by Erin Hunter
Fireheart stretched over to her and rubbed his face comfortingly against hers. “Bluestar will know.”
“Maybe.” Cinderpaw shrugged. “Ever since I was a tiny kit, I wanted to be just like Bluestar. She’s so noble, and she’s given her whole life to the Clan. But Fireheart, what can I give now?”
“I don’t know,” Fireheart admitted.
The life of a cat could be followed clearly through the Clan, from kit to apprentice to warrior, sometimes to queen, and then retired to an honorable old age among the elders. Fireheart had no idea what happened to a cat who was injured too badly for the warrior life, for the long patrols, the hunting and fighting that were required of a warrior. Even the queens who cared for the kits in the nursery had all been warriors once, with skills that enabled them to feed and defend their little ones.
Cinderpaw was brave and intelligent, and before her accident she had shown endless energy and commitment to the Clan. Surely that couldn’t all be thrown away? This is Tigerclaw’s fault, Fireheart thought darkly. He laid the trail that led to her accident. “You should go to Bluestar,” he suggested out loud. “Ask her what she thinks.”
“Perhaps I will.” Cinderpaw shrugged.
“Cinderpaw!” A shrill meow from Cloudkit interrupted them. “Come and see what I’ve found!”
“Coming, Cloudkit!” Cinderpaw limped away, mewing good-humoredly to Fireheart as she went, “Maybe it’s deadly nightshade this time.”
Fireheart watched her go. He hoped that Bluestar would be able to find a way to give Cinderpaw a worthwhile life within the Clan. Cinderpaw was right: Bluestar was a great leader, and not just in battle. She truly cared for all her cats.
Knowing that, Fireheart felt even more confused when he remembered her reaction to Graypool’s news. Why had Bluestar acted so strangely when he told her that two RiverClan warriors had been ThunderClan kits? The story had outraged her so much that she was closing her eyes to the danger from Tigerclaw.
Fireheart shook his head as he padded slowly after Cinderpaw. There was a deeply buried mystery surrounding those cats, and he was beginning to feel that it might be beyond his power to ever understand it.
CHAPTER 8
Fireheart crouched in the nursery, watching a litter of kits suckling their mother. For a moment he was filled with excitement to see the tiny creatures who were the future of the Clan.
Then something stirred in his mind. ThunderClan had no kits as young as these. Where had they come from? He let his gaze travel from the kits to their mother, and saw nothing but a rippling pelt of silver-gray. The queen had no face.
Fireheart choked back a cry of horror. As he stared, the silvery shape of the queen began to fade, leaving nothing but darkness. The kits squirmed and let out squeals of terror and loss. A bitterly cold wind rose and swept away the warm scents of the nursery. Fireheart leaped to his paws and tried to follow the sound of the helpless kits, lost in the windblown darkness. “I can’t find you!” he wailed. “Where are you?”
Then a light appeared, soft and golden. Fireheart could see another cat sitting in front of him with the tiny kits sheltered between her paws. It was Spottedleaf.
Fireheart opened his mouth to speak to her. She gave him a look of infinite kindness before the image vanished, and Fireheart found himself scrabbling among the mossy bedding in the warriors’ den.
“Do you have to make so much racket?” Dustpelt was grumbling. “No cat can get a wink of sleep.”
Fireheart sat up. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He couldn’t help glancing toward the center of the den, where Tigerclaw slept. The deputy had complained before about the noise Fireheart made when he was dreaming.
To his relief, Tigerclaw wasn’t there. Fireheart could see from the light that filtered through the branches that the sun was already above the trees. He gave himself a quick wash, trying to hide from Dustpelt how much the dream had shaken him. Frightened, lonely kits…kits whose mother faded away. Was it a prophecy? And if so, what could it mean? There were no kits that young in the Clan now. Or was it about the former ThunderClan kits—Mistyfoot and Stonefur? Had their real mother disappeared somehow?
While he was washing, Dustpelt gave him a final glare and pushed his way out through the branches, leaving Fireheart alone except for Longtail and Runningwind, sleeping in their usual places.
There was no sign of Graystripe, Fireheart noticed, and his bedding was cold, as if he had been out since dawn. Gone to meet Silverstream, he guessed. He tried to understand his friend’s strength of feeling, but he couldn’t help worrying, and longing for the old uncomplicated days when they were apprentices together. Fireheart poked his head out of the branches to see the snow-covered camp glittering under the cold winter sun. No sign of a thaw yet.
