watch of the volcanoes, for this we shall join you and be forever in your debt.”
Exactly where Nyra wanted them.
“Now, madame—” he continued.
“Madame General or General Mam is what I am accustomed to being called.”
“Yes, Madame General. What information do you seek from us?”
“I have heard of a Barn Owl in these parts rumored to have unusual powers.”
“Ahh, yes, the young one. Coryn, I believe, is his name.”
“Coryn?” Nyra said. “Are you sure it’s not Nyroc?”
“He was introduced to us as Coryn.”
“He has been here? You have met him?” Nyra lofted off the ground into the air.
“The talking bone, Madame General. Mind the talking bone.”
“Oh, I am so sorry,” Nyra said and placed her talons once more on the bone.
“Our ways are curious, I know,” Lord MacHeath said, almost apologetically.
“Can you tell me, Lord MacHeath, what he looked like and why he was here?”
“Well, I am not really sure why old Duncan MacDuncan brought him along. I suppose to honor us with his presence. You have heard of his connection with the wolves and the bear sharing the spoils of the moose.” Nyra nodded. “Well, Madame General, that has never happened in the history of Beyond the Beyond since the time of Fengo.”
“Fengo?” Nyra asked.
“Yes, Fengo was the first dire wolf to come here. Long, long ago he led his pack to Beyond the Beyond to escape the last Ice Age. In that time, they were called wolf packs and not clans. And the head gnaw wolf of the Sacred Watch of the volcanoes has always since been named Fengo to honor him.”
A creamed-colored female wolf named Gyllbane looked narrowly at Nyra, her eyes becoming thin green slits. There is something not right here. How could she not know about Fengo if she had gone to that great library? It was all written down.
The entire history of the Beyond had been recorded, not just since the time Hoole came here with Grank, the first collier, but Fengo. Gyllbane shifted her weight and continued to listen.
“So I would imagine that is why Duncan MacDuncan brought him. To honor us with his presence. There has been much talk since the incident with the bear and the wolves that this owl has special powers of some sort. Some even say that he might be the true heir of Hoole and the one to retrieve the Ember of Hoole.”
“This is most alarming,” Nyra said. She hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but news of the ember and what that meant to her plans had shocked her.
“It is, Madame General?”
“Well, we wouldn’t want the ember to get into the wrong talons, now, would we?” Nyra recovered her composure.
“Definitely not, Madame General.”
“And if this is the owl I am thinking of, well, it could be trouble. Can you tell me what he looked like?”
“Yes, he was a Barn Owl, as I said. A fairly large face for one his age and a scar that ran down it on a slant.” Nyra felt her legs weaken. It was Nyroc. Nyroc in possession of the Ember of Hoole—it was unthinkable. What is the old chieftain saying now? Oh, what a bore he is and the whole cave stinks. Terrible gas these wolves have. Comes from eating that tough winter grass that grows here. Some sanctuary! The old chieftain was still talking. Something about scars.
“You see, Madame General, we are most fond of scars. It is our own way of writing our history. We all bear great scars. Would you care to see them?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Nyra replied. Good Glaux, as if this old dog weren’t boring enough. Now I have to look at his scars.
And it was not only his scar, a rather impressive one that raked down his belly, but the other wolves’ scars, as well. “Ross here got that one in the skirmish with the MacDuncans; Edwidge lost an ear when he was ambushed by the MacMillans; and Gyllbane…” The creamy wolf trotted up to Nyra. “She got a nasty one on her shoulder in a ferocious fight with the MacAndrews.”
Gyllbane looked closely at the owl. Beneath the soot, she saw a scar exactly like the one that marked the Barn Owl Coryn. There was something in the black eyes of this Madame General that she did not trust. But would Lord MacHeath listen to Gyllbane? He was stubborn. He rarely listened to anyone except his top nobles. She might have a nasty scar, but her rank was still low. Whose pup was it that Lord MacHeath had decided to mutilate in hopes of sending a gnaw wolf to the sacred watch? Her very own. How angry she had been. And she had to beg the chieftain to allow her to stay and not be sent away as was the custom when a female gave birth to a “deformed” pup. He had allowed her to stay but had run her mate off and forbidden any contact between her and the pup. Her own pup was nursed by a wolf in the whelping den while her own dugs hung heavy. How the resentment had built in her. She trotted back to her place in the Gadderheal.
