Guardians of Ga'Hoole 03 - The Rescue

me Captain. Only Ezylryb can be called Captain.
    Soren watched as Digger went into a plunging dive.
    As he neared the ground, Digger began a slow survey, first for any sign of caves, or scattered coals that might indicate the presence of a rogue smith. When he found no caves, he wondered if a blacksmith would ever build a fire in a clearing. Possibly. Then, of course, there was the fact that this blacksmith was a Snowy Owl. Pure white. She should certainly show up on a night like this. With themoon far from full and still just newing, the night was very black. Perfect for seeing white.
    The quarter of an hour was running out. Digger became more determined than ever, more intense in his search. Scanning by rotating his head as he had been taught to do in tracking, he dodged bushes, tree trunks, rocks, and other ground obstacles just in the nick of time. He sensed them almost before he got to them. But he hadn’t sensed the large black mound ahead. Neither rock nor shrub nor trunk, the mound suddenly sprung to life.
    “Watch where you’re going, idiot!”
    Digger’s gizzard froze.
    “Racdrops!” Another scream from the mound. Digger felt something soft and then there was a small blizzard of sooty particles. He tumbled head over talons and this smothering cloud seemed to follow him. They were rolling down a small incline.
    “Glaux almighty! You splat-brained idiot!” A scathing rant rang out. Digger had never heard such a stream of swears. The vilest curses scalded the night air and rained down on his ears. Bubo was no match. “Great stinkin’ Glaux, I might have known—a Burrowing Owl with most likely a small burrow where your brain should be. What happened? Did it fall out?”
    “I beg your racdrop pardon! You wretched piece of wet poop.” Digger drew himself up to his full height. He surprised himself with his own swearing.
    “Wet poop! I’ll splat you.”
    This isn’t working, Digger suddenly thought. He could not stand here trading insults with this sooty black thing. “Truce,” he said. The creature stopped and stood still. “Who are you? What are you?” Digger asked.
    “A bird, you darned fool.”
    “A bird?”
    “An owl. A Snowy at that.”
    “Snowy!” Digger gasped and nearly laughed out loud. “You are the blackest Snowy I have ever seen.”
    “What did you expect? I’m a blacksmith, idiot!”
    It was music to Digger’s ears. “A blacksmith,” he said, his voice drenched in awe and relief. “The rogue smith of Silverveil?” Digger asked softly.
    “What business is that of yours? You want battle claws? I rarely make them for Burrowing Owls. They’re lousy fliers. It’s a waste.”
    Digger swallowed his anger at this insult. “No, no, Bubo told us about you.”
    “Bubo!” the owl suddenly exploded. “You’re from Ga’Hoole? Bubo sent you here?”
    “Not exactly,”
    “What does that mean?” The Snowy narrowed her eyes until they were two yellow slits.
    “Uh…I better go get my friends,” Digger stammered and quickly took off.

CHAPTER TEN
The Story of the Rogue Smith
    S oren blinked as he and the three other owls lighted down. Digger had not been kidding when he had said that this was the blackest Snowy he had ever seen.
    “So what brings you here, young’uns? I take it that you’re not here on a sanctioned visit.”
    Gylfie was the only one who knew what the word “sanctioned” meant. So she answered, “No, this is not an official visit. As a matter of fact—”
    The black Snowy finished her thought. “Sneaked away, didya? A little escapade, I imagine? Dreams of glory? Huh?”
    Soren fluffed up his feathers in a bristle of annoyance. “It is not an escapade. It is a mission, and we do not dream of glory. We hope for peace, for we have been warned.”
    “Warned of what?” the smith said with a slight note of disdain.
    This owl frinks me off! Soren took a deep breath. “Metal Beak.”
    A tremor went through the black Snowy and little puffs of coal dust sifted down from her feathers. “What’-cha doin’ messin’ with that creep for? He ain’t around these parts. And I’ll have you know, I don’t sell to him. Not on your life. Not on my life. Course that’s a risk in itself, not selling to him.”
    “What do you know about him?” Gylfie asked.
    “Very little. I steer clear of him and his gang. And I advise you to as well.”
    “Gang?” Soren said.
    “Yeah, gang. Don’t know how many.”
    “Is he part of St. Aggie’s?” Gylfie