Guardians of Ga'Hoole 11 - To Be a King

second disappearance distract her from the task at hand. But then Hoole blinked. He saw something moving through the darkness, low to the ground. He blinked again. What were those slivers of green, like rips in the black of the night?
    “Great Glaux,” he whispered to himself, “it’s Namara.”He had left her in Ambala and she had made her way back to her den in the region of Broken Talon Point. But here she was, coming with legions of wolves: more, many more than had gone with her into the Desert of Kuneer. They were settling in at the base of the ridge, but Namara herself was advancing up the steep grade toward Hoole.
    “Namara!”
    “Yes, Commander.” She crouched down and laid her ears back flat and then scraped forward on her belly in the attitude of complete submission practiced by wolves when approaching a superior.
    “Get up!” Hoole intensely disliked the elaborate formalities of rank that governed the lives of wolves.
    “But you are my commander.”
    “I might command an army, but you, Namara, will always be my equal. What are you here for?”
    “To fight, sir. We are the Sky Dogs of the Beyond. And look carefully, sir, and you will see something else amongst us.”
    Hoole blinked, then squinted his eyes and blinked again. There was a slight quivering movement within the huge pack of wolves. “Pygmies, Elves, Northern Saw-whets!” All of the tiniest owls in the owl kingdoms, all veterans of the Frost Beak divisions that had scattered after being driven from the N’yrthghar during the long war. Theywere close fighters and their weapons of choice were deadly ice splinters. Hoole shook his head in dismay. It was brilliant, absolutely brilliant. There was nothing that could compare to the strategic thinking of a wolf, and now Namara had had the inspired idea of combining small owls with wolves into an elite fighting force.
    “When are you planning to attack?” Namara asked.
    “We were waiting for a squad that seems to have vanished somewhere in the Ice Narrows.”
    “And if they come soon?”
    “Then we’ll attack.”
    “May I offer a suggestion, Hoole?”
    “Of course, Namara.”
    “You are ideally situated on this ridge. You are facing west. The enemy is facing east. Wait until daybreak.”
    “Daybreak?” Daybreak was a long way off.
    “Wait until the sun is nearly the length of a high leaping wolf.”
    “Why?” And then it dawned on Hoole. Of course! If they attacked at daybreak, the enemy would be blinded by the rising sun. More than blinded, for shards of light as sharp as a sword’s edge would bounce off the ice-sheathed ridges of the glacier.
    Hoole called together his lieutenants and the members of the parliament. He paused before he spoke. OhGlaux, he thought, steel my soldiers’ hearts. Make trim their gizzards for this fight. Give me the words that will burn like the Rogue smiths’ metal and pierce with the keenness of a blade cut from the heart of the Ice Dagger. Protect these noble owls. How I envy the ease of their gizzards and do wish that sometimes I were not born a prince, or had to be a king.
    Then he explained the strategy and told them of Namara and the Sky Dog Unit.
    There was so much to be done, and Hoole knew that even if they won by the blessings of all that was Glaux, and though he planned to rule from the great tree, the task of clearing the rot from his father’s palace, restoring the throne and the kingdom to what it had been in the days of the H’rathian code was a monumental task. But he did not mean to get ahead in his thoughts. First, a most decisive battle must be won. So he put his private thoughts away and began to address his troops.
    “Dear owls, it troubles me not if another might wear my crown, or sit upon a throne that now rots inside a melting palace. That is only the outer show, and I do not care for such outward things as they do not make the owl. But I do yearn for honor, and for honor I shall be the most ferocious owl alive. This night to come is called the Long Night. He and she who live out this day and night to see old age will yearly, in celebration of it, fly high, tip theirwings, show their scars, and say, ‘These wounds I did suffer in the Battle of the Short Light and the Long Night.’ Old owls shall remember what feats they did that day. And our names will be spoken in hollows and become familiar to all—Strix Strumajen, Rathnik, Garthnore, Bors, and Tobyfyor. Each good owl will tell their sons and daughters of this,