(GoG Book 08) The Outcast (8 page)

Nonetheless, Otulissa knew deep in her gizzard that she must go. What she must do once she got there would be revealed. For now, she simply had to fly on faith.

So, near the end of the season of Golden Rain, as the sun was rising and the great tree slept, she left. It was essential that her mission be kept secret. The Chaw of Chaws, her best friend, could not know. She had been picked for this mission by the scroom of Strix Struma. She flew to the cliffs on the far side of the Island of Hoole so that no one would see her departure. She had been preparing for this strange journey for nights on end—reading about wolves, studying their culture, the geography of the strange land. But as she spread her wings
and caught the billows of salt air under her primaries, she felt a terrible loneliness. She missed her chaw mates. And the responsibility of her task weighed heavily. To this was added the uncertainty of the task itself. She knew she must go, but she still was not exactly sure why. It had to do with the Fire Cycle, the Ember of Hoole, and an owl who needed her help. The sun struck her wings and gilded the tawny feathers a bright gold. Resolutely, she banked into a starboard turn and headed off across the Sea of Hoolemere.

She anticipated arriving at Cape Glaux at night. She was a strong flier and would keep going through the night on a northwesterly course straight across Silverveil and the Shadow Forest. With luck, she would arrive at Beyond the Beyond within a few days. Glaux knew what she would do in that vast and desolate region frequented by hireclaws, dire wolves, and other desperate characters. She knew that no one was very social. Names were avoided for the most part. Good. She would not be bothered.

She had learned much about the dire wolves from Ezylryb’s private library, which had a few very rare books on the creatures. The wolf clans were different—they had names and were social and highly organized, although they often fought among themselves. Dire wolves,
however, had a strange code of conduct that required that they give sanctuary to any creature in need. Any wolf who broke this code by denying such sanctuary risked his life and that of his clan, for they would be set upon and killed by other wolves.

There was one more vital piece of information that Otulissa had learned in her extensive research, and that was about the Sacred Volcanoes where it was said the Ember of Hoole lay buried. The Sacred Volcanoes formed a ring and no one knew precisely in which volcano of the ring the ember lay buried. Mostly, the ring itself was guarded by dire wolves that were all descendants of the MacDuncan clan, but a few exceptions were made. Wolves from other clans could petition to become guards. These guards of forty or more wolves were known as the Sacred Watch. And most interesting of all, each of these wolves had been born with some deformity—a missing ear, a missing paw, or perhaps one blind eye. So it was only the deformed wolves from other clans that could petition for admission.

Because Otulissa felt that her mission to the Beyond had something to do with the Ember of Hoole, she thought it best to seek out the MacDuncans and ask for sanctuary as soon as she arrived.

Otulissa’s talons finally touched earth in Beyond the Beyond in the very last sliver of a dwenking moon. She perched on the same ridge where Coryn had watched the wolves kill the caribou a few nights before and surveyed the eerie landscape. Although she saw no wolves, she heard their howls. She knew that wolves did not just howl at the moon, they howled to communicate information such as
a kill has just been made
, or
a herd of caribou is crossing the river
, or
I am hurt.
Another method of communication was scent marking, which Otulissa found deeply intriguing. Much could be communicated through their scent marks. With their highly developed sense of smell, they could amass nearly as much information about their environment as Otulissa might read in a book. The scent marks created a kind of map in their brains that very precisely defined the borders of their territory, where dangers might be, where a cache of food was, where others of their clan might be, the location of new open territories, and even possible birthing dens for pregnant females.

After reading about their extraordinary smelling powers, Otulissa regretted that those of owls were so inferior. What a help it would be to be able to sniff out danger, to smell ideas. She churred softly to herself as she imagined a library filled with books of not just written words but
scents as well—
Smelly books! Lovely, lovely, all that knowledge pouring in through one’s eyes, through one’s beak, or whatever they call that thing that other animals have on their faces.
Oh, what she would give to be back in the library of the great tree at this very moment instead of this Glaux-forsaken place! She sighed.

“A sigh of regret or joy, madame?” A Masked Owl had lighted down on the ridge next to her. He was a Rogue smith. That much Otulissa could sniff. He had that ashy odor and his talons were blackened from working the fires with hammer and tongs.

