Guardians of Ga'Hoole 06 - The Burning

brain growing duller and duller, the light in his yellow eyes dimmer and dimmer.
    And Gragg himself had given in to the juice. The old matron, the Short-eared Owl, more or less took care of them both. But she was a poor excuse for an owl herself. She hardly ever flew, except for meditation flights, because of a damaged wing. Not the sharpest claws in the cupboard, as the old saying went.
    Battle claws! How long had it been since he had seen a gleaming pair of honest-to-goodness battle claws? He felt a tingle of joy as he wound his way up the tree to hang on a branch just above the hollow of the two young owls. Yes, he thought as he was approaching the branch, I’m sober, I’m still strong despite the years of juice, and these two owls might just be our way out of here and on to glory, the glory that should have been ours. He wondered briefly if Ifghar could still fly with him aboard. Oh, well, I won’t worry about that now, Gragg thought and looped himself in a double-knotted twist from the branch, then pressed his head against a knothole in the tree to listen.
    “Invasion? But why an invasion? Can’t you talk to them?”
    Invasion! A shiver ran through Gragg, causing his blue-green skin to shimmer with an eerie iridescence.
    “No, you don’t understand, Cleve.”
    Cleve, the prince from the hollow of Snarth, that lemming-livered, gizzardless… But Gragg broke off the thought and pressed his ear closer to the hole.
    “You see…” It was the other Spotted Owl speaking now. Gragg could tell by the slightly baying tone she used. Sounded very hoity-toity to him. He could not understand all of the Hoolian but enough, and occasionally the Spotted Owl would speak Krakish with Cleve. He had to admit her Krakish was pretty good, as right now when she explained that one could not simply talk to these owls who called themselves the Pure Ones.
    As he listened to the owls, Gragg began to realize that this invasion they spoke of really could be his chance to redeem himself and Ifghar. But, in all honesty, he knew that he was thinking of himself more than Ifghar. He, after all, was considered just a no-snake from the provincial backwater of Slonk. All the other Kielian snakes looked down on those from Slonk. Slonkish, they called them. But hadn’t he proven himself when he had flown with Ifghar? Hadn’t he seen action at the Tridents and all over Firthmore, not to mention the battle of the Ice Dagger? Hadn’t he served well before they had turned feather and scale to fight for the League of the Ice Talons? But a snake from Slonk could get nowhere within the Kielian League. They were all so snooty. Just thinking of it made him wish that he could have a tot of bingle juice.
    But no. He would not succumb to temptation. If he could make a new life for himself and Ifghar where they would be recognized for the truly distinguished creatures they were… My liege. Yes I used to call him that, for Ifghar was my lord and I was his vassal. And I vowed to serve. But it all went wrong after the League of the Ice Talons lost. Oh, he and Ifghar had tried to rally them to fight once more. But they wouldn’t. Bylyric, the old Snowy commander of the Ice Talons, wanted nothing to do with them. In his defeat, he had turned against them, blaming the turnfeather owl and the turnscale snake for everything. Those last scalding words of Bylyric still made Gragg shiver. You know what we do with turnfeathers and turnscales, don’t ye? We turn them out!
    And that was exactly what they had done. But now there was a chance. And Lyze was still alive! That was the most important thing of all. Lyze, whom these owls called Ezylryb, lived. And Ifghar still nurtured his deep hatred for his brother.
    So, Gragg thought, all we need to do is find out exactly what these Guardians are planning, and then alert the Pure Ones. If they then defeat Lyze and the Guardians—because of the invaluable information that we brought to them—well, would not these Pure Ones honor us as true heroes deserved to be honored? Both glory and vengeance will be ours!

CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Island of Dark Fowl
    T hat’s it, Twilight, that’s it! Slash down on the diagonal.” Moss and Orf, the blacksmith of Dark Fowl, were perched on a jutting needle of rock while Twilight fenced with a member of the Glauxspeed unit. Their ice swords were swaddled with lichens and mosses so as not to cause injury.
    All the owls of the Chaw of Chaws were back now from their individual missions.