While Nyra pretended to be interested in their scars, another idea had come to her. “Lord MacHeath, the scars you have shown me in this Gadderheal tonight only offer more proof that you are wolves of great valor. Wolves worthy to fight for a great cause. The news you brought me of this owl called Coryn disturbs me deeply. For I think I have heard of this owl from other parts of the owl kingdom. You should not rest easy, for is he not being given sanctuary by the MacDuncans, the very clan that has robbed you of what is yours? If, by some terrible quirk of fate the Ember of Hoole became his, think what this would mean for the MacDuncans.” Hackles were raised and ears stood up. There were tense growls exchanged.
“And if this should come to pass, Lord MacHeath, I vow on my honor to set my sky hounds upon him, kill him, and bring the Ember of Hoole to you in this very Gadderheal.”
A stunned silence fell upon the wolves.
“You mean that, Madame General?” MacHeath growled.
“My word is as solid as my gizzard.”
Gyllbane raised a paw.
“Yes, Gyllbane?” The chieftain turned to the creamcolored wolf.
“The talking bone, if you please.” A wolf picked up the bone and brought it to Gyllbane. She turned to Nyra. “This, Madame General, is a grave promise, one that could endanger you. It is most noble of you to do this.” There was chuffing and growls of agreement. “A pledge such as this is usually undertaken with a blood oath.” Again there were noises of agreement.
“By all means, fetch the oath bone, Lord Fleance,” the chieftain ordered.
Lord Fleance quickly returned with a bone that had been gnawed to a deadly point.
More scars, Nyra thought. Well, she had been wounded in battle before. She could endure this scratch. The chieftain trotted forward. He was quick about it. Taking the oath bone in his mouth, he stabbed it quickly but not deeply into his front paw. There was a trickle of blood. He then dropped the bone in front of Nyra. It was finely honed, sharp as battle claws! If she could get these wolves to gnaw weapons like this! Nyra picked up the bone. Her hesitation was nothing to do with fear. There simply was not that much blood in owls’ feet. But between her talons she might be able to get a few drops. She stabbed and a fair spurt came out.
Nyra and MacHeath then pressed talon to paw and swore an oath of loyalty.
“I, Madame General and Supreme Commander of the Tytonic Union of Pure Ones, do solemnly swear on the blood of my talons that I shall protect the rights of the clan MacHeath and shall pursue and kill the owl Coryn if he retrieves the sacred Ember of Hoole. And upon his death, I vow to return that ember to the Lord Chieftain of the MacHeath clan.”
“And I, Dunleavy Bethmore MacHeath, Chieftain and Lord of the MacHeath clan, do solemnly swear to join in armed alliance with the Supreme Commander of the Tytonic Union of Pure ones, to aid and abet them in all of their battles as they seek to restore our own clan to glory. Their friends are our friends. Their enemies are our enemies.”
“Hear! Hear!” All the wolves growled.
But Gyllbane hung back, for now she was sure of something the rest had either not noticed or ignored. She was certain that the owl named Coryn was the son of Nyra. The
resemblance was so great that she could not believe that the others hadn’t noticed it. Perhaps they were too caught up in this owl’s promises of restoration—yes, restoration and revenge could blind even a wolf’s eyes. Not Gyllbane’s, however. She knew that the owl called Nyra had just sworn by her blood that she would kill her own son. What kind of owl is that? What kind of oath is that? She defiles the oath bone. There will be no honor, no glory for the MacHeaths.
At that moment, the little pup Cody waddled in unevenly on his maimed foot pads. Gyllbane’s eyes filled with tears as she watched him. And to think he does not even know I am his mother.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A Gnaw Wolf in Training
Dunmore, Morgan, Hrath’ghar, Kiel, and Stormfast: These were the names of the five volcanoes of the Sacred Ring. As a member of the Sacred Watch, Hamish was being trained to learn the behaviors unique to each volcano. The periods of their eruptions, the fine distinctions of tone as well as the scents of the sulfurous steam that was spewed into the sky. When lava poured forth, which was seldom, he was learning to recognize what kind of lava it was and the course that the thick black roiling rivers would take down the steep slopes of a volcano. Most important, he began to learn from the older members of the watch the subtle signs that warned when any owl—Rogue collier or otherwise—approached the volcanoes with ill intent. They called such owls “graymalkins,” a bad owl that might be making an attempt to capture the Ember of Hoole.
For his training, Hamish had been assigned to the south slope of Dunmore and at the very moment that Coryn had begun his spectacular flyby retrieval of bonk coals, Hamish’s taiga had been crunching sheets of the black glass to familiarize the young wolf with that sound of alarm. “It will be louder, of course,” Banquo was saying. “You hear the brittle sounds, don’t you?”
Hamish was just about to say yes when a roar came from the owls around the south slope. Both wolves looked up.
“It’s Coryn!” Hamish exclaimed as he saw his friend swooping through the storm of airborne coals.
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