“Just general weariness, I think,” Otulissa answered.

“You’re new here?” the Masked Owl asked. Otulissa narrowed her eyes so that the lids half obscured them. It was not a particularly polite gesture. But she was suspicious. She had heard that no questions were asked in Beyond the Beyond. She certainly didn’t intend for any-one to know that she was a Guardian of Ga’Hoole. That would not be good at all.

“Permit me to introduce myself. I am Gwyndor.”

Now Otulissa blinked in real astonishment.
What happened to the rule of no names?

“I thought one did not give one’s name here,” she replied tersely.

“Some do, some don’t. May I inquire as to your name?”

“You may not!”

He looked at her closely. Too closely. Otulissa was about to tell this Gwyndor to stuff a mouse in it and fly off. Otulissa hated owls and other animals getting overly familiar with her. Yes, she was snooty, she knew that. However, if this Gwyndor could help her with her mission, she would relent.

“I am in search, sir, of the MacDuncan clan,” Otulissa said coolly. “If you could help me find them, I would be most appreciative.”

“Ah, the MacDuncans. Yes, a fine clan, one of the oldest,” the Masked Owl said. “They were hunting here a few days ago and then I heard they’d gone up into the region of the Pennvault River. That is their territory up there. So that’s where you might find them.”

“Well, that’s very kind of you. Now, might you direct me to this territory of the Pennvault River?”

“I’d be more than happy to accompany you there.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary at all!” She didn’t want this sooty old thing going with her. He was shedding grime and fine ash over her lustrous white spots even as he spoke.

“Madame, it is no trouble, I assure you. I am going
there myself. I had heard rumors of an old friend of mine being with the MacDuncans.”

“Oh,” Otulissa said softly. She was flummoxed. What was she to do? It was a free country. An owl could fly anywhere he or she wanted to. Well, she would just not talk to him. Give him a bit of the cold feather, not out-and-out rudeness, but she would maintain a certain quietness that would suggest both dignity and mystery.

Of course, for Otulissa to remain quiet was almost a physical impossibility. She began yakking away as soon as they lifted off for the MacDuncan territory.

“Now, tell me about this smell business with dire wolves. What’s all this scent marking about?” No sooner did Gwyndor answer one question than she popped out another.

“And do they use it offensively, would you say, or defensively?…And what about this elaborate code of honor, and yet they fight all the time?…You have an odd way of speaking, a slight, how should I put it?”

“Burr,” Gwyndor replied.

“Yes, burr, that’s it.”

“It came with the wolves, from wherever they came from. They call the accent, in fact, the MacBurr.”

“Oh, clever. But there is also a lilt that I detect. You see, I am quite an expert in languages. Linguistics is one of my favorite subjects. You know, I speak Krakish. Would you like me to teach you some?”

Will this owl ever shut up?!
Gwyndor thought.

I
t’s not so bad being “dead,”
Nyra was thinking as she flew through Silverveil. Glaux only knew how the rumor of her death got started, but it was serving her well. She remembered that dear Kludd had at one time been thought dead and it had allowed him time to rebuild his troops without anyone knowing. And that was exactly what she planned to do. Yes, Nyra had plans. Big plans. Now, having arrived in Silverveil, she was about to initiate the first stage of these plans. She knew that she could not keep up this ploy of being dead indefinitely. Quite the opposite. The first stage of her plan involved killing someone else. And the hammering from that someone’s forge she could hear this very moment.

Her intended victim was the Rogue smith of Silverveil. Stupid creature had refused way back when to make claws for Kludd—she deserved to die. And once Nyra had gotten rid of her, she planned to assume her identity—to a point. She would not claim to be the Rogue smith
of Silverveil, just a Rogue smith. She would take all that soot and ash from the forge and dust herself with it, particularly her face so that her scar would be covered. And she would take the bucket and the tools and head for Beyond the Beyond.

She was going to Beyond the Beyond with a definite shopping list: three Rogue smiths, four Rogue colliers, enough hireclaws for a battalion, and—this was her truly inspired idea—wolves! Dire wolves, to be precise, the largest, most savage wolves on Earth.

