“We have to go. There might be wounded and dying owls there that need help.”
“There might be fighting owls there, as well,” Otulissa said, and looked at Cleve, wishing for the umpteenth time that he had worn battle claws. “We have to approach carefully. Remember, there is not much cover.”
But there was no need to approach carefully. A quarter of a league inland they began to sense an eerie stillness that was not the absence of the sounds of the Everwinter Sea and its crashing waves and grinding ice floes. This was the silence of death. They spotted the first body, that of a kraal, gilded, and glittering in the rising sun of the dawn, then a few yards away that of a pink-dyed kraal. As if to underscore the evidence they had found in the swirling eddy, there were a few unpainted feathers that spun through the air on that inexorable course to the coast. Something flinched in Otulissa’s gizzard. If these were gadfeather owls, why? Kraals stole. Yes, they could get into trouble. But why gadfeathers? Gadfeathers were harmless. They lived only to sing.
“There’s someone alive down there!” Cleve suddenly said. He swept down. “Great Glaux! It’s Isa!”
They found a bloody mound of creamy feathers but Otulissa could tell immediately from the billowing of the chest plumage that the owl was still breathing.
“Isa, it’s me, Cleve. What happened? Was it kraals?”
She gasped and then struggled for breath. “No, the kraals already dead. We just came to sing and…and…”
“And what?”
“Blue owls…with…with eggs.” Cleve and Otulissa looked at each other.
“The eggs are here?” Otulissa asked urgently.
Cleve touched Otulissa with his wing. “Easy,” he said.
“No, not here. Bad ice for schneddenfyrrs…to…to…to…” Cleve and Otulissa leaned closer. But there was only the sound of the Snowy’s last breath, and then nothing.
“She was about to tell us where they took the eggs and then she…” Cleve’s broad shoulders sagged. “I…I…can’t believe she’s gone. Her voice…She had the most beautiful voice in the Northern Kingdoms.”
Otulissa extended her wing tip and touched Cleve softly. “I am sorry, Cleve. I am so sorry.” Cleve straightened up and took a step toward Otulissa, spread his wings, and wrapped them around her. “This is terrible, Otulissa, terrible. And now we’ll never know where the eggs are.”
Otulissa stepped back. “No, Cleve, there is only one place they could take them that is hidden and where the ice is good quality for schneddenfyrrs.” Cleve blinked. “The Ice Cliff Palace,” Otulissa said. “That is the only place they could go.”
“We should tell the others. Nut Beam can take the message.”
“Not yet,” Otulissa said. “We need more information. I want to know how many blue owls are involved in this. Did some leave in advance before…before this…this massacre?” She looked around at the slain owls. There were two dozen. How many had it taken to wreak this devastation? The kraals and gadfeathers had clearly been outnumbered.
Meanwhile, in his hollow at the great tree, Coryn blinked into the fire of his grate. It seemed he had been studying the flames for hours. He had sensed shapes, albeit vague ones, but he had a feeling that Tengshu’s mission in the Middle Kingdom, his interview with the H’ryth, was not going in the direction they had hoped. And he had sensed something else in the flames, in the way they licked up against each other’s flanks. Coryn blinked several times and flicked his thin third eyelids to soothe his eyes and clear them of the fine ash kicked up from the grate. Then he peered again into the flames. It was as if pressure was building in the very gases of the fire. In a bulging flame, he caught an image with that unmistakable flicker of orange and a lick of blue at its center tinged with green: The ember. It began to tremble violently. Sparks seemed to fly from it. It was so real Coryn stepped back. “But it’s just an image…just an image,” Coryn whispered. The meaning, however, was clear. He could read the flames now. He saw a massing of not just owls but all sorts of creatures—wolves, bears, puffins, and others he could not make out. Then, like Tengshu, he realized that it was not a mere battle approaching but a war, the War of the Ember!
He knew immediately what he must do. Otulissa and Cleve were already in the Northern Kingdoms seeking out information about Nyra, the Striga, and whatever nefarious machinations they were up to. It was a spy mission, essentially. But Coryn knew now that the Guardians needed more than just information. They needed the help of every good creature they could muster for this war. Who was left at the great tree who was not only seasoned in battle but extremely clever? he thought.
