The Hatchling Page 9

  “What’s that sticking out of his back?” Nyroc asked.

  “It’s a crow’s feather. That’s how you know it’s him. The crows love him. He’s a hero to them. And he’s feared.”

  “In other words, he has free passage,” Nyroc said.

  “Yes, and not just here. Everywhere.” Phillip was silent for a moment. “He’ll find a way to us. Probably before that cloud crosses the moon.”

  “What’ll we do?”

  “Not much choice, eh? Stuck between The Needles and the Shredders.”

  The two owls looked at each other.

  Then they both roared a great shree, “The Shredders!” And they blasted straight up from the sliver of rock, out and over The Needles, and headed directly toward the lacerating winds of the Shredders.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Shredded

  Nyra watched the Great Snowy closely as he began to speak. The Pure Ones had retreated from The Needles as soon as they saw where Nyroc and Dustytuft were heading. “We have a situation here that is most unusual.” Doc Finebeak blinked and looked in the direction of the Shredders. “Only the Guardians of Ga’Hoole know how to negotiate those winds. I have never seen birds of any species, not even eagles, voluntarily hurl themselves into the Shredders. If they survive it, which I sincerely doubt, they will emerge dazed and confused.”

  “But how do we know for sure whether they get killed or not?” Nyra snapped.

  Doc Finebeak looked at her in amazement. One of these birds was her son. She betrayed not a hint of sorrow or fear. She just wanted to be sure of his death. It seemed odd.

  “I do not understand my son’s rebellious ways, but I will not tolerate rebellion,” Nyra said, as if that explained her lack of feeling.

  “I see.” Doc Finebeak nodded. Actually, he didn’t see, but that was immaterial. Doc Finebeak came from Beyond the Beyond. Most hireclaws and owls who would do anything for some kind of payment came from there. Mercenaries seldom questioned motives or reasons as long as they got paid. Payment could be anything from hunting rights in certain closely guarded owl territories where prey was plentiful to coals from Rogue smiths, and in the old days—flecks. In their present condition, the Pure Ones did not have much to offer a superb tracker like Doc. But the Great Snowy felt that it was wise to keep in the good graces of a oncepowerful force. He knew that Nyra was a formidable leader. She could rise to power again. He wanted her in his debt.

  “How do we make sure?” Nyra repeated.

  “There is a way around the Shredders. I am one of the few who know about it.” He looked directly at Nyra and puffed out his breast a bit. He wanted Nyra to know just how valuable he was. “We will go to the spill-out points on the other side. I know those as well. That is where we will find them, if indeed they survive.”

  Uglamore now stepped forward. “Just how many spill-out points are there, Doc?”

  “Two or three, at the most. It would be easy for me to find the one they come out of, and remember, they will be confused. Capture should be easy.”

  Too easy, Uglamore thought. This was not the first time he had had doubts about the Pure Ones, their goals, their strategies. Even before The Burning, he had wondered if there might be a better way to train soldiers. He began having these thoughts after a small battle in The Beaks. At that point, the Pure Ones had been better armed than any other group of owls. Their discipline was superb. They had conquered more territory than any other owl army except those of the Northern Kingdoms. And yet they were defeated in The Beaks by far fewer owls, owls who were reported to have little military discipline. It was then that Uglamore began to wonder if a free society like Ga’Hoole might produce a more superior soldier than the regimented one of the Pure Ones. Wits had won that skirmish, not might or discipline.

  Since Nyroc’s birth, he had reflected further on these notions. He was drawn to the young hatchling. He shuddered when he saw Nyra’s expectations for him and how she treated him. He wondered how this young hatchling might develop if he had been hatched to a normal owl family, or even more intriguing, if he had been hatched in the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. More disturbing to Uglamore, however, were his thoughts about himself. Even though he was on the brink of achieving the rank of colonel, he had begun to grow very weary of Nyra and her ways.

