by Erin Hunter
“I don’t think going into the tunnels alone is a good idea, Breezepelt,” Onestar began. “I told you, we’ll mount a proper attack once every warrior is recovered from the last skirmish.”
Breezepelt, looking mutinous, was about to retort, but Heathertail stepped forward before he could speak. “He won’t be alone. I’ll be with him.”
Breezepelt’s head whipped around and he gazed at the brown tabby she-cat with a mixture of surprise and gratitude. “But your wounds from last time aren’t healed yet,” he protested.
“They’re healed enough,” Heathertail told him. “And if I can’t talk you out of going, then you’re not going without me.”
“But I need to do this alone,” Breezepelt protested. “If you go in with me and something happens to you . . . I’ll never forgive myself. And neither will the Clan. I want you to be safe.”
At his words, Crowfeather felt his paws tingle with a mixture of pity and affection. It was an unfamiliar emotion, and it made him feel that he wanted to go back into the tunnels and fight on Breezepelt’s behalf.
“Neither of you is going unless I say you can,” Onestar pointed out. His voice was sharp, but his gaze was sympathetic as he looked at Breezepelt. “I can’t approve one—or even two—of my warriors charging into those dark tunnels by themselves. I won’t send you there to fight, but—”
“I need to do this!” Breezepelt interrupted.
“Listen.” Onestar gave his tail-tip a single twitch. “I won’t send you to fight, but going to check on the stoats and find out where they’re living—and what their weaknesses might be—wouldn’t be a bad idea. It would help both WindClan and ThunderClan.”
“I’d be good at that,” Heathertail mewed eagerly.
But Onestar had no idea how much time Heathertail had spent underground. “No, I don’t mean for you to go inside the tunnels,” he told her. “That will only provoke the stoats, and we’re not ready for that yet. Keep watch from outside, and see what you can learn.”
Heathertail’s tail-tip twitched, but she didn’t object aloud.
“You could go when it’s dark,” Onestar continued. “Tonight, in fact, if you have the energy.”
Crowfeather gazed at his son, wondering if Breezepelt would accept Onestar’s suggestion, when back at the Gathering he had been so eager to slaughter stoats. He wasn’t sure that the black tom would be able to control his emotions. And how will Onestar react if he can’t?
Breezepelt and Heathertail exchanged a glance, then nodded. “We can do it,” Breezepelt replied.
“The stoats should be out hunting,” Onestar continued. “But if there are any remaining near the tunnel entrances, you must not attack them on your own. It’s too dangerous.”
Crowfeather wondered again whether Breezepelt would object, but now his son just seemed relieved to have something active he could do. “Okay, we won’t,” he promised.
Onestar nodded approvingly. “I’m not sure you two should go by yourselves, though,” he mused. “Perhaps you need one more cat. . . . Hey, Weaselfur!”
The ginger tom, who had been heading for the warriors’ den, halted and turned toward his Clan leader.
Once again, Onestar beckoned him over with his tail.
Weaselfur padded up and dipped his head respectfully to his Clan leader. “Is everything all right, Onestar?” he asked, with an unfriendly glance at Breezepelt.
“Breezepelt and Heathertail are going to keep watch outside the tunnels to find out what they can about the stoats,” Onestar replied. There was a gleam in his eyes as he spoke to Weaselfur, and Crowfeather realized that he was enjoying himself. “You can go with them.”
Weaselfur gaped. “What? Go with him?”
“Do you have a problem with obeying your Clan leader?” Onestar asked, his eyes narrowing.
“No, but—”
“Perhaps this will make you change your mind about making unkind comments during a vigil,” Onestar interrupted. “Not to mention blurting out information at a Gathering that should have been kept within this Clan. I had thought about giving you a moon of dawn patrols, but this will be better. And by the time you return to camp, I expect you to have learned that there are times when you should keep your mouth shut.”
Weaselfur hung his head, his tail drooping. “Yes, Onestar,” he mumbled.
“And since you seem to have a problem with Breezepelt,” Onestar went on, “perhaps it will help you to spend time with him, and work together on a WindClan task. In fact, Weaselfur, it had better.”
Weaselfur nodded, looking completely crushed.
