Guardians of Ga'Hoole 08 - The Outcast

Kingdoms done this years ago when they had used Kielian snakes and even polar bears in the long War of the Ice Claws? Well, this was getting to be a long war—she had fought St. Aggie’s and she had fought the cursed Guardians, and she was not done yet. It was time to use a bit of imagination. The dire wolves could do just about everything except fly. They could run faster and for longer distances than owls could fly at a stretch, and they could swim equally well—and they were brutal.
    The wolves were also known for their odd ways. Fiercely loyal, they had elaborate ranking systems within their clans that had to be strictly observed, not only by the members of the clan but by visitors as well. And she planned to be a visitor. For, in accordance with their strict rules of conduct, they were required to give sanctuary to any creature, no matter if that creature was the most Glaux-blessed soul on Earth or the most cursed outlaw. She must, however, come with gifts for them. Gifts for what they called the chieftain and his mate, in addition to gifts for the wolves just beneath him in importance, who were called the Noble Canis Lupus, whatever that meant. For these gifts she planned to go to Trader Mags in her disguise as a Rogue smith. She would bring plenty of trinkets to trade. Nyra had heard that the Rogue smith of Silverveil had ceased making weapons altogether and had turned to more “artistic endeavors.” Stupid geegaws, just the kind Trader Mags would love.
    Well, first murder, then shopping.
    She was drawing closer to the forge. The whacks of the hammer and the sizzle of the fire camouflaged any sounds she was making in flight. The Rogue smith of Silverveil had set up her forge in the ruins of an ancient castle from the time of the Others. The forge itself was ina walled garden. Many of the walls had fallen down and offered excellent bricks for the forge. The Rogue smith herself lived in a cellar of the castle and that was where she kept her goods.
    It was common knowledge that one never surprised smiths while they were working, as it could be dangerous for both parties. But that was exactly what Nyra planned to do, and she did not intend to get hurt! Only one owl was going to get hurt in this attack. She had her battle claws on; they were Kludd’s and she took excellent care of them. She also carried a hickory club in one claw. She made one pass over and figured out her angle of attack. It would be steep. A classic death spiral used for going after medium-to-large prey. She began her descent, her gizzard trimmed for the kill, her heart beating wildly.
    But just as she was ready to strike, the Rogue smith wheeled about. She held the tongs in one of her talons. She didn’t seem surprised in the least. She quickly stepped aside, then lofted herself into the air. In her tongs was some ridiculous-looking creation that Nyra supposed was art. But art was no match for a club and battle claws. Nyra swung wildly. The Rogue smith dodged. She is quick, this smith, Nyra thought. She came in for another strike at Nyra, a feint to get her off balance. It didn’t work. Now Nyra saw that the smith was trying to get to her hammernear the fire. Nyra could not let her get that hammer. The hammer would be much more deadly than the tongs. The smith was edging closer. Then Nyra had an idea. In a sudden direct rush, she flew at the Rogue smith, slamming her into her own fire. A terrible screech rang through the forest and the stench of burnt feathers filled the air.
    Nyra grabbed the tongs that the smith had dropped and jabbed them into the fire, pushing the burning bird deeper into the forge. “They say, my dear, that the Guardians of Ga’Hoole enjoy their meat roasted. Perhaps we should serve you up there. What a surprise that would be for your sister, the famous Madame Plonk.” Nyra shreed with laughter.
    Now to the cellar where the Rogue smith kept her “art.” Nyra found the smith’s coal bucket and dumped everything she could into it. Then, before taking leave, she stopped once more by the forge. The Rogue smith of Silverveil was nothing more now than charred bones, and there were plenty of ashes. Nyra smeared herself all over—especially her face—thickly with the ashes, sure now that her scar would be invisible. Next, she slipped the hammer and tongs into the bucket. Nearby was a pond. She went to it to check her reflected image in the moonlight.
    Well, now, if I don’t look like a right fine Rogue smith, I