  But where else could an owl of his age go—especially an owl who had distinguished himself for fighting with the most hated union of owls in the world? It was not the defeat at the Battle of The Burning itself that had depressed him but the thought of a future living with the Tytonic Union of Pure Ones. That was when he began to think about the egg that held the new life that would be Nyroc. He actually began to dread the hatching out. And on the night of the eclipse when the egg did hatch out, he had experienced a deep feeling in his gizzard that he could only have described as sorrowful joy. It was said that owls born on such a night as this had upon them an enchantment that gave them unusual powers. Uglamore knew this little hatchling would have powers, but what would they bring him?

  So capture would be easy, Doc had said. But perhaps death in the Shredders would be easier for Nyroc. If he did survive, what did he face with his mum? He would be made to go through with the Special ceremony, which he himself had never questioned until now.

  Yes, thought Uglamore, I passed my Special by killing m dear cousin. So enchanted was I with the old High Tyto, Kludd’s predecessor, that I very soon got over his death. He had rationalized it to himself until he was certain he’d done the right thing. At the time, it hadn’t seemed to matter nearly as much as his own ascendancy in the inspiring collection of Barn Owls that would one day rule the world. He had been young then, strong, a skillful fighter, and he was most of all pure, a pure Tyto alba, not one of the lesser breeds like a Masked or a Sooty. Now he wasn’t so sure. Now he had questions.

  “Does that answer your question about the spillways, Uglamore?” Nyra asked crisply.

  He was about to say No, General Mam, it does not. But he was not a young owl anymore. He was beyond his middle years and he had nowhere to go. He would be cast out of any civilized group of owls. So instead he replied, “Yes, General Mam, that certainly does.”

  “We will follow Doc Finebeak to the other side of the Shredders to see if Nyroc is…” It was seldom that Nyra hesitated in speaking. She began again. “To see what the outcome is.”

  Outcome, thought Uglamore. She means, will she find her son dead? And if he is alive, what then? Uglamore had not meant for this question to pop out. But it did. “General Mam, if Nyroc is alive, what shall be done then?”

  “He is a rebellious owl. He shall be disciplined. If he had exhibited this behavior in battle it would be considered treason and he would have to face the most dire consequences. But he is young and he is rebellious. And I shall give him a second chance.”

  Some chance, thought Uglamore.

  Nyroc had managed to keep Phillip in his sight for a few seconds after entering the Shredders. But as he was tossed and spun by the wild winds, it felt as if both parts of his stomach had crashed into each other. He did not know which way was up or down. He was pitched and tumbled by the cutting winds of the torrent. He thought he saw several of his tail feathers whiz by him. Would there be any feathers left? Did he care? Did he care if he lived or died?

  Nyroc suddenly realized that he was tired, so very tired. Not just of being chased, but of living with his strange and frightening mother. If life as a Pure One was the only choice, would it be a relief to die in this shredding wind? That was Nyroc’s last thought in the Shredders. He dimly realized he had ceased to flap his wings and he gave himself up to the lashing currents of the hag winds. The roar of the Shredders grew fainter and fainter in his ear slits.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It Hurts

  When Phillip tumbled out of the Shredders and was immediately captured he knew his own quest for truth had ended. The horrific meaning of the special treatment he had been granted since Nyroc’s hatching began to sizzle and pop in
the Sooty’s gizzard like a sap tree bursting into flames: Who had been among the first owls to be brought in when the Sacred Orb, as Nyra had referred to her egg, hatched? Himself. Who had been appointed chief preener? Nyra, who had always regarded him with utter contempt, made him the companion for her dear hatchling. It all began to make a terrible, dreadful sense. He knew now that he had been set up as Nyroc’s best friend so that he might help Nyroc prove himself worthy to become an officer in the most elite unit of the Pure Ones.

  What happened? Nyroc wondered as he dragged himself to his feet. Every one of his hollow bones ached. He staggered forward. Then tried to spread his wings. They felt strange. “Where am I?” he wondered aloud.

  “With your mother!”

  He wheeled around suddenly. He could hardly believe it. How had she gotten here? Nyra looked at him sharply, coldly. “We thought you’d never come to. But you have. And except for the loss of feathers, you look quite fit.” She paused. “Fit enough to kill,” she added.

  “What?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. It is time for your Special ceremony, my dear. Be pleased I am willing to forgive your offensive behavior.” Nyroc was so stunned he could hardly speak.

