by Erin Hunter
Paws thudded behind her, and she realized Lilyfur was following. “Go back!” she panted. “Your kits … ”
“My kits will be fine,” Lilyfur wheezed. “I’ve watched you enough times to be useful.” She risked a glance sideways at Mossheart. “It’s going to be bad, isn’t it? I mean, worse than before.”
Mossheart nodded.
The two cats burst out of the trees into a clear patch of ground not far from the Thunderpath. The air tasted of monsters and the bushes at the edge were black and shriveled from the creatures’ foul breath. A tangle of bleeding, screeching cats wrestled in the center of the clearing. Mossheart narrowed her eyes. Two large patrols, from the look of it, each containing several apprentices as well as warriors.
“Stop!” came a screech from the far side of the clearing, and a small gray face appeared from the blackened bushes. “Stop right now!” he yowled again.
“It’s Swiftfoot!” Mossheart mewed, recognizing the WindClan medicine cat from Gatherings.
The gray tom stepped around the motionless body of one of his Clanmates with a rueful glance and marched up to the nearest tussle. “Enough!” he ordered. “There is nothing to be won here!”
The two cats paused and stared at him. They stepped back and Swiftfoot gave the WindClan warrior a shove with his nose. “Go home!” he hissed. To Mossheart’s astonishment, the cat spun around and ran into the bushes that separated the clearing from the Thunderpath. The ShadowClan warrior, a dark brown tabby called Logfur, bunched his haunches, ready to leap back into battle, but Mossheart hurtled up to him and planted herself in her way.
“You heard what Swiftfoot said! Go home!”
“There’s a battle to be fought,” Logfur growled.
“Not anymore,” Mossheart replied.
Logfur glared at her, then slunk away, leaving a thin trail of blood from a cut on his tail.
“What in the name of StarClan are you doing?” demanded a voice.
Mossheart spun around. Silvermask stood behind her, the gray stripe on his face stained with blood. “Do you want us to lose?” he growled.
“No. I want you to live,” Mossheart spat. “Are you going to keep fighting until there are no warriors left at all?” She flicked her tail at the bodies that lay slumped on the ground. “Three more cats dead? How is this going to help?”
“Because two of them are WindClan, which means two fewer enemies for us.” Silvermask curled his lip in triumph.
Mossheart shook her head. “You are more mouse-brained than I thought,” she mewed sadly.
Behind them, the warriors were staggering apart, stumbling into the undergrowth in the direction of their own territories. Silvermask eyed them in disgust. “Are you happy now, Mossheart? We could have won that battle.”
“No, you couldn’t. Every battle is a loss.”
With a hiss, the deputy limped away. Mossheart decided she’d wait a while before telling him his wounds needed to be treated with goldenrod. Lilyfur padded up. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she offered.
Mossheart gazed around the clearing. Two WindClan cats wouldn’t be making their own way back to their camp, and neither would a ShadowClan apprentice, Spottedpaw. Mossheart gulped as she looked at his little brown body. A warm breeze stirred the fur on his flank, making it look as if he were breathing. But the scent of death hung over him, and his bright blue eyes were glazed and milky.
Swiftfoot glanced up at Mossheart. “I am sorry for your loss,” he meowed.
“And I for yours,” Mossheart replied dully.
“This has to stop!” Swiftfoot hissed, startling Mossheart. “If we lose any more warriors, our Clans will starve when leaf-bare comes. How can StarClan let this happen?”
“Have you been to the Moonstone to speak with them about it?” Mossheart asked.
“No. Have you?”
Mossheart shook her head.
“Then we should go. You and me, and all the other medicine cats. If we all show up, perhaps StarClan will be forced to listen.”
Mossheart stared at him. She’d met the other medicine cats at Gatherings but never alone, without other Clanmates around them. “How can we tell them what we want to do?”
“I’ll visit them. I’ll go on my own so it’s obvious I’m not a threat, and I’ll bring them all to the moor. Meet us by the pointed stone next sunrise.”
Mossheart knew that Swiftfoot was right. The medicine cats needed to unite. They had the power to heal their Clans—perhaps this meant they could stop battles before they started.