Beside the nettle patch, Sandstorm was crouching over a piece of fresh-kill. “Good morning, Fireheart,” she greeted him cheerfully. “If you want to eat, you’d better do it quickly, while there’s still some prey left.”
Fireheart realized that his belly was aching with hunger. It felt as if he hadn’t eaten for a moon. He bounded over to the pile of fresh-kill and saw that Sandstorm was right. Only a few pieces remained. He chose a starling and took it back to the nettle patch to eat with Sandstorm. “We’ll have to hunt today,” he meowed between mouthfuls.
“Whitestorm and Mousefur have already gone out with their new apprentices,” Sandstorm told him. “Brightpaw and Thornpaw couldn’t wait!”
Fireheart wondered if Graystripe had taken his apprentice out, too, but a moment later Brackenpaw emerged alone from the apprentices’ den. The light brown tabby looked around before trotting over to Fireheart.
“Have you seen Graystripe?” he called.
“Sorry.” Fireheart shrugged. “He was gone when I woke up.”
“He’s never here,” Brackenpaw mewed sadly. “If this goes on, Swiftpaw will be a warrior before me—Brightpaw and Thornpaw too.”
“Rubbish,” Fireheart meowed. He suddenly felt angry with Graystripe and his obsession with the RiverClan she-cat. No warrior had the right to neglect his apprentice like this. “You’re doing fine, Brackenpaw. You can come out hunting with me, if you like.”
“Thanks,” purred Brackenpaw, beginning to look happier.
“I’ll come too,” offered Sandstorm, gulping down the last of her meal and running her tongue around her jaws. She took the lead as the three cats made their way along the gorse tunnel.
“Now, Brackenpaw,” Fireheart meowed when they had reached the edge of the training hollow. “Where’s a good place to look for prey?”
“Under the trees,” replied Brackenpaw, pointing with a flick of his tail. “That’s where mice and squirrels come for nuts and seeds.”
“Good,” meowed Fireheart. “Let’s see if you’re right.”
They headed farther around the hollow; on the way they passed Brindleface, watching fondly as her kits scrambled about in the snow. “They needed to stretch their legs,” she explained. “All this snow has made them restless.”
Cloudkit was sitting under the yew bush with a couple of his littermates, explaining importantly that those were deathberries, and they must never, never eat them. Feeling amused by the young kit’s seriousness, Fireheart meowed a greeting as he went by.
Beneath the trees at the top of the hollow the snow was not so thick, and streaks of brown earth showed amid the white. As the three cats crept forward, Fireheart heard the scuttering of tiny paws, and scented mouse. Automatically he dropped into a hunting crouch and slid forward, barely putting any weight on his paws so as not to alarm his prey. The mouse remained unaware of the danger, its back to him as it nibbled on a fallen seed. When Fireheart was a tail-length away, he sprang, and turned back triumphantly to his friends with the prey in his jaws.
“Good catch,” called Sandstorm.
Fireheart scraped earth over his kill so he could collect it later. “The next one’s yours, Brackenpaw,” he meowed.
Brackenpaw raised his head pr
oudly and began to stalk forward, his eyes darting from side to side. Fireheart spotted a blackbird pecking among the berries at the foot of a holly bush, but this time he held back.
The apprentice noticed the bird almost as soon as Fireheart did. Stealthily, paw by paw, he crept up on it. His haunches rocked from side to side as he readied himself to pounce. Watching, Fireheart thought he held back a heartbeat too long. The blackbird sensed him and fluttered upward, but Brackenpaw hurled himself after it with a mighty leap and batted it out of the air.
Keeping one paw on his prey, he turned to look at Fireheart. “I got the timing wrong,” he admitted. “I waited too long, didn’t I?”
“Maybe,” Fireheart replied. “But don’t look so upset. You caught it, and that’s what counts.”
“When you get back, you can take it to the elders,” meowed Sandstorm.
Brackenpaw brightened up at that. “Yes, I—” he began. He was interrupted by a shrill, terrified wailing that came from the direction of the hollow.
Fireheart spun around. “That sounds like a kit!”