  “Well, what do you say?” Nyra hissed at him. “Aren’t you going to thank me for my generosity?”

  Nyroc stared at his mother. Flames seemed to leap before his eyes. Terrible images seared his brain, sizzled in his gizzard. He simply had to know.

  “Well?” Nyra asked again.

  “Mum, could I speak to you alone before the Special ceremony? I need to know certain things.”

  She regarded him silently for a long moment before speaking. “Of course, dear.” His mother flew a short distance away from the other Pure Ones who had accompanied her. Flight was too painful for Nyroc since so many of his feathers had been broken off. He waddled in a most humiliating fashion after her.

  When he reached her, she was running her beak through her own sparse breast feathers. This gesture of hers always made Nyroc’s gizzard squirm with guilt. “I’m quite a sight, aren’t I?” She laughed softly. It seemed to break the tension.

  “I missed you, Nyroc. You are all I have.”

  “But, Mum.”

  “You are my world.”

  Her world? What does that mean? Nyroc wondered. To be her world. Is that love?

  “You are the Union, the Empire.”

  “But do you love me?” Nyroc asked.

  In that moment, Nyra wilfed. Confusion and anger swam in her dark eyes. The scar that ran down her face seemed to twitch. She tried to say the word “love.” Her beak opened and a guttural sound tore from it, but Nyroc did not understand it. She ran her beak through her breast feathers again. And once more, Nyroc felt that twinge of guilt in his gizzard.

  “You do! I know you do, Mum.”

  “You shall be great, Nyroc. You shall rule not like a general but like a king, an emperor. It is your destiny. You were hatched on the night of the eclipse. Not since the ancient King Hoole has there been such an owl as you. I know it. I feel it in my gizzard.”

  “King Hoole,” Nyroc repeated.

  “Yes, King Hoole,” she whispered the words. “Are you ready for the Special ceremony, my…my…my love?”

  She said it. She loves me! “Yes, Mum. Yes. I am ready.” And the images he had seen in the flames receded, then simply melted away completely. After all, Nyroc told himself, she lied to me about my father’s death because she wanted me to be strong—and to love him more. Yes, that must be it.

  They returned to the circle of trees where Stryker, Uglamore, and several of the other top lieutenants perched, waiting. Nyroc was so excited by his mother’s proclamation of love that he did not notice at first that he was standing amid trees—real trees—just as his mother had promised. He looked at them now. “Mum, these are trees, aren’t they?”

  “Didn’t I promise you that I would show you a living tree?”

  “Oh, yes, General Mam.” And Nyroc raised his talon in a perfect hail Kludd salute.

  His mother’s gizzard trembled with pride. “Bring forth the prisoner,” she commanded. Blyrric and another officer walked in with a Sooty Owl tethered between them by vines. They quickly tied him to a tree.

  Nyroc stopped in his tracks and blinked. “Phillip?”

  “Who in hagsmire is Phillip?” Nyra replied.

  “Go, Nyroc! Fly away!” Phillip screamed.

  Nyroc peered forward and blinked. The world was coming into focus—sharply, all too sharply.

  “Oh, Dustytuft. So that’s what you call him. Well, you’re going to call him ‘dead’ soon,” Nyra said.

  Nyroc turned toward his mother in disbelief. “But it was supposed to be an animal like a fox or…or…” Nyroc did not want to let the vile words out of his beak. Only now did the true horror of what had been planned for his Special ceremony explode in his brain. He let the words come. “…Or Smutty, the prisoner.” He hated himself in the very core of his gizzard for saying those words. He would not do it. This was not combat. It was murder. But he had let the words tumble from his beak to keep from thinking something even more horrible.

  “But that’s too easy. You hardly know Smutty. Remember, I told you that the first lesson of hate is easy. You were told to hate your father’s killer, Soren. Easy, right? But the second lesson would be harder.”

  Then the flames suddenly raged in Nyroc’s brain. He felt his gizzard stir. “But Soren didn’t kill my father,” he blurted out. “It was the Great Gray. You told me lies. It was all lies.”

  “Who told him? Who told him?” Nyra screeched and flew at her lieutenants.