“Kalo!” Could she do it? he wondered. Of course she could! Captured by the forces of the Striga, she had been condemned to death by fire. But there in the Shadow Forest, Coryn had found her and together they had confronted and fought her captors to the death. She was an owl of extraordinary courage, as was her younger brother, Cory. But despite their superior skills, Coryn felt he needed an owl whose experience went beyond courage. One whose knowledge of Nyra stretched far back. The answer was simple: Gwyndor. The Masked Owl had known Coryn from his very first days as a young hatchling in the canyonlands. He summoned the page who perched on the branch outside his hollow and asked him to fetch Gwyndor, Kalo, and Kalo’s brother, Cory.
Coryn had met Kalo years before in the desert when he had been an outcast who was reviled by every owl in the kingdoms, because he so closely resembled his mother that he was often mistaken for her. But Kalo had befriended him and, in fact, he had saved the egg that would hatch to be her baby brother, whom they named Coryn in his honor. Kalo, young Coryn—or Cory as he was called—and Kalo’s mate, Grom, now all lived at the tree.
Coryn reflected on the owls who would accompany him on this mission. Clever, diplomatic—that was essential—and strong. When they arrived in the hollow, he wasted no time. “Would you, Kalo, Gwyndor, and Cory, go with me to the Northern Kingdoms?”
Just then Octavia slithered in with some milkberry tea. Coryn blinked. Odd time for tea, he thought.
“Yes,” Octavia said quietly. “I sense your surprise. But you know us nest-maid snakes. I sensed that you were agitated, Coryn. And now I have a feeling you are going to the Northern Kingdoms.” Before Coryn could reply to Octavia, Kalo answered his question.
“The Northern Kingdoms!” Kalo exclaimed. “Oh, I have always wanted to go!”
“I don’t suppose you might consider taking an old Northern Kingdom creature along?” Octavia interjected. “I do know the lay of the land, so to speak. And unlike the other nest-maid snakes I was not always blind.”
“You weren’t, Octavia?” Kalo asked.
“Oh no, my dear.” She paused.
Gwyndor broke in. “Octavia flew with the original stealth unit of the Kielian League. She and Ezylryb.”
“Great Glaux!” Kalo’s beak dropped open in surprise.
“I know what you’re going to say, Coryn—that was ancient history. Well, it was. We live long, we Kielian snakes. I flew with Ezylryb in the War of the Ice Claws—double wing commander and tail launcher in the Glauxspeed Division.”
Kalo was in awe. “Glauxspeed Division! That was legendary.”
“Didn’t seem much like a legend or a fairy tale when I was flying tail, believe me!”
“What did you launch?” Kalo’s brother Cory asked.
“Ice rockets. Can’t be blind to do that. Quite a team we were back then. But we were both wounded. I, actually, the worst. Lost my eyes. So we hung up the battle claws—literally—and, well, to make a long story short, we sought a more quiet, scholarly life. We went to the Glauxian Brothers’ retreat and eventually came here.”
“But Octavia,” Coryn said, “do you really want to go back there? I think bad times are coming.”
“Yes, I sensed that. Your gizzard’s in quite a turmoil. Mrs. P. sensed it, too.”
“But you haven’t done anything like this for years,” Coryn said. The anxiety in his voice was clear. “And frankly,
we’ll need to move fast. This is no holiday jaunt.”
Gwyndor felt a wince in his gizzard. No owl or snake liked being reminded of its age. He sympathized with Octavia. She had a depth of knowledge about the Northern Kingdoms that none of them possessed.
“Look, Coryn.” Octavia wound herself into a plump coil. “I know I am old. I know I can’t fight the way I used to. But I know the Northern Kingdoms. Hoke of Hock is a distant cousin of mine. We go back. I know a lot of the owls in the Frost Beaks division and, of course, the old Glauxspeed. Not to mention that I speak fluent Krakish. Look, I know I’m fat. But I’ll go on a diet immediately.”
“You’re not too fat for me to carry!” Kalo said enthusiastically. “You know how strong we Burrowing Owls are. And there are four of us. We can trade off.”
“I can carry you, too, Octavia. I insist on doing my share,” Cory quickly said.