With Sandstorm and Brackenpaw at his side, he raced toward the sound. Bursting out of the trees, he launched himself toward the crest of the hollow and looked down.
“Great StarClan!” Sandstorm gasped.
Just below the three cats loomed a bulky black-and-white animal; Fireheart picked up the rank scent of a badger. He had never seen one out in the open before, although he had often heard them shuffling noisily in the bushes. With one massive, hook-clawed paw, it was reaching into a gap between two rocks, where Cloudkit was cowering.
“Fireheart!” he wailed. “Help me!”
Fireheart felt as if every hair on his body was bristling. He launched himself down into the hollow, his front paws outstretched for the attack. He was dimly aware of Sandstorm and Brackenpaw at his heels. Fireheart raked his claws down the badger’s side, and the huge beast rounded on him with a roar, jaws snapping. It was fast; it might even have caught Fireheart if Brackenpaw hadn’t leaped from the side, clawing for its eyes.
The badger whipped its head around to where Sandstorm had sunk her teeth into one of its back legs. Kicking out strongly, it threw her off, and she rolled into the snow.
Fireheart dashed in again to claw the badger’s flank. Drops of scarlet blood fell onto the snow. The badger growled, but it was backing away now, and as Sandstorm got to her paws and advanced, spitting, it turned and lumbered off up the ravine.
Fireheart spun around to Cloudkit. “Are you hurt?”
Cloudkit crept out from the cleft in the rock, trembling uncontrollably. “N-No.”
Fireheart felt shaky with relief. “What happened? Where’s Brindleface?”
“I don’t know. We were all playing, and then I turned around and I couldn’t see any of the others. I thought I’d come and find you, and then there was the badger….” He let out a terrified mew, and crouched down with his head on his paws.
Fireheart was stretching his neck to give him a comforting lick when he heard Sandstorm say, “Fireheart, look.”
Fireheart turned. Brackenpaw was lying on his side, blood seeping from his hind leg into the snow.
“It’s nothing,” he grunted, bravely trying to get to his paws.
“Stay still while we look,” Sandstorm ordered.
Fireheart rushed over and examined the wound. To his relief, the slash on Brackenpaw’s leg was long but not deep, and the bleeding had nearly stopped. “You were lucky, thank StarClan,” he meowed. “And you saved me from a nasty bite. It was a brave thing to do, Brackenpaw.”
The apprentice’s eyes shone at Fireheart’s praise. “It wasn’t really brave,” he mewed shakily. “I didn’t have time to think.”
“A warrior couldn’t have done better,” meowed Sandstorm. “But what’s a badger doing out in daylight? They always hunt by night.”
“It must be hungry, like us,” Fireheart guessed. “Otherwise it wouldn’t attack something as big as Cloudkit.” He turned back to the kit and nudged him gently to his paws. “Come on; let’s get you back to camp.”
Sandstorm helped Brackenpaw to get up and padded beside him as he limped to the top of the hollow and toward the ravine. Fireheart followed with Cloudkit, who kept very close to him.
As they reached the ravine, Brindleface burst out of it, frantically calling Cloudkit’s name. Other cats came hurrying behind her, drawn out of the camp by her panic-stricken wailing. Fireheart spotted Runningwind and Dustpelt; then his heart sank as Tigerclaw followed them out of the tunnel.
Brindleface sprang at Cloudkit and covered him with anxious licks. “Where have you been?” she scolded. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere! You shouldn’t run away like that.”
“I didn’t!” Cloudkit protested.
“What’s going on?” Tigerclaw shouldered his way to the front of the group of cats.
Fireheart explained, while Brindleface continued to smooth down Cloudkit’s ruffled fur. “We drove the badger off,” he told the deputy. “Brackenpaw was very brave.”
All the while he was speaking, Tigerclaw stared at him with fierce amber eyes, but Fireheart held his head high; this time he had no reason to feel guilty.
“You’d better go to Yellowfang and have that leg seen to,” the deputy grunted to Brackenpaw. “As for you…” He swung around and loomed threateningly over Cloudkit. “What were you doing, putting yourself in danger like that? Do you think that warriors have nothing better to do than rescue you?”
Cloudkit flattened his ears. “I’m sorry, Tigerclaw. I didn’t mean to get into danger.”