“Don’t worry, Weaselfur,” Heathertail meowed cheerfully. “We won’t let the nasty stoats get you.”
“It’s not the stoats I’m worried about,” Weaselfur retorted in a low hiss. Fortunately for him, it didn’t reach Onestar’s ears as the Clan leader turned away and entered his den.
Breezepelt didn’t look particularly pleased at having Weaselfur as a companion, but Crowfeather was glad to see that he had the sense to say nothing. He also needs to learn that there are times when a cat should hold his tongue.
Crowfeather watched as the three cats turned and headed out of the camp. He could feel nervous flutterings in his belly, as if a nestful of blackbirds were trying out their wings inside him. His paws itched to join his Clanmates, but then he reflected that he couldn’t look after Breezepelt all the time. He had accused Nightcloud of being overprotective, and now it was important for Breezepelt to take responsibility for himself.
Whatever they find at the tunnels, he thought, I just hope it brings Breezepelt a little peace.
CHAPTER 12
The yowls and screeches of battle rose all around Crowfeather. The air was thick with the stench of blood. As far as he could see in all directions, the ground was covered in tussling cats, and beside Crowfeather lay the body of his daughter, Hollyleaf, her black fur soaked in her own blood. Recognition tingled through his pads.
This is the Great Battle! Crowfeather thought, realizing that he was dreaming. It’s exactly as I remember it.
The memory grew sharper, even more painful, as he saw Breezepelt leap onto Lionblaze, catching him off-balance and taking him to the ground and raking his claws along his cheek. “You’re not as strong as I expected,” Breezepelt gloated.
Crowfeather charged forward, hearing Ivypool pleading with Breezepelt not to destroy the Clans.
“Lionblaze should never have been born,” Breezepelt told her. “None of them should . . .”
Then his tail flicked triumphantly, spitefully, toward Hollyleaf’s body. “She’s dead; now it’s your turn, Lionblaze.” And then he bit into Lionblaze’s neck.
Finally reaching his sons, Crowfeather gripped Breezepelt’s shoulders with his claws. “This has to stop!” he yowled as he dragged him off his other son.
But then the dream changed. As Crowfeather released Breezepelt, and Lionblaze dived back into the battle, Breezepelt took a step forward, then turned to face Crowfeather, whose neck fur rose at the look in his son’s eyes. Before he could react, Breezepelt raised a paw and slashed his claws down Crowfeather’s face.
Dazzling light, unimaginable pain, exploded inside Crowfeather’s head and faded, leaving him in darkness. I’m blind! Breezepelt blinded me. . . . Does he hate me that much?
For a moment Crowfeather was too stunned to do more than crouch close to the ground, feeling a pelt sticky with blood pressing against his side. That must be Hollyleaf’s body, he thought. He knew this wasn’t what had happened in the waking world.
“Now you’ve got what you deserve!” Breezepelt taunted him. His voice sounded unnaturally loud, as if it was echoing inside Crowfeather’s mind. “For never loving your WindClan mate, and for choosing your ThunderClan kits over me. Why did you do that, Crowfeather?”
Feeling blood trickle from his ruined eyes, Crowfeather couldn’t answer his son’s challenge. I hardly know Lionblaze and Jayfeather . . . but I couldn’t let Breezepelt kill my other son. Could
I? There would have been no way back for Breezepelt if he had killed Lionblaze. But if Breezepelt can’t see that, can there ever be any help for him?
Dizziness swept over Crowfeather, and he felt the scene shift around him. The shrieks of battle faded, though he could sense that some cat was still close by. Maybe more than one, he thought, peering around uselessly through the black fog of his blindness.
Then, gradually, the darkness Breezepelt’s claws had created began to lift. The forest swam into Crowfeather’s vision, lit by a gray, weak dawn. Standing in front of him was a muscular dark tabby tom. Even before his sight had cleared completely, Crowfeather recognized him by his powerful shape and brown tabby pelt, and at last by his piercing ice-blue eyes.
Hawkfrost!
This was the treacherous cat from RiverClan, the cat who had supported Mudclaw when the former WindClan deputy had tried to oust Onestar from the leadership of his Clan. The cat who had given Hollyleaf her fatal wounds.