Coryn didn’t reply immediately. Cory was young, but bold and energetic. He rose to challenges. He had proved this already on two different occasions when he was determined to find and rescue his sister. “All right. You can come, Octavia.” He paused and looked into the empty sockets of her eyes. “You are valuable. I should never underestimate your knowledge of the Northern Kingdoms and its creatures.”
Had she not been eyeless, the old nest-maid would have shed tears. This, she thought, is not just a noble king, but an owl with a generous gizzard.
Plans were made for an immediate departure. Had Coryn cast one last glance at his fire he would have seen something of interest. The images flared in small tongues, looking owlish with roundish heads and the radiating facial feather patterns of Great Grays.
“Sir!” It was the page who interrupted Coryn just as he was about to look into the fire.
“Yes, what is it?”
“A coded message from Silver.” The page handed him a piece of paper.
Coryn unfolded it and quickly translated. The ember had been retrieved from the palace. The three owls, numbers one, two, three, were progressing on their separate routes. So far, no enemy owls had been sighted in or around the palace. Estimates of distance covered was halfway for owl number one. That’s Ruby, Coryn thought. Owl number two, one quarter way. Wensel. And owl number three, one-third of the way. Fritha.
Coryn crumpled up the note and put it in the grate. The message was purposely vague, but in fact there was very little that could be ascertained at this stage. At least the ember had been retrieved. Now if only it could simply vanish forever! Coryn thought. My life will never be normal until the ties that bind me to this ember are broken. But what force shall break them?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A Surprise Warrior
Somewhere, Otulissa was thinking as she and Cleve streamed through the canyon that split the cliffs of the Ice Talons, somewhere behind the walls of ice and the looming spires that crowned them, there are clutches of fiendish eggs, pulsing inwardly with life. Perish the thought! Had the murderous owls successfully transported their heinous treasure? Whoever was tending the eggs—most likely Nyra and the Striga—would need to remain concealed. She and Cleve were now looking for evidence, any clue of their whereabouts. A telltale blue feather. Anything. They had had ample time to get to the Ice Cliffs and tuck themselves into the maze of cracks and channeling fissures that penetrated deep into the cliffs and then opened into larger spaces perfect for schneddenfyrrs. Perfect for infant hagsfiends. Otulissa almost gagged at the thought. To use the words “infant” and “hagsfiend” in the same breath seemed perverted.
Otulissa’s worst fears—that there was more than one blue owl from the Middle Kingdom—had been confirmed. There was, indeed, a gang. Somehow they had been recruited from the Dragon Court. Why should it surprise her? If the Striga could strip himself of the cumbersome train of luxuriant feathers, why couldn’t other dragon owls do so, as well? The Striga was a compelling, charismatic bird. He had rallied plenty of disaffected owls in the Hoolian world to his cause. It was not impossible that he could do the same in the Panqua Palace. Otulissa would put nothing past him.
Suddenly, a sapphire radiance suffused the glistening white walls of the ice canyon. “Duck!” Cleve hissed and both he and Otulissa plunged toward the surface of the ribbon of green water that furrowed in from the Everwinter Sea. Otulissa flipped her head up. Four enormous owls in a spectrum of colors ranging from cobalt to sapphire to azure and midnight blue flying above them had fixed them in their pale yellow gaze. They’re higher than we are! They have the advantage of altitude! was Otulissa’s first thought. But a quick assessment showed that they were not wearing battle claws. Still, they were fierce, trim, and ready to fight. And yet the owls were not chasing Otulissa or Cleve. They were not diving down after them, but rather making a phalanx above, closing off the free air, the sky, blocking any escape route except if the two Guardians flew straight out the end of this narrow corridor of ice. But the corridor twisted and turned. It might grow even narrower, and the enemy might…Otulissa did not want to think in terms of “might.” She had to think of “now.” But who knew what awaited them at the other end of the canyon? More dragon owls? They had flown into a section that was now too narrow in which to turn around and head back the way they had flown in. But why weren’t the owls descending on them? This ran contrary to the most basic battle strategies. Otulissa had unlocked her own battle claws. These were the new models—the double-hinged retractables, sometimes referred to as “gizzard shredders.”
“This is when it would help to be a puffin,” Cleve muttered, thinking how they could swim underwater.
It would help, Otulissa thought, if you wore battle claws! But Cleve was a gizzard-resister. He did not believe in fighting. Idiot!
