Guardians of Ga'Hoole 04 - The Siege

of Moss, which were complete and utter nonsense.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A Rogue Smith Is Called
    D eep in the ancient forest of Silverveil, there was a crumbling ruin of a castle. High in one of its few remaining turrets, in a stone notch, a scarred, ragged-feathered owl perched. He squinted through his remaining eye at the moon rising behind fast-moving, torn clouds. A storm was brewing. He turned his bare, horrid face toward the bitter wind. The Rogue Smith of the Sil-verveil would be arriving soon with his new mask. He had threatened the silly old Snowy Owl with death before she would agree to make him the mask, and then she claimed that the ingredients for mu metal would be hard to find. Nickel was scarce in these parts. She found it, however, after his Pure Guard lieutenant Wortmore had roughed her up a bit. But Kludd did not want to think about all that right now. He wanted to think about the idea that had begun to stir in him when he lay wounded in the hollow of the Brown Fish Owl, the idea of laying siege to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree with its secrets of fire and magnetics, itswarriors and scholars. This notion had set his gizzard twitching and inflamed his brain ever since he had first thought of it. He would have no rest until he had captured the great tree.
    Beneath him, he saw one of the Pure Guards spiraling up with a great Snowy Owl in its wake.
    “His High Tyto!” the guard cried out. “The Rogue Smith of Silverveil has arrived.”
    The Snowy Owl appeared nervous, and the mask trembled in her talons as she clutched it.
    “Enter the turret,” Kludd spoke, without turning his face.
    The two owls lighted down on the stone floor of the turret. The Rogue Smith of Silverveil placed the mask at Kludd’s talons.
    “Finest quality mu metal?” Kludd asked.
    “Yes, High Tyto.” The Snowy made an obsequious gesture.
    It was common knowledge that all rogue blacksmiths were loners. They lived in caves and seldom consorted with other owls, except for matters of business—making battle claws, helms, shields, and the occasional bucket. A few acted as slipgizzles for the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. For even in their isolated states, they saw a great deal and could pick up information others might not have. Owlsoften became quite talkative as they were being fitted for battle claws. The Snowy, however, had never been tempted to become a slipgizzle, not in the slightest.
    Now, as she worked fitting the mask to Kludd’s hor-rendously mutilated face, she realized that this owl was different from any other owl she had ever encountered. He was absolutely silent. His silence was as dense as the metals the smith forged in her fires. But through this silence, the smith sensed some awful thing. She wished this owl would speak, would say something. She felt she had to know what this owl was planning. Snowy Owls have highly refined instincts for danger, weather, and certain kinds of celestial events. If what she sensed was true, for the first time in her life she was tempted to become a slipgizzle.
    Finally, the Rogue Smith of Silverveil thought of something. She coughed once or twice. “I say, I have a new battle claw design. Some find it quite good. Light in battle, exceedingly sharp. If you would like one of your lieutenants to try them out, I would be happy to do a fitting over at my forge. No cost. You could have them on trial.”
    “Light, you say?” the High Tyto asked.
    “Oh, yes—quite light, and a new kind of finely notched edge. Tears flesh beautifully.” The smith could almost feel the excitement in the High Tyto’s gizzard. “Youknow, of course, I learned my craft on the island of Dark Fowl,” said the Rogue Smith of Silverveil.
    The High Tyto interrupted her. “Dark Fowl in the Northern Kingdoms?”
    “Yes, Sir…I…I mean, High Tyto.”
    “Wortmore! Get me Wortmore,” Kludd called.
    The Snowy’s gizzard trembled a bit. The very owl who had been sent to rough her up was now being called to go back to her forge for a fitting.
    The Rogue Smith of Silverveil tried to keep her own talons from shaking as she hammered the third metal talon on Wortmore’s left claw to a tighter curve, so it would fit perfectly.
    “The High Tyto and I are exactly the same size, you know. So what fits me will fit him.” Wortmore was positively chatty now. He had even apologized for roughing up the Snowy. “But orders are orders,” he had added. And he was a bit partial to Snowies, he had whispered.
    Lovely, thought the