Guardians of Ga'Hoole 15 - The War of the Ember

longer black at all, but loomed like two tiny moons within the ravaged landscape of the cratered face.
    This creature no longer even looked like an owl, let alone a Barn Owl. Dumpy’s guts were in turmoil. Nausea swelled in his gullet, as if the capelin fish he had eaten earlier were swimming back up from his stomach. He clamped his beak shut. This was not the time to throw up!
    “I think, dear Striga, we might be able, you and I, to do business.”
    “I agree, madam.”
    “Madame General,” the Barn Owl corrected.
    “Yes, Madame General, I think that we can do business. I know a great deal about the ember you seek.”
    “Yes…yes…of course,” she replied slowly, “but tell me what you know about hagsfiends.”
    Hagsfiends! The very word sent a horrific shock through Dumpy’s body. Hagsfiends, I’ve heard that word somewhere, someplace. No! the puffin corrected himself. Not heard it, but knew it somehow! Deep within him—Dumpy closed his eyes, trying to remember—there was a dim recollection, a feeling from a time before his time, if that were possible, of an ancient terror. A terror that might have had its very source here in the Ice Narrows, perhaps in this very cave. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the sky-colored owl had wilfed.
    “Now why have you wilfed on me like that?” the Barn Owl snapped. She flipped her head back to its normal position.
    “Hagsfiends vanished nearly one thousand years ago,” the blue owl said.
    “And you think they are gone forever?”
    “Madame General, what are you suggesting?”
    “I am suggesting that nothing is forever.”
    “Please speak plainly, Madame General. I am no good at riddles.”
    “In three moon cycles.”
    “In three moon cycles, what?”
    “It will be Long Night, and a marvelous hatching will occur.”
    “There is an egg?”
    Hagsfiends? Eggs? That can’t be good, Dumpy thought. It could mean more hagsfiends. Isn’t that what “eggs” mean? More chicks?
    Nyra cocked her head. Her eyes glinted darkly. “Not yet. But soon.” She paused, then continued. “You are not the only one who found cracks in the Panqua Palace. How should I put it? There are servants who can be suborned, and dragon owls who have begun to question their pampered existence. Remember, I was taken for dead after the battle in which you helped defeat my forces. I was badly wounded. I had to recover someplace.”
    “Not the Panqua Palace!”
    “Yes. Are you surprised? It’s large. There are secret chambers, dark corners, hidey-holes. But most important, there were restless owls there. Owls like you, who chafed under their routine of useless luxury. You see, Striga, you are now known on both sides of the River of Wind. As Orlando of the Middle Kingdom, you are the dragon owl who learned to fly—the first in a thousand years. You are an inspiration to the other long-feathered owls eager to break the gilded chains that bind them, other blue owls eager for power!”
    There was much that Dumpy did not understand in the conversation that he had just heard. But there were two things that he did understand: The name of the color of this owl was “blue,” not “sky,” and something terrible was coming to his world—and not just to the Ice Narrows but to the kingdoms they linked, and perhaps far beyond!

CHAPTER ONE
The Harvest Festival
Dearest tree, we give our thanks
    For your blessings through the years.
    Vines heavy with sweet berries
    Nourish us and quench our fears.
    And in times of summer drought,
    Searing heat or winter’s cold,
    From your bounty freely given
    We grow strong and we grow bold.
    Let us always tend with care
    Your bark, your roots, your vines so fair.
    S oren and Pelli stood on the balcony with Bell and Bash, trembling with joy as they watched Blythe singing to the accompaniment of the grass harp.
    “Mum, she is really good!” Bell said, her voice drenched in wonder at her sister’s accomplishments.“And you should hear her when she sings one of those old gadfeather songs,” Bash exclaimed.
    “Hymns don’t really do her voice justice,” Gylfie said. And no sooner was the hymn completed than there was a loud twang as Mrs. Plithiver jumped the strings over an octave. “Oh, here it comes!” Gylfie exclaimed. “She’s going to sing that old gadfeather gizzard-acher!”
When an owl loves an owl
    And your gizzard’s about to break,
    Let me tell you, you can’t do nothin’
    ‘Cept to follow in that wake.
    Don’t turn tail, just go