“Otulissa, look, the lower we go, the higher they go. Keep doing that!”
“Doing what?” She was truly irritated with Cleve for being unarmed.
“That thing with your tail.” He and Otulissa were now skimming the water so closely that their undertail coverts were dragging and casting up a plume of spray. “They don’t want to come down here, Otulissa. They’re scared.”
“Of what? Your battle claws?” Otulissa asked acidly.
“No, of the water, Otulissa! They don’t want to get near the water!”
It was beginning to dawn on Otulissa. They were like hagsfiends, who had an instinctive terror of salt water. Then it seemed for a second as if all the air was being sucked out of the canyon. Otulissa felt herself stagger in flight, but she saw Cleve rocket straight up. It’s snowing, Otulissa thought. It’s snowing blue feathers!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A Distracted Owl
Buried in a double layer of striated clouds that were streaming with ice crystals, Soren could still hear Wensel’s passage through the air more than two hundred feet below. No owl could hear like a Barn Owl. “That frinking owl is getting distracted!” Soren fumed to Gylfie, who flew just beneath his port wing.
“Are you sure?” Although as soon as the words were out, she knew the question was ridiculous. After all these years she should know better than to question anything Soren might have heard.
“An artist!” Soren muttered.
“Too much imagination,” Gylfie replied.
Creative, sensitive, and bold, Wensel was nevertheless off the flight plan by at least a quarter of a league. Soren didn’t have to see it to know that Wensel had drifted in a southeasterly direction. It was almost as if Soren could hear the unspoken thoughts that were batting about in that artistic brain and making his gizzard flinch. He’s wondering, no doubt, if he is the one with the ember. Soren sighed. The clouds were thinning in the lower stratum of the double layer. He could fly out of them to give Wensel a good cuff and remind him to get back to business.
And, truly, Wensel was wondering just that. Do I carry the ember in this botkin? Could I tell if I looked down into the dozen or so coals? Would that lick of blue somehow be bluer than the other bonks? Would I see that wonderful indefinable green that I tried to paint i
n those legend illustrations and could never quite get? Does that green shine in my botkin?
As Wensel’s mind wandered so did his flight. Gylfie could tell Soren was getting more and more agitated. “I can hear that scraping sound off his wings, Gylf.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that Wensel is approaching the Great Horns.”
“Oh, Glaux!” Gylfie exclaimed. “Old home week,” she said sarcastically.
The two stony peaks that rose like the tufts of a Great Horned Owl in the canyonlands had, at one time, marked the entrance to St. Aegolius Academy for Orphaned Owls, where Soren and Gylfie had once been imprisoned. It had also been the site of a major confrontation in the War of Fire and Ice. A bad place to be. Easy to get trapped between the two horns. Been there, done that. And just at that moment Soren’s gizzard lurched. He heard wing beats, new wing beats, not those of a Barn Owl. Messy, sloppy wing beats. And the whistling of air against featherless legs. More than just two legs, six at least. Which meant three owls.
“Gylfie,” he hissed. “We’ve got visitors! Or rather Wensel does. Burrowing Owls!” Soren had known that sound at once; the scratch of the wind wrapping around the bare sinewy legs of Burrowing Owls. And Digger wasn’t among these sloppy fliers. Digger had learned how to fly better than any Burrowing Owl he had ever encountered. These three owls, Soren could tell, were definitely tracking Wensel. The contingency plan in such an event was to go to ground if the pursued owl could not lose the pursuers. But going to ground with Burrowing Owls was the last thing one would want to do. They were excellent on the ground. They could run, dig, even heave rocks with those long legs. Wensel wouldn’t have a chance.
But Wensel was not a Barn Owl for nothing. He could hear as well as any other and suddenly the sickening sound of that wind against bare legs pierced his musings. Holy racdrops! I’m being followed. In that same instant, the lower-level clouds peeled back. Threads of lightning tormented the sky and illuminated the two Great Horns. In another few seconds, he would be trapped between them. He glanced back at his pursuers. His gizzard gave a painful twist. They were wearing battle claws, and not just any battle claws, but fire claws. The tip of each claw glowed with the embedded coals. Wensel felt himself begin to lose altitude. His wings had locked. I am dropping. I am going yeep.
The War of the Ember Page 9