Guardians of Ga'Hoole 05 - The Shattering

that the Great Ga’Hoole Tree could produce a better soldier than the Pure Ones ?
    Kludd and Nyra and Stryker, the second in overall command, had trained them to fight magnificently. They were better armed than any other group of owls. Their discipline was the best. They were the best! Already they had conquered more territory than any other owl army, save perhaps those of the Northern Kingdoms. There was no discipline in the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. Every owl knew that. Those owls were free to do anything—anything at all! Then it suddenly struck Uglamore—a free society of owls might, in fact, produce a very fine soldier despite the lack of discipline. Discipline counted, but it had not wonthis battle. Wits had. When was the last time I used my wits? When was the last time anyone ever listened to me? When was the last time I really had any kind of an idea about anything?
    Nyra banked across the headwind that was making a direct course to Beyond the Beyond hard to hold. Uglamore followed, as did the rest of the platoon.
    “So, Octavia,” Ezylryb settled onto his favorite parlor perch in his hollow and plucked a dried caterpillar from a small dish, his favorite snack food. “Our young Guardians, the Chaw of Chaws, have become quite proficient in torch fighting. Simply amazing what they can do with a blazing branch. I mean, we have always had a flame squadron. But it was a rather minor unit, and they only used burning branches defensively, never offensively as these young owls did. They have essentially invented a new weapon.”
    “Yes, sir, that they did,” said the plump, elderly nest-maid snake, as she dusted off the piles of books. “Very inventive those young owls.”
    “Yes, I suppose they are the fruits of an open free-thinking society.”
    “Nothing wrong with that, sir,” Octavia replied.
    “No, nothing at all.”
    Octavia, however, could tell that something was wrong by the tone in Ezylryb’s voice.
    “But don’t you think it’s rather ironic that years ago I hung up my battle claws, hid them away in that back chamber of the hollow? And now something even more destructive, more deadly than battle claws has been invented, not to mention the flecks. Glaux, those flecks are dangerous.”
    “Yes, sir, that they are.” Octavia knew that Ezylryb was, as he was sometimes inclined to do, approaching by a very circuitous route the heart of what was troubling him. And after all these years of serving her master, she knew what part she had to play. “Tell me, sir, did you pick up a fire branch in this most recent skirmish?”
    The old Whiskered Screech fixed her in his squinted gaze. Octavia could feel the penetrating stare. I swear he sees more with that old squinty eye than any owl with two good ones.
    “Now, what do you think, Octavia?”
    Octavia laughed. “I know you, sir. I don’t think you touched one burning branch. You were telling them how to peg-out, jabbering away in Krakish, and so on.”
    “And so on,” Ezylryb churred good-naturedly. “But it gives one pause,” he continued.
    “Pause about what, sir?” Octavia was now straightening out the papers on his desk.
    “Does it not strike you as odd that fire was always used for constructive things—cooking, making light for candles to read by, and not as offensive weapons?”
    “Battle claws!” Octavia interrupted. “What about them? You don’t cook with battle claws, sir. And to make them you need fire.”
    “Just so, my dear. You’ve got me there. But the owls’ excitement about fighting with torches unnerves me somewhat. Boron and Barran are now instituting new training classes for the flame squadron.” Ezylryb did not sound particularly happy about this.
    “Well, we have to get with the times, don’t we, sir?”
    “What if we don’t like the times?” he said petulantly.
    Octavia stopped dusting, coiled up, swung her head toward him, and fixed him with her sightless eyes.
    How does she do it? Ezylryb thought. She sees straight through me with no eyes at all!
    “Sir, don’t go into a gollymope on me, getting the dismals and all that nonsense,” Octavia spoke brusquely to her master.
    “Yes, yes, of course not. I must get to the parliament chamber. We are convening tonight.”
    “Tonight? It’s a celebration, sir.”
    “For some.” He paused. “Not for Dewlap.”
    “Oh, dear. Still out of sorts, is she?”
    “Out of sorts is putting it nicely. She’s a Glaux-forsaken mess!”
    Meanwhile in another part of