Code of Honor

by Erin Hunter

  As they crossed a ridge and came in sight of Titanpride, Fearless felt as if something heavy clung to his haunches, its claws digging in and dragging him back. At least, he noticed, Titan, Resolute, and the young lions were absent. No doubt they were up to something awful, but Fearless wouldn’t have to face Titan just yet.

  The lionesses were awake, grooming, stretching their muscles, preparing for their early morning hunt. Agile and Sly were gulping down scraps from a kudu; Daring sprawled nearby, yawning, her eyes still half closed. Honor was on her hind legs, sharpening her claws on an acacia. Ruthless was trailing after Regal, pouncing at her tail while she flicked it to amuse him. Artful, seated on the highest point of the rise, watched them closely, her eyes narrowed.

  Valor headed toward Honor and sank down beside her friend, closing her eyes.

  Honor sheathed her claws and thumped down onto all fours. “What’s going on, Valor?”

  Fearless lay by his sister, resting his muzzle on his paws. “She’s tired,” he said. “Our mother . . .” The words caught in his throat.

  “Oh, Fearless. I’m sorry.” Honor licked Valor’s head gently.

  Artful approached, her tail switching with irritation. “What are you three up to? Get hunting!” She glared at Fearless and Valor. “I noticed you both disappearing yesterday. When I tell Titan, he’ll find out what you’ve been up to. Where’s that wretched mother of yours?”

  Honor and Fearless scrambled to their feet, but Valor stayed where she was, eyes tightly closed. “What’s the matter with her?” Artful said impatiently, raising a paw to cuff her.

  “She’s not hunting today,” Fearless snapped, his rage flaring. “Our mother is dead, and Valor needs to rest. So leave her in peace!”

  Valor opened her eyes in alarm, but Artful only flicked her ears dismissively. “So, we’re rid of Swift at last?” she drawled. “At least the pride’s free of that burden.”

  Fearless felt his hackles spring up. His claws protracted. “A burden?” he snarled. “You blinded her! Can’t you leave her alone now? You were jealous of Swift, because you’re not half the hunter she was. And you’re not half the mother to Ruthless that she was to us!”

  Honor and the other lionesses gaped at him. Valor sat upright, her tail-tip flicking nervously. “Fearless, be quiet,” she growled.

  Artful tensed, her shoulder muscles bunching. “Be careful, Fearless,” she hissed. “Your life hangs upon the word of my son.”

  Valor crouched submissively. “He doesn’t mean it, Artful. He’s upset.” She glared a warning at Fearless. “I can’t hunt today. But Fearless—you’ll hunt for me, right? Artful, he’ll bring back twice as much prey. To make up for my weakness.”

  Fearless’s blood buzzed with the longing to spring at Artful, to tear her eyes with his claws. No matter what happened afterward, it would be so satisfying to take that smirk from her.

  But Valor’s stare was pleading.

  “Of course,” he muttered, sheathing his claws. “I’ll hunt now.”

  “You’d better,” Artful sneered. “And Titan will hear about this too, Gallantbrat. Don’t think you’ll get away with anything.”

  As the plump lioness stalked away, Valor gave a murmuring growl. “Idiot brother. Just for once, can you try not to annoy her?” She laid her head back down on her paws. “I couldn’t bear to lose you too.”

  “I’m sorry.” Fearless licked the top of her head.

  He was sorry, if only for making trouble for her. But his blood still coursed with rage, and he couldn’t stay