Guardians of Ga'Hoole 03 - The Rescue

perch. Must be for his exercises or something.”
    “No, I don’t think so.” And at the moment Gylfie lighted down on the perch, it fell from the wall. The Elf Owl tumbled through the air and landed lightly on her small talons. “Some perch! Can’t even hold an Elf Owl like me.”
    Soren blinked in dismay. That was weird. Where the perch had been was a hole. Soren flew up to the hole and then, using fast, scooping motions of his wings and by angling his tail, he managed to tread the air in order to hover. Glaux! I wish I were a hummingbird! he thought. Hovering in a tight space for a bird of Soren’s size was no easy matter. “Gylfie, get over here and hover. You’re smaller. You can do this better than I can. Peek into that hole. I see something.”
    “You do?” Gylfie had flown up as Soren backed off. Now Gylfie hovered and then suddenly poked her beak in and within a fraction of a second came back with a string clutched in it. It was a long string and it was firmly attached to something in the hole.
    “Pull it!” said Soren.
    Gylfie gave a little tug. “I can’t, you’re stronger.”
    So Soren came up and gave a yank. There was a creak and suddenly a door, previously invisible, opened. The owls blinked at each other. There was no need to ask if they should or should not go in. Their minds were instantly made up. Soren entered first. It was dark but, of course, darkness never bothered an owl. They could actually see better in the dark. They made their way through a very narrow corridor. Flying through it was almost impossible even for an Elf Owl. Soon, however, the corridorwidened and they found themselves standing in another hollow, about the same size as Ezylryb’s sleeping quarters.
    A secret chamber, thought Soren. Then both owls blinked in astonishment.
    “Soren, do you see what I see?”
    “I certainly do!”
    Hanging on the wall in front of them was a pair of ancient, rusted battle claws. Yes, a secret chamber for hiding secrets. Soren now thought of his last conversation with the rogue smith of Silverveil. The words came back to him: Ezylryb has a past. He is a legend. He does have enemies.
    How shocked Soren had been. How unbelievable it was to him that the most nonviolent owl on earth could ever have an enemy. Ezylryb, the owl who had the greatest contempt for battle claws!
    “Well, will you look at these claws! Holy Glaux!” Gylfie had flown up close to them. “Makes my gizzard wilt to even be this close. Soren you won’t believe this. These suckers are deadly. They’ve got jagged edges. Glaux almighty. Come up here and look at them.”
    “No!” Soren said. He couldn’t stand the thought of his teacher—his hero—wearing those. Killing. He himself had killed before. He had helped kill the bobcat in the forest of The Beaks, and he had helped kill the top lieutenantsof St. Aggie’s, Jatt and Jutt, when the two Long-Eared cousins had attacked them in the Desert of Kuneer. But this was different somehow. This was like being a professional killer. Yes. What had they called those owls he had heard about—Hireclaws? They hired out to anyone to fight and kill. That was the only reason that an owl would have his own set of claws. All the claws in the Great Tree were kept in the armory. There weren’t many rules at Ga’Hoole, but it was strictly forbidden to keep arms in your hollow.
    But Soren was drawn to them nonetheless. Slowly, he flew in short hops toward the claws on the wall. “Well, they’re rusty,” Gylfie said, looking nervously at her friend. She knew how much Soren admired Ezylryb. She knew this must be difficult for him. Hireclaws were the lowest of the low.
    “Because they’re rusty, I don’t think he uses them much. Maybe not for years and years, Soren.”
    “Maybe,” Soren said weakly. He peered more closely at the claws. There was something familiar about them. Something in the way the claws curved in such an exact likeness to the way an owl’s talons curved and were angled. The fit must be perfect, Soren thought. Then it burst upon him.
    “Gylfie,” he turned suddenly to the Elf Owl, “these claws were made by the rogue smith of Silverveil.”
    “No, young’uns,” the two owls whirled around. Slithering into the chamber was Octavia. “Not the smith of Silverveil, but her master from Dark Fowl Island in the Everwinter Sea. They were made for Lyze of Kiel, poet, warrior, and writer of sagas.”
    “Lyze of Kiel,” Soren whispered the words. They