  “Nobody told me. I saw it in the flames,” Nyroc howled. “And I shall not kill Smutty—or Phillip, Mum. I shall not!”

  “You must,” she shreed. “You must prove yourself worthy of this Union. This Empire! You must kill someone close to you.”

  Another image filled Nyroc’s mind. He saw a hollow in a distant fir tree. He saw two young chicks, one not even ready to fly yet. He saw the older chick creep up behind the younger one and shove him out of the hollow with his talons. It was his father. It was his father’s Special ceremony. Then he saw a flutter of white, a white that rivaled the moon. It was his mother. You did it, Kludd. You did it. So young, but you did it. Come with us! It was his father’s Special ceremony many years ago. So he had proved his worth by trying to murder his only brother.

  Nyroc swiveled his head around to his mother and fixed her with the fiercest gaze he could muster. “Mum, I will not do this. No matter what.”

  “No matter what?” screeched Nyra. She spread her wings, lowered her head, and began to speak in a cold, deadly voice. “Not even if I kill you?”

  “Fly! Fly! Save yourself! I’m not worth it!” Phillip cried out.

  “He’s right, Nyroc,” his mum said. “The stinking little Sooty is not worth it.”

  “Everyone is worth something,” Nyroc replied. His own tone surprised him. His voice suddenly sounded very grown up.

  Nyra looked surprised. Uglamore began to speak. “General Mam, perhaps there might be a better way…”

  Nyra wheeled about. “Get out of here, all of you. I must speak to my son in private.”

  Uglamore spread his wings to take flight. Stryker, Doc Finebeak, and the other officers followed.

  When they had risen well overhead and began to dissolve into a cloud bank, Nyra turned to Nyroc.

  “What of your father? Don’t you love him?” she snapped.

  “I never even knew him.”

  “Oh, you will know him very well, my dear, if you do not complete your Special. The scroom of your father shall haunt you and hunt you wherever you go until the end of your days!”

  Nyroc felt himself wilf. He swung his head from his mum to Phillip and then back to his mum again. “No,” he said firmly.

  That simple word enraged Nyra more than anything else. She flew at her son. He tried to back off but her tal
on tore across his face. He felt a searing pain.

  “Fly, Nyroc, fly!” Phillip shreed. His voice was filled with agony.

  Then Nyra stopped and looked at her son, aghast. “What have I done? What have I done?”

  Nyroc looked down. Blood was dripping on his talons. In a dazed voice, suddenly sickeningly sweet, Nyra said, “Darling child, that was not the way it was supposed to be. Not your blood. Not yours.” Then her feathers fluffed up; her dark eyes turned wrathful. In less than a second she was flying full force at Phillip. Nyroc was in a yeep state, unable even to lift his wings. But it would have made no difference. It was too late. Nyra moved like lightning. Phillip lay dying at her talons.

  “What have you done?” Nyroc hopped over to Phillip, whose head was at an odd angle. His eyes were filmy and there was a deep gash in his chest. Gasping for every breath, he whispered hoarsely to Nyroc, “Fly, Nyroc, fly.”

  Nyra plunged her talons into Phillip’s chest and ripped out his heart.

  “I hate you!” Nyroc shreed at his mother.

  “No, you don’t, my dear. You’ll get over this.” Nyra was speaking rapidly in a breathy voice. “This is going to be our little secret. We’re going to pretend that you killed Dustytuft, not me.”

  He glared at his mother. For the first time he saw her shrink back a bit. He had to get out of there. He had to fly straightaway even though he was missing half his tail feathers and the wound on his face was still oozing blood. “It will be our secret, Nyroc.” She spoke with a desperation he’d never heard before. “You passed your Special ceremony. Isn’t that great? So we cheated a little. I know you would have done it, given a little more time.”

  “You…know…nothing!” Nyroc said, slowly enunciating each word.

  “Nyroc, you are my world. My entire world.”

  “If I am your world, it is a world I do not want to live in.”

  He then spread his tattered wings and flew. He clamped his beak shut against the pain of flying so nearly featherless. But he felt his will surge through his gizzard. So this is free will? he thought. It hurts!