Guardians of Ga'Hoole 10 - The Coming of Hoole

that something awful must have happened to his dear friend since a messenger came and delivered the letter from King H’rath so many moon cycles ago. When Fengo finished, he turned to MacHeath. He loathed this wolf who was full of sense-less rage, a hunger for power and who, in his fury, had been known to kill both mates and pups.
    “Yes? What is it?” Fengo growled.
    “I would like to serve, Fengo.”
    Fengo knew what was coming. MacHeath had seen Grank retrieve the owl ember from one of the volcanoes. Many wolves had seen it, and they sensed its peculiar power. They were smart enough to stay away from it. But not MacHeath. He had been fascinated by the ember and the strange owl who had stared into its depths. He waited now for a reply from Fengo. Fengo remained silent. This exasperated the impulsive MacHeath. “He was right, you know,” he said with an edge in his voice.
    “Who was right about what?” Fengo replied.
    “The owl, the one called Grank, the one you are glaffing for. He was right when he called it the wolf ember.It is not the owl ember. It holds the same green fire that burns in our eyes.” He dropped his lids halfway so that only a slit of fierce green showed.
    “The ember is not all green. There is the fiery orange of its heat and the blue…”
    MacHeath interrupted, “But the blue of the center is ringed with green—green like our eyes, Fengo!”
    Fengo was now incensed. His hackles grew more erect. He snarled, humped up his back, and advanced on MacHeath. But MacHeath did not move. He pulled back his lips, baring his teeth in the grin of submission, and made an odd sound halfway between a growl and a whine. He was caught between fear and aggression, threat and submission. His hackles were erect yet his ears were laid back. And still he crouched and made the whinish growls. Would it be submission or aggression? It was the utter contempt in Fengo’s eyes that triggered him. He suddenly exploded in a high leap and came down on Fengo, his fangs sinking into Fengo’s shoulder. MacHeath was huge, larger than Fengo, massively built. But Fengo was a cunning fighter. He immediately sank down close to the ground. His goal was to reach the slope and let gravity do the work for him. He flipped himself once, twice, and then a third time and rolled. Together, they rolled off the ridge and down the slope. MacHeath held on. Fengo suddenlytwisted his neck around, and although he intended to grab MacHeath’s snout with his teeth, he missed and his fangs sank into one eye. There was a terrible howl of pain and MacHeath finally let go.
    But Fengo was not done with this wolf yet. He would not kill him, but he had to prove that he, Fengo, was dominant. He must show the other wolves who was leader. So, as MacHeath attempted to run away, Fengo dragged him back. Blood poured from MacHeath’s eye socket and on the ground lay the eyeball.
    “There is your ember, wolf. The bloody eyeball of greed! The bloody eyeball of your tyranny. Your mates will suffer your abuse no more. Your pups will no longer cower.” Fengo then turned to the other wolves who had gathered at the foot of the slope. “Often I have told you that it was not I who led you here, but the spirit of a long-dead hoole. Hoole, the wolf word for owl and the name of the very first owl. So we say that this ember is not the wolf ember but the owl ember. And it is our duty to guard it until the owl who will be king comes.”
    “Fengo.” It was Dunmore MacDuncan, a young but very intelligent wolf who was just a pup when they had left the Always Cold and begun their journey to the Beyond. Dunmore had impressed Fengo from the start, for not only was he wise beyond his years but, despite abirth injury that had left him with a deformed leg, he was brave and stalwart and never gave up. He ran as hard and as long as the other wolves on the long journey, and never complained. Not only that, Dunmore seemed to possess a rare intuition. He sensed danger before anyone else. His instincts were finely honed. He was quick of mind and body despite his leg. Now Dunmore crouched down submissively and made the sign for asking a question.
    “Yes, Duncan.”
    “Will this owl be our king as well?”
    “He will not be our king but he will help us. We know little of magic and what the owls of the N’yrthghar call nachtmagen. But there are practitioners of this terrible kind of magic in the north who are known as hagsfiends. They want to rule not only over the owls,