Guardians of Ga'Hoole 07 - The Hatchling

bucket and twist metal into odd shapes with his hammer and tongs, fascinated him. He peered now into the glowering bucket of coals.
    “You like my little fellows in there, do you, lad?” Gwyndor said.
    “Yes, I guess so.” Even though the coals had not ignited into flames, to Nyroc they seemed to breathe like living things and like living things they had stories, the shapes ofwhich he could almost see deep within their radiant glow. When he had told his mother that he had been thinking about the color green, he had actually been thinking about the images he had glimpsed in the flames at the Marking and the story he felt the flames would reveal if he dared to look again. And yet there was a compulsion growing in Nyroc to know this story. The truth! Yes, he felt that this truth had something to do with his terrible uncle Soren. But he could not be sure. And then again what could be worse or more frightening than what the bones of a split spine had already revealed—the murderous rampage of Soren that had killed his father?
    Once again, Gwyndor regarded him. A strange feeling tingled in the Masked Owl’s gizzard. What does this young’un see even now in the coals that have not yet sparked into flames?

CHAPTER SIX
Murder with a Cute Name
    G wyndor rose over the burnt land, spiraling higher and higher. The Rogue smith, the best slipgizzle he knew, had once lived in Silverveil and even forged some battle claws for the Pure Ones, but rumor had it that one of their lieutenants had roughed her up and she had left Silverveil and gone somewhere near the border of the Shadow Forest and the Barrens. But where? He would have to rely on his instincts. And Rogue smiths had very good instincts concerning where their fellow smiths might set up shop. There were certain kinds of landscape that suited them better than others. They liked caves, for one thing, caves in old-growth forests that grew close to new-growth ones. The new-growth forests provided them with brush and tinder for their fires. But the old-growth forests with their widely spaced trees allowed the smoke from their fires to clear out more quickly.
    Rogue smiths liked the ruins of old castles and churches from the time of the Others in particular. The Rogue smithof Silverveil had set up in a prime spot when she had worked there. He wondered if someone else had taken it over. It wasn’t that much out of his way to fly there and take a look. Glaux, if no one had claimed the spot he might set up there himself once he left the Pure Ones for good—which couldn’t be soon enough. The higher he flew and the farther away he went, the better he felt. But something had gotten to him about that little hatchling—Nyroc. He knew he had to come back before that Special ceremony took place. But he would be useless if he came back without knowing what it was about. He hoped he could find out. He supposed if he couldn’t find the Rogue smith he was looking for he could fly back to Ambala and seek out Mist again. She might know. But the winds this time of year were not favorable for flying to Ambala. It would take too much time beating against those easterlies.
    By the time the constellation of the Golden Talons was rising in the eastern sky, Gwyndor was flying over Silverveil on a direct course for the old ruins where the Rogue smith had once set up her shop. “By Glaux!” the Masked Owl muttered as he saw tendrils of smoke rising in the night. “Someone has already claimed it!” Then as if to confirm the fact, he heard the sound of hammer on anvil ringing out into the night.
    He began a banking turn as he prepared to fly in. Theforge was going full blast, and he could see the owl busily at work with hammer and tongs. It was not good to interrupt a smith in the midst of work. It could even be dangerous. So Gwyndor lighted down on a stone wall that had once enclosed a walled rose garden and waited patiently until the smith turned from the work.
    The smith was making what looked like a rather elaborate decorative piece of some sort. Gwyndor supposed that since the defeat of the Pure Ones, there had not been much call for battle claws. He watched as the smith dipped the red-hot piece into a stone basin of water and then turned around. The Masked Owl blinked in amazement. It was she—the old Rogue smith of the Silverveil.
    “Thought someone was here,” she said. The Snowy Owl’s pure white plumage was sooty with ash.
    “You came back!” Gwyndor exclaimed.
    “So I did.