Guardians of Ga'Hoole 07 - The Hatchling

the fire claws. He would say that as a Rogue smith, he had a sense about which young’uns would make good blacksmiths and he thought that perhaps Nyroc might be one. He felt this would be an irresistible idea for Nyra. If the Pure Ones had their own smith they would have an endless supply of weapons.
    And then what? Gwyndor thought. How was one supposed to go about telling a young owlet, a near-hatchling, that he was going to be asked to kill another owl in cold blood? And after that, what? There were many parts of Gwyndor’s plan that were not worked out. But he would just have to take it one wing beat at a time, as his dear oldmum used to say. The words of the Snowy still haunted him: These lessons are perhaps best learned on one’s own.
    “Nonsense!” Gwyndor muttered to himself. First, he would have to find a spot to set up his forge. The making of the fire claws was actually a ruse so it did not matter much where he set up. A plan began to fall into place. As soon as he told Nyroc the true meaning of the Special ceremony he would have to leave—leave or be killed. If Nyroc wanted to leave with him, he could. Gwyndor didn’t much like company, but he could point Nyroc in the right direction, suggest some region where he might find a safe hollow to hide in. But then again, even at this young age Nyroc looked a great deal like his mum. He would immediately be identified as one of the Pure Ones, who were welcome nowhere.
    Suddenly, a call cracked the air. “Hail, the Rogue smith has returned!” It was one of the lookouts from the watch perch on the Great Horns. Gwyndor spiraled down toward the Pure Ones’ outpost in the canyonlands.
    He saw some owls, Nyra among them, come out from their stone hollows and gather on a ledge.
    As he lighted down, Gwyndor looked for Nyroc. Was he too late? Had the ceremony already happened? He then spotted Nyroc on a ledge looking quite fit. Even elated. He must have once again performed some task flawlessly.
    “Welcome, sir.” Nyra nodded to the Rogue smith. “I trust you’ve brought the proper tools for making our fire claws.”
    “Yes, madam. I need only now to find the right place to set up my forge.” He cast a glance toward Nyroc. “Madam, if I might proffer a suggestion?”
    “Yes?” Nyra said.
    “I would like some help in the setting up of my forge.”
    “Of course.” She turned to her first lieutenant. “Uglamore?”
    “Oh, madam, that is very kind of you,” Gwyndor hastened to say, “but I was wondering…”
    “Yes?” she snapped. Owls seldom questioned Nyra’s choices.
    “I was wondering if your son, Nyroc, might assist me.”
    “Nyroc? Why Nyroc?” she asked Gwyndor.
    “Because, madam, I think he has the gift for fire.” This was truer than anyone there, except Gwyndor, could possibly know. If Nyroc truly was a flame reader, his powers went far beyond those of a blacksmith.
    “You think he could learn to be a smith?”
    “Absolutely, madam, and a very fine smith at that. He may be born to command—eventually—but could he not in the meantime learn, and then teach, smithing?”
    There was a stirring among the owls. “Well, this isindeed an unexpected idea, and perhaps a blessing, if what you say is true.”
    “I am seldom wrong about such things. Yes, madam, if he has the gift, I could train him—and he in turn could train others—other Pure Ones—to make all the battle claws and fire claws you will ever need.”
    Nyra’s eyes shone. She ruffled her feathers, and her face seemed to grow even larger. “Come forward, Nyroc.” The other owls parted on the ledge to make a path for the young owl. “Did you hear what the Rogue smith said?”
    “Yes, General Mam,” he said.
    “You could start your apprenticeship directly following your Special ceremony.”
    “And when is that to be, madam?” Gwyndor asked, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice.
    “Tomorrow evening.”
    “That is unfortunate,” he said.
    “What is the problem?” Nyra asked.
    “It is essential that I find a place for my forge and get my fires going immediately. I have brought special coals. The first step of a young apprentice’s education is to see what kind of place makes for a good forge and the setting of the coals.”
    “Oh, I see. Well, no harm in him accompanying you now.”
    “Good,” Gwyndor said. At last he would have the chance to speak to Nyroc alone. It had been worth everything: the contrary winds, the mobbing by crows. Yes, one wing