Guardians of Ga'Hoole 07 - The Hatchling

owl. Gwyndor had noticed that after visiting with her he would often have strange dreams, dreams that he could never entirely remember.
    And that had been the case on the night after his last visit to Mist. Uglamore and Wortmore, two lieutenants of the Pure Ones, had already asked him, and a half dozen other Rogue smiths, if they would come to do the Marking for the Final ceremony for Kludd. He had at first refused, as had the others. But on the night after that visit with Mist, he had woken up at tween time after having had another strange dream and decided—for no apparent reason—that he should go to the canyonlands and do this small service for the Pure Ones, even if he did not like Nyra or the rest of the group. In some way that dream he could no longer remember had instilled deep in his gizzard an urge to go.
    Now he wondered if this little owlet, the one they called the hatchling, who was staring so intently into the fire, was the reason he had been summoned here. Yes, summoned. That was the word. He had felt there was something beyond the Marking duties that he would need to do here. This isn’t about dead bones at all, he suddenly realized. He regarded Nyroc, whose unusually large whiteface, so similar to his mother’s, hung like a moon in the glimmering orange shadows of the cave. This is about him. But what am I supposed to do?
    “Time will tell,” a voice seemed to whisper as if from a dimly remembered dream. “Time will tell.”

CHAPTER FOUR
First Prey
    N yroc could not get the flames out of his mind. He had never seen anything quite like it. It seemed to him that the flames in some way told a story, or at least part of a story. Where was this land? What were those loping creatures? And was that color around the core of that tricolor flame really green? There was something else that he had glimpsed in the fire but not clearly. It was frightening. He almost did not want to see it. He felt it had something to do with his terrible uncle Soren. But he could not be sure.
    “Nyroc!” his mum screeched. “Pay attention. I’m letting you navigate while we track this chipmunk, and you’re not listening at all. What’s happened to you lately? Very inattentive! Won’t do, Nyroc. Won’t do at all. If you can’t even follow a chipmunk, how are you ever going to track a mouse, which is much smaller? You must start using those lovely Glaux-given ear slits.”
    To demonstrate, Nyra tipped her head one way then another.
    “You’re right, General Mam, as always. I have been distracted.” Nyroc was replying mechanically in just the tone his mum expected after a reprimand. It signaled total obedience. “I offer no excuses except that I was deeply moved by my great father’s Marking ceremony.”
    He blinked three times. His mother’s words came back to him. You shall grow into your father’s battle claws, Nyroc. They are the sacred relic of the Pure Ones. You are the only one fit to wear them into battle. Regard them closely, my hatchling.
    Nyroc was indeed inspired. He could imagine the claws sinking into flesh in battle. And this, now, was his first battle—his First Prey ceremony. He began to swing his head just as his mother had demonstrated in the lesson on directional ear slit maneuvering. Within seconds he had picked up the noise of scampering feet. It was coming from his downwind side. His left ear was receiving the sound before his right ear. He angled his tail and began to fly in the direction of the noise source. It was the chipmunk, he was fairly sure. The sound of the chipmunk’s feet and then its breathing came to both ear slits at almost the same time. There was only the difference of a fraction of a second.
    In another three seconds, Nyroc had begun the plunging kill-spiral. While spiraling, he managed to stay with the prey—silently. The ground rushed toward him, but Nyroc kept his eyes on the striped back of the little chipmunk.
    The squeak as Nyroc sank his talons into the fleshy sides of the rodent was very tiny—more a squeak of surprise than pain. Even so, for a creature that small there was an awful lot of blood. Overhead he heard cheers. He had not known that others would be attending his First Prey ceremony. But Uglamore, Wortmore, and Dustytuft, of course, and the Rogue smith Gwyndor were flying above in a circle formation to welcome the new hunter.
    “Hooray! Hooray! You got your first prey!” The cheer rang out into the darkening night. Nyra took the dying animal from