Rage surged through Crowfeather, driving out the pain in his eyes. It’s because of you, you piece of fox dung, that I’ll never know my daughter!
Summoning every scrap of his strength, Crowfeather launched himself at Hawkfrost, but the sleek tabby tom simply darted aside, his scarred muzzle curling in contempt.
Crowfeather charged again, and again Hawkfrost nimbly stepped aside. “I’m too quick for you, rabbit-chaser,” he sneered. “Give it up, before you make me angry.”
Crowfeather knew his vision was still too blurred for him to fight effectively. It’s a dream, he told himself. I can’t really take vengeance for Hollyleaf’s death. But his grief and fury propelled him forward to attack Hawkfrost one more time.
Hawkfrost slipped aside with a disdainful twitch of his tail-tip. As Crowfeather landed from his leap, he felt his body slam into another cat. He lost his balance and fell, paws flailing, and looked up into the face of his son Breezepelt.
Breezepelt stood over him, fixing him with an amber glare, pinning him down with his forepaws. “Why are you fighting for your ThunderClan kin?” he hissed. “What about your WindClan son?”
Crowfeather tried to reply, but no sound came out of his mouth. Breezepelt drew back, raising one paw as if he was about to strike again.
Crowfeather jerked awake. Darkness surrounded him; the moon had set, though he could see the top of the moor and the pile of memorial stones outlined against a sky that showed the first pale traces of dawn. Around him he could make out the curled-up bodies of his sleeping Clanmates and hear their faint snores and snuffles.
After his terrible dream, Crowfeather’s mind felt heavy and yet restless. He was sure that he wouldn’t sleep again, and he couldn’t bear to go on lying still in his nest. His whole body demanded movement, but if he paced up and down in camp he would just wake his Clanmates. Instead he crept out of the warriors’ den and up the slope to the edge of the camp, with a nod to Larkwing, who was on watch.
Outside the camp, padding to and fro on the frosty grass, Crowfeather could at last be alone with his troubling thoughts.
He was missing Nightcloud more than he’d ever thought he could. And he couldn’t work out what he felt about Breezepelt. Sometimes he annoys me out of my fur, but at other times it’s as if—almost as if—I’m starting to love him.
Crowfeather remembered too the curious sadness he had felt at the Gathering when he’d seen the animosity between Lionblaze and Breezepelt. They’re both my sons, even though neither of them probably wants me for a father. And I don’t even know what’s going on with Jayfeather.
He sent his thoughts out across the moor to the tunnels, where Breezepelt, Heathertail, and Weaselfur would be still investigating the stoats. I hope they’re all okay—even Weaselfur. Crowfeather wanted to believe that Breezepelt genuinely meant to prove himself, though he couldn’t entirely banish the nagging fear that his son wasn’t the loyal WindClan cat he pretended to be. That one day his emotions would get the better of him and lead him into reckless behavior—or worse, down a dark path from which there would be no return.
And that’s what my dream was about, Crowfeather realized. Deep down, I still don’t trust my own son. I don’t trust that he won’t fall prey to some snake-tongued cat who can encourage him to give way to his bad instincts. If that happens, what difficulties could it cause for WindClan—or even for all the Clans?
The thought knotted Crowfeather’s muscles and made him dig his claws deep into the earth. Why does everything have to be so difficult? For StarClan’s sake, we fought off the Dark Forest cats. So why do disagreements within the Clan seem to matter so much?
Crowfeather was beginning to realize that outside threats like the Dark Forest could destroy a Clan, but it was emotion that would destroy a single warrior from within. I want things to be simpler, he thought. All this messy emotion only weakens a cat. I’d rather live my life without it.
A paw step behind him distracted Crowfeather from his musing. He whirled, his claws at the ready, then relaxed as he saw that the newcomer was Kestrelflight.
“Are you okay?” the medicine cat asked.
“Fine,” Crowfeather responded, retracting his claws. “You startled me, that’s all. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”
“No, it wasn’t your fault,” Kestrelflight told him. “I’ve been awake for a while—and it looks like you have, too.”
Crowfeather nodded. “I had a dream . . . ,” he began. He was reluctant to reveal the details, but a heartbeat later he found himself pouring out the story of how he had found himself back in the Great Battle, how Breezepelt had blinded him, and how he had tried in vain to fight with Hawkfrost.
“I’m pretty sure it wasn’t an actual prophecy,” he finished. “But I can’t help feeling it means something. Maybe my mind is dwelling on cats like Hawkfrost, and that horror Mapleshade, because it’s . . . warning me?”
“Warning you about what?” Kestrelflight asked.
Crowfeather was reluctant to answer. He knew that many of his Clanmates didn’t trust Breezepelt, and if he—Breezepelt’s own father—expressed his doubts, he might make everything worse.
But if I can’t trust our own medicine cat, who can I trust?
“About Breezepelt,” Crowfeather confessed at last. “I’ve been feeling better about him lately, and at the Gathering he vowed to get rid of the stoats, but I still can’t shake off the worry that he can’t be trusted.”
Kestrelflight let out an amused purr. “I’m the medicine cat,” he pointed out. “It’s usually me who gets the visions.”
His words reminded Crowfeather of Kestrelflight’s latest vision: water pouring out of the tunnels, the wind driving it back, then fading away, allowing the surge of water to engulf everything.
“When you had your vision at the medicine cats’ meeting,” he meowed thoughtfully, “StarClan must have been warning us about the stoats in the tunnels, but . . . surely the vision seems more complicated than that? Do you think there could be more to it? That the stoats are just the first problem we’ll face?”
Kestrelflight let out a weary sigh. “I’ve been wondering the same thing, ever since it happened,” he replied. “The stoats could have crept onto our territory at any time while we were recovering after the Great Battle, but even so, they’re the sort of enemy that the Clan should have been able to deal with easily.”
Crowfeather nodded. “That’s true. That skirmish shouldn’t have gone so badly. We should never have lost Nightcloud.”
“That’s what makes me wonder what the vision of water means,” Kestrelflight continued. “At first I thought that the way the wind drove back the water meant that WindClan would win a victory, but there was a second surge, and no wind to defeat that. Does that mean WindClan will be defeated? And what will that mean for the other Clans? Will we have to face the teeth and claws of another enemy, whether that’s the stoats or some other hostile force lurking in the darkness?”
“I’ve wondered the same,” Crowfeather admitted. “Well, what the second s
urge means—and if it implies we should be working with the other Clans.” A chill ran through Crowfeather from ears to tail-tip as he considered the medicine cat’s words. He asked himself whether this hostile force in the darkness could be Breezepelt’s rage and bitterness, lurking within him.
But the wind in Kestrelflight’s dream did have an effect on the first flood that threatened to drown their camp. Maybe that meant there was a chance of victory.
And a breeze is a type of wind. . . . Hope and excitement warred with disbelief inside Crowfeather, swelling just as the dawn light grew in the sky above the moor. What if the wind in Kestrelflight’s vision didn’t mean the whole of WindClan, but just referred to Breezepelt? A breeze is a soft, weak wind, for sure, but . . . what if Breezepelt is to play a role in saving us?
Could there be a better redemption?
CHAPTER 13
“Rear up on your hind paws,” Crowfeather instructed, demonstrating the move as he spoke. “Then you can get in two blows at your enemy—one with each forepaw—before you land and dart away.”
“That’s cool!” Hootpaw exclaimed.
The sun was rising over the moor, though the grass was still white-furred with frost, and the air was crisp and cold. Crowfeather found the heaviness of the night before vanishing as he focused on the training session. He had agreed to take Hootpaw along with his own apprentice, Featherpaw, since Hootpaw’s mentor, Gorsetail, was leading the patrol that climbed the moor daily to visit the pile of memorial stones. So far, the session was going much better than the last time Crowfeather had tried to train the apprentices together.
“Both of you try it,” Crowfeather meowed after he had demonstrated the move for a second time. “For now, just imagine your opponent.”
While he watched the two apprentices trying to copy what he had shown them, Crowfeather reflected that a major onslaught against the stoats couldn’t be far off. Breezepelt and Heathertail were still checking on the tunnels. I hope they’re all right. But Crowfeather knew that the rest of the Clan must be prepared for the next step. The apprentices wouldn’t be chosen for the first attack, but no cat knew what might happen after that.