“Didn’t mean to! Has no cat taught you any better than to go wandering away like that?”
“He’s only a kit,” Brindleface protested mildly, turning her gentle green gaze on the deputy.
Tigerclaw drew his lips back in a snarl. “He’s caused more trouble already than all the rest of the kits put together,” he growled. “It’s time he learned a lesson. He can do some real work for a change.”
Fireheart opened his mouth to object. For once Cloudkit hadn’t meant to cause trouble; his bad fright had been punishment enough for straying away from Brindleface.
But Tigerclaw was still talking. “You can go and look after the elders,” he ordered. “Clear out their dirty bedding and fetch clean moss. Make sure they have enough fresh-kill, and go over their coats for ticks.”
“Ticks!” exclaimed Cloudkit, losing the last of his fear in outrage. “I’m not doing that! Why can’t they see to their own ticks?”
“Because they’re elders,” Tigerclaw hissed. “You need to start understanding a lot more about the ways of the Clan, if you ever want to be an apprentice.” He glared at Cloudkit. “Go on. And keep at it until I tell you to stop.”
Cloudkit looked mutinous for a moment longer, but not even he would defy Tigerclaw twice. He met the deputy’s glare with hot blue eyes, and then ran off toward the tunnel. Brindleface let out a mew of distress and followed him.
“I always said bringing kittypets into the Clan was a bad idea,” Tigerclaw growled to Dustpelt. He glared at Fireheart as he spoke, as if he was daring the young warrior to protest.
Fireheart looked away. “Come on, Brackenpaw,” he mewed, swallowing his anger. There was no point getting into a fight. “Let’s get you to Yellowfang.”
“I’ll go back and see if I can find our prey,” offered Sandstorm. “We don’t want that badger to get it!” She started to scramble back up the ravine. Fireheart meowed his thanks after her and set off for the camp with Brackenpaw. The apprentice was limping quite badly, and looked tired.
As they approached the gorse tunnel, Fireheart was surprised to see Brokentail stumbling out with Yellowfang at his side. Two guards, Darkstripe and Longtail, followed closely.
“We must be mad, taking him out like this,” Longtail grumbled. “What if he runs off?”
“Runs off?” rasped Yellowfang. “And I suppose you think hedgehogs can fly? He’s not running anywhere,
you stupid furball.” Carefully she cleared the snow from a smooth rock and guided Brokentail to it. He settled down with his blind face raised to the sun and sniffed the air.
“It’s a fine day,” Yellowfang murmured, curling her scrawny gray body close to his. Fireheart had never heard her sound so gentle. “Soon the snow will melt, and new-leaf will be here. Prey will be good and fat. You’ll feel better then.”
Listening, Fireheart recalled what no other cat knew—that Yellowfang was Brokentail’s mother. Even Brokentail himself didn’t know, and now he gave no sign that he had heard Yellowfang’s kind words. Fireheart winced at the pain in the medicine cat’s eyes. She had been forced to give Brokentail up when he was born because medicine cats were forbidden to have kits. And later she had blinded him to save her adopted Clan from the rogue cats’ attack.
But she still loved him, although she meant no more to him than any other cat in ThunderClan. Fireheart could almost have yowled in sympathy with her.
“I’ll have to tell Tigerclaw about this,” Darkstripe meowed fussily, pacing at the foot of the rock where the cats sat. “He didn’t give any orders to let the prisoner leave the camp.”
Stalking up to him, Fireheart pushed his muzzle into Darkstripe’s face. “Bluestar was Clan leader last time I looked,” he spat. “And who do you think she’s going to listen to—you or the medicine cat?”
Darkstripe reared up on his back legs, his lips drawn back to show his fangs. Behind him, Fireheart heard Brackenpaw hiss in alarm. He tensed, ready for the older warrior to strike, but before a fight could break out Yellowfang interrupted them with a furious growl.
“Stop this nonsense! What’s happened to Brackenpaw?” Her flattened face appeared over the edge of the rock, creased with worry.
“He was clawed by a badger,” Fireheart told her, with a last glare at Darkstripe.
The old medicine cat jumped down stiffly and inspected Brackenpaw’s leg, sniffing all along the wound. “You’ll live,” she grunted. “Go to my den. Cinderpaw’s there, and she’ll give you some herbs to press on that.”