“I’ll be there,” she promised.
Swiftfoot popped his head around the corner of the gorse as Mossheart approached the pointed stone the next morning. “I thought you’d decided not to come,” he greeted her.
Kinktail, the RiverClan medicine cat whose tail had been crushed by a monster when she was a tiny kit, appeared behind Swiftfoot. Her eyes were shining. “I can’t believe we’re doing this!” she breathed. “All five of us, going to share tongues with StarClan at the same time.”
“Maybe we should have done it before,” muttered Swiftfoot. “Come on, we have a long way to go before sunset.”
He led them across the moor, padding confidently in the blazing sun. Mossheart walked beside Quailfeather of SkyClan, not envying her long, thick coat. Kinktail followed with Prickleface, the ThunderClan medicine cat with a temper to match his name. Mossheart waited for him to make a sour remark about what they were doing, but they traveled mostly in silence, speaking only when they needed to stop and find water. Above them, the sky was tinged purple as the sun slid behind the ridge, and a crisp half-moon appeared. Mossheart gasped.
“It’s red!”
The moon was washed with scarlet, darker around the edge. Mossheart had never seen it look like that before.
“It’s the color of blood,” Quailfeather pointed out quietly.
Perhaps StarClan is already waiting for us, Mossheart thought.
Prickleface took the lead as they entered Mothermouth and began the long, echoey walk into darkness. Suddenly the blackness up ahead faded and a watery pink light started to filter along the stone walls. Prickleface quickened his pace, and soon they were running along the tunnel and exploding into the chamber where the Moonstone stood. The crystal reflected the scarlet moon tonight, giving off a reddish gleam that shone in the cats’ eyes.
Swiftfoot nodded to the Moonstone. “You know what to do,” he told his companions. “We have to ask StarClan if there is a way to stop the fighting.”
Mossheart lay down and pressed her muzzle against the base of the stone. It was ice-cold and she winced, but gradually it grew warm and she felt it begin to throb gently, as if she were curled against the belly of her mother. She was safe here, safe and loved. No blood would ever be shed in the Moonstone chamber....
“ShadowClan! Attack!” Mossheart jumped as Silvermask yowled right next to her ear. She looked around and realized she was back in the clearing by the Thunderpath, surrounded by a ShadowClan patrol rushing to hurl themselves on WindClan cats running toward them. She was watching yesterday’s battle from the very start.
“You can’t stop them, you know.”
Mossheart looked down. A small brown tom stood beside her, his brown coat flecked with ginger. “Spottedpaw! You’re not fighting!”
The apprentice looked up at her. “How can I? I’m dead, remember?”
“But this is yesterday!” Mossheart protested.
“No it’s not. It’s every day,” Spottedpaw mewed. “This battle, and battles like it, will happen over and over, for all the moons to come, and there’s nothing you can do to change that. We fight to protect our territories, our kits, our reputation among the other Clans. It’s what warriors do.”
“But you died because of it!”
Spottedpaw looked sad. “Yes. I wish I hadn’t. I wanted to be the best warrior ShadowClan had ever seen.”
Mossheart touched her muzzle to his fluffy ear. “I’m sorry, little one,” she
murmured.
Spottedpaw was beginning to fade. “You can’t stop the fighting,” he repeated. “But maybe you can stop the dying. That WindClan warrior didn’t need to kill me. I knew I was beaten. If he’d let go of me, I’d have run away. He didn’t have to keep biting me, harder and harder....”
His blue eyes glowed for a moment after his body vanished, then they went out like setting suns. Mossheart closed her eyes as grief swept over her. What a bitter, bitter waste.
When she opened her eyes, she was back in the chamber, lying by the Moonstone. Her body was cold and cramped, so she stood up and stretched each leg in turn, arching her back and kinking her tail right over her ears.
“Well?” prompted Swiftfoot, who was sitting in the shadows with the other medicine cats. With a shock, Mossheart realized she was the last to wake up.
“I … I dreamed of Spottedpaw, the ShadowClan apprentice who died yesterday,” she began. She stopped when she saw the other cats nodding to one another.
“We all dreamed of fallen Clanmates,” meowed Quailfeather. “Each one said the same: that we could never stop battles from happening, but that they knew they had lost their fight before they were killed. They didn’t have to die for the other cat to win.”
“Victory without death,” murmured Prickleface. “Do you think the Clans would accept it?”
“They have to,” meowed Swiftfoot. “StarClan has told us all the same thing: that a warrior does not have to kill to be victorious.”
“What if he is fighting for his life?” put in Kinktail, looking worried. “Against a fox or a rogue?”
Swiftfoot nodded. “There will be exceptions,” Swiftfoot determined, “because some battles can only end in death. But for Clans fighting Clans, killing is not the answer.”
“When should we tell our leaders about this?” Mossheart asked.
“Why don’t we wait until the next Gathering?” Quailfeather suggested. “It’s only a quarter-moon away. We can tell them about our dreams and suggest a new law for the warrior code. The leaders can’t disagree with all five of us.”
“That’s right,” Swiftfoot meowed. “And from now on, I think we should meet every half-moon to share tongues with StarClan together. None of us wants to see our Clanmates die, and all of us would be happy never to treat a battle wound again. Perhaps boundaries don’t exist for medicine cats the way they do for our Clanmates. We should work together whenever we can, to preserve the peace and health of all the Clans.”
He led them back into the tunnel that led to the ridge and fresh air and starlight. When they emerged, the moon had cleared and shone as white as ever. The cats began to head down the slope, their paws whispering over the short grass. Mossheart was convinced she could hear another set of paws close by, even though she wasn’t near any of the other cats. Then she caught a trace of scent and knew who was running beside her.
Thank you, Spottedpaw whispered. Your law will save the lives of many, many cats. StarClan will honor all of you forever.
CODE FIFTEEN
A WARRIOR REJECTS THE SOFT LIFE OF A KITTYPET.
The life of the Clans is as far from the life of a kittypet as you could imagine. We hunt for our food, choose our own boundaries and fight to defend them, and raise our kits to follow traditions laid down by cats long since faded from our memories. Many Clan cats would say this makes us better than you; I would not necessarily claim that. There are good and bad cats everywhere—and good and bad within every cat. If every Clan cat was pure of heart and unfailingly loyal, we wouldn’t need the warrior code at all.
Pinestar’s Secret
“Hey, Lionpaw! Have you seen Pinestar?”
Lionpaw looked up from grooming his pelt. “I thought Pinestar went out with a hunting patrol,” he told his mentor.
Sunfall narrowed his eyes. “I thought so, too, but the hunting patrol’s just come back and Pinestar’s not with them.”
Lionpaw gave up on his tufty fur and padded over to the bright orange warrior. “Would you like me to look for him?” he offered.
Sunfall shook his head. “I want you to come with me on a patrol to check the border along the river,” he explained. “The dawn patrol picked up some RiverClan scents as far in as the trees.”
Lionpaw felt the hair along his spine bristle. Those mangy RiverClan cats! Why couldn’t they stick to their own territory?
But when they went on patrol they found only the faintest hint of RiverClan scent under the trees, which could have been blown there by the wind, so they left their neighbors alone. When they returned to the camp, Pinestar was back. He greeted his deputy as soon as the patrol pushed its way through the gorse tunnel.
“Sunfall, is all quiet on the borders?”
“Yes,” Sunfall replied. “Did the prey run well for you?”
Pinestar nodded. “StarClan was good to me.”
Lionpaw was surprised. Pinestar didn’t smell of fresh-kill, just flowers and crushed grass. Sunfall had told him he’d done well on the patrol today; Lionpaw hoped Pinestar would invite him on a patrol soon so he could show the leader how much he had learned. But Pinestar rarely went out with other cats; he preferred to patrol alone, he said, so he could hear and scent more clearly. Lionpaw was very frustrated. How would Pinestar know the best warrior name for him if he never saw him hunt or fight? He would only be an apprentice for two more moons, so there wasn’t much time.
Lionpaw woke early the following morning, before any of his denmates. Outside the den, the air was clear and cold, with a hint of mustiness that suggested leaf-fall was on its way. The clearing was empty but the gorse tunnel was quivering as if a cat had just gone through. Lionpaw pushed his way in, wondering if whoever it was would like some company.
A reddish brown shape was just reaching the top of the ravine. Pinestar! Perhaps this was Lionpaw’s chance to show off some of his skills. He bounded up the rocks behind him, intending to call out when he reached the top, but by the time he got there, Pinestar had vanished. Lionpaw looked around. A fern was bobbing more strongly than the breeze was blowing, and the ThunderClan leader’s scent drifted just above the dewy grass. Lionpaw put his nose down and followed the trail. He decided to see how far he could track Pinestar without being spotted. That would be a great way to show how good he was at stalking!
Staying far enough back to be out of sight and treading as softly as he could, Lionpaw followed Pinestar across the territory, past the treecutplace, and into the thinner trees. It was harder to track through the pine trees without being seen; Lionpaw had to rush between fallen branches and sparse clumps of bracken, hoping Pinestar didn’t look back. He was so busy concentrating on not stepping on any crackly twigs that he didn’t realize where he was until he looked over the bracken and saw Twoleg fences in front of him. They were right at the edge of the forest! But where was Pinestar? Lionpaw stretched his neck out from his hiding place and sniffed. The trail was still there—and it led straight out of the forest.
Had Pinestar chased a kittypet out of ThunderClan’s territory? Lionpaw was sure he would have heard something like that. He crept through the long grass that grew under the outermost trees and sniffed the bottom of a wooden Twoleg fence. Pinestar had definitely climbed up here—there were scratchmarks on the wood. It looked as if this was a regular climbing place.
Lionpaw clawed his way up the wooden fence and looked down into the little square of Twoleg territory. Short green grass was edged with strong-smelling flowers, and a strange, leafless tree stood in the center holding bright-colored Twoleg pelts. Just past the leafless tree, the grass turned into flat white stone, where two spindly wooden objects stood on skinny legs. They each had a flat ledge at the top of the legs, and on one of the ledges a red-brown shape was curled, with a tail hanging over the edge. Lionpaw nearly fell off the fence.
What was Pinestar doing in the Twoleg territory?
Lionpaw was about to jump down and call to him when a flap in the Twoleg nest swung open and a Twoleg appeared. Lionpaw ducked be
hind some flowers, trying not to sneeze as the pollen tickled his nose. The Twoleg made some noises, and to Lionpaw’s astonishment, Pinestar replied.
“Oh, thank you, I love it when you rub my ears! Could you do my back as well? That’s perfect!”
Lionpaw peered around a leaf. The Twoleg was bent over the spindly object, stroking Pinestar’s fur with one pink, hairless paw. If Pinestar hadn’t been purring, Lionpaw would have thought he was being attacked. But he was enjoying it.
Pinestar rolled onto his back so that his hind legs dangled over the edge of the ledge. His head tipped back and Lionpaw caught a glimpse of his eyes, closed in delight. Suddenly afraid of being seen, Lionpaw scrambled back over the fence and dived into the long grass. He wanted to run all the way back to the camp and forget what he had seen, but he knew he couldn’t do that. He had to ask Pinestar what he was doing.
“Lionpaw! What are you doing here?”
Pinestar was standing on top of the fence, looking down at him.
“I … er …” Lionpaw stammered.
Pinestar sprang down and looked closely at him. “Did you follow me?”
“Yes,” Lionpaw admitted. “I wanted to show you my stalking skills.”
“Well, I didn’t notice you, so they must be good! Now, I expect you’re wondering what I was doing with that Twoleg.”
Lionpaw nodded. Every hair on his pelt seemed to be on fire.
Pinestar began walking back into the trees, and Lionpaw trotted to catch up. “The kittypet that lives there has been causing trouble for the last moon,” Pinestar explained. “Straying into the forest, scaring our prey—not that he catches any, of course. But I decided to see how he liked it when I went onto his territory—and I wanted to give him a warning to stay away for good.”
Lionpaw felt a little knot inside his belly relax. He had guessed this was the reason Pinestar had gone over the fence!