The idea had come to Nyra in the middle of the day, one of many restless days in which she could not sleep for her anger over Nyroc’s betrayal and desertion. She could hardly believe she had never thought of it before. Why not enlist another species in the Pure Ones’ battle to control the entire owl world? Hadn’t the owls of the Northern Kingdoms done this years ago when they had used Kielian snakes and even polar bears in the long War of the Ice Claws? Well, this was getting to be a long war—she had fought St. Aggie’s and she had fought the cursed Guardians, and she was not done yet. It was time to use a bit of imagination. The dire wolves could do just about everything except fly. They could run faster and for longer distances than owls could fly at a stretch, and they could swim equally well—and they were brutal.

The wolves were also known for their odd ways. Fiercely loyal, they had elaborate ranking systems within their clans that had to be strictly observed, not only by the members of the clan but by visitors as well. And she planned to be a visitor. For, in accordance with their strict rules of conduct, they were required to give sanctuary to any creature, no matter if that creature was the most Glaux-blessed soul on Earth or the most cursed outlaw. She must, however, come with gifts for them. Gifts for what they called the chieftain and his mate, in addition to gifts for the wolves just beneath him in importance, who were called the Noble Canis Lupus, whatever that meant. For these gifts she planned to go to Trader Mags in her disguise as a Rogue smith. She would bring plenty of trinkets to trade. Nyra had heard that the Rogue smith of Silverveil had ceased making weapons altogether and had turned to more “artistic endeavors.” Stupid geegaws, just the kind Trader Mags would love.

Well, first murder, then shopping.

She was drawing closer to the forge. The whacks of the hammer and the sizzle of the fire camouflaged any sounds she was making in flight. The Rogue smith of Silverveil had set up her forge in the ruins of an ancient castle from the time of the Others. The forge itself was in
a walled garden. Many of the walls had fallen down and offered excellent bricks for the forge. The Rogue smith herself lived in a cellar of the castle and that was where she kept her goods.

It was common knowledge that one never surprised smiths while they were working, as it could be dangerous for both parties. But that was exactly what Nyra planned to do, and she did not intend to get hurt! Only one owl was going to get hurt in this attack. She had her battle claws on; they were Kludd’s and she took excellent care of them. She also carried a hickory club in one claw. She made one pass over and figured out her angle of attack. It would be steep. A classic death spiral used for going after medium-to-large prey. She began her descent, her gizzard trimmed for the kill, her heart beating wildly.

But just as she was ready to strike, the Rogue smith wheeled about. She held the tongs in one of her talons. She didn’t seem surprised in the least. She quickly stepped aside, then lofted herself into the air. In her tongs was some ridiculous-looking creation that Nyra supposed was art. But art was no match for a club and battle claws. Nyra swung wildly. The Rogue smith dodged.
She is quick, this smith,
Nyra thought. She came in for another strike at Nyra, a feint to get her off balance. It didn’t work. Now Nyra saw that the smith was trying to get to her hammer
near the fire. Nyra could not let her get that hammer. The hammer would be much more deadly than the tongs. The smith was edging closer. Then Nyra had an idea. In a sudden direct rush, she flew at the Rogue smith, slamming her into her own fire. A terrible screech rang through the forest and the stench of burnt feathers filled the air.

Nyra grabbed the tongs that the smith had dropped and jabbed them into the fire, pushing the burning bird deeper into the forge. “They say, my dear, that the Guardians of Ga’Hoole enjoy their meat roasted. Perhaps we should serve you up there. What a surprise that would be for your sister, the famous Madame Plonk.” Nyra shreed with laughter.

Now to the cellar where the Rogue smith kept her “art.” Nyra found the smith’s coal bucket and dumped everything she could into it. Then, before taking leave, she stopped once more by the forge. The Rogue smith of Silverveil was nothing more now than charred bones, and there were plenty of ashes. Nyra smeared herself all over—especially her face—thickly with the ashes, sure now that her scar would be invisible. Next, she slipped the hammer and tongs into the bucket. Nearby was a pond. She went to it to check her reflected image in the moonlight.