Guardians of Ga'Hoole 04 - The Siege

saga that he had repeated when, as a young owlet, he and Gylfie had been taken to the moon-blazing chamber to be scalded by the light of the full moon. It was the one that began “Once upon a time, before there were kingdoms of owls, in a time of ever-raging wars, there was an owl born in the country of the Great North Waters and his name was Hoole…”

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Flecks in the Nest
    N ow that their first moon blinking had occurred, the owls in the Chaw of Chaws were considered ready to be assigned to their first task. Soren was bitterly disappointed that he had not been sent to work in the pelletorium, or at least the inventorium, for these places would have provided him with the most access to activities connected with flecks. Instead, he had been assigned to the eggorium, along with Martin. Ruby had been assigned to the hatchery as a broody. Gylfie was in the pelletorium, which was good because she knew her way around there. Digger was in the inventorium along with Otulissa, and Twilight was in the armory—a seemingly perfect match. He was to learn how to polish the battle claws.
    As they were about to enter the eggorium, Soren turned to Martin. “Nothing I can say, Martin,” he whispered, “can really prepare you for what you are about to see.”
    Martin gulped. Soren had told him about the hundreds upon hundreds of eggs that patrols from St. Aggie’s snatched from nests to bring to their own hatchery and raise in captivity. Soren had said that one of the worst things he had ever witnessed was a hatching of an owl chick at St. Aggie’s. It was loveless, unnatural, despicable, and cruel. Martin gave a little gasp now as hundreds of white eggs of all sizes glistened in the dark. But then he felt Soren freeze beside him. A scarred old Snowy had waddled up to them. One of the Snowy’s eyes wept continuous tears. It was cloudy so that its yellow color seeped out pale and foggy. There was a nasty gash that ran down her face and across her beak at a steep angle. It had healed jagged, and the scar was very black in the stark white feathers of the Snowy’s face. It appeared to Martin like a bolt of lightning in reverse—black on white.
    But despite the mangled face, Soren would recognize this owl anyplace. It was Finny.
    “Call me Auntie,” she spoke now in a creaking voice as she inclined her head toward them. She had an odd smell about her. Soren wasn’t sure what it was. But now Soren saw that the reason her voice creaked was that there was another large gash like a black necklace around her throat. He hadn’t seen her after the terrible battle on the outcroppingwhen the eagle had tried to save the egg that Hortense was delivering. Great Glaux, thought Soren. Finny might have killed Hortense, but the eagle certainly did a job on Finny.
    Is she looking funny at me? he wondered. Does she recognize me?
    “Another Barn Owl,” she was saying. “Well, we can use them. Got a passel of Barn Owl eggs.” She then explained the procedure for sorting the eggs according to their types. Soren was familiar with this and although his gizzard was quivering madly, he managed to pretend to pay attention and nod as she explained that they were to look for eggs of their own species and roll these eggs into a designated area.
    Martin and Soren’s plan was to do their work so well as to be promoted to the position of moss tenders. Being moss tenders would give them greater range of movement. They would not only spend time in the eggorium, but in the hatchery where Ruby, as a broody, was sitting on a nest. Soren and Martin worked hard and efficiently for several hours, rolling egg upon egg to the designated areas.
    “82-85! Report to main station,” a Barred Owl had come up to Soren and, in the hollow tones of the truly moon-blinked, had issued this command. Sore’s gizzard stirred and then gave a joyful little leap as he saw the Barred Owlhead in the direction of Martin and repeat the same command. Maybe we’ve been chosen! he thought. Maybe this will lead to something.
    None of the seven had yet discovered anything substantial about Barn Owl infiltrators. They had their suspicions, but so far there wasn’t any real evidence.
    “82-85 and 54-67.” Auntie stared at them. The jagged scar gleamed darkly on her face. “You have proved yourselves efficient as egg sorters. You shall now be permitted to work, on occasion, as moss tenders. You shall begin tonight. With the additional duties, you have earned