Lost Tales of Ga'Hoole

anything was amiss.
    Rodmilla had given Thora and her sister exact instructions about their behavior at the voice trials, but on the night of the tryouts, Rodmilla was nowhere to be found. Just as well, thought Brunwella. They flew without a word to the appointed place. Thora bid her sister good luck on a ledge outside the cave where the Plonk family selection committee had gathered for the occasion. She listened closely as Brunwella began singing an old gadfeather ballad that had been sung by Snowies in the Northern Kingdoms for generations. Her voice rang out with clarity and aching tenderness.
    Brunwella could not have sung more beautifully that night. Tears welled in Thora’s eyes as Brunwella finished it. As the sisters took off for Dark Fowl Island, Thora had no doubt that Brunwella would become the next Madame Plonk. She would find out later that the selection committee agreed.
    The winds were rough and made for slow flying. As dawn threatened, Thora and Brunwella were dismayed to realize that they had only gotten as far as the Bay of Fangs, just off the H’rathghar glacier. Lighting down wasn’t a part of their plan, but they realized they would be forced to. There was no way they could reach Dark Fowl before first light at this rate. As they circled the bay, looking for a ledge or a cave to spend the day in, they spotted an owl, a Whiskered Screech whose labored wing strokes could only mean that he was injured. The Whiskered Screech had spotted them, too, and cautiously flew a little closer to investigate.
    “Who goes there?” he called out.
    That raspy voice sounded awfully familiar to Thora. She banked a little a closer to get a better look. “Torsten?” she finally asked.
    “Thora?” The owl recognized Thora right away.
    “He’s a friend of Sig’s from the Resistance!” Thora told her sister. The three owls landed on a ledge in an ice wall. Brunwella was nervous. She’d never knowingly associated with anyone actually in the Resistance.
    “Am I glad to see a friendly face!” Torsten was breathing heavily. His port wing had a small gash where it joined his shoulder. He seemed relieved to stop flying for the moment. “I have bad news, I’m afraid.” His face turned grave as he steadied himself on the ledge.
    “What happened?” Thora asked.
    Torsten looked at Brunwella suspiciously. Thora suddenly realized that her sister was a stranger to this owl, and quickly made an introduction. “It’s okay, this is my sister, Brunwella. You can trust her.”
    Torsten began his tale. “A small group of us raided the Ice Talons’ headquarters at nightfall. We were desperate for supplies, and thought we could get in and out of their storage hollow without much trouble. Well, we were wrong. For some reason, they had the place on lockdown and had doubled the guards. We tried to abort the mission when we realized, but it was too late. We took heavy casualties. I’m sorry to tell you this, Thora, but Sig was hurt, he was hurt bad.”
    Thora wilfed. Her beak dropped open but no words came out.
    “Is he alive?” Brunwella finally asked the question that she knew Thora was trying to ask. “I mean, is he going to be okay?”
    “I don’t know,” Torsten answered feebly. “We brought him back to Dark Fowl Island. There are Kielian snakes tending to him now, but he needs a healer. I was actually on my way to find your father.”
    “So were we.”
    The three owls had to think fast. It was Thora who came up with the new plan. Brunwella would accompany Torsten back north to find their father, Berrick, famed healer and, apparently, member of the Resistance. Torsten believed that he was back in the firths, finishing up a mission, so that was where they would go first. In the meantime, Thora would fly on to Dark Fowl to check on Sig. Then they would all meet back on Dark Fowl, hopefully with Berrick in tow.
    “Right you are,” Torsten said. “Berrick will know what to do. Caches of weapons, areas of Kielian loyalists, slipgizzles; he’s got it all in his head.”
    Thora and Brunwella shot each other stunned looks. Their father was no casual sympathizer treating the occasional wounded rebel. He wasn’t just a fighter, either. He was an organizer, a high-ranking commander! Thora’s gizzard soared. Their little expedition suddenly got a lot more interesting.
    The sun had already edged over the horizon and painted the snowy landscape shades of orange and yellow, but Thora pushed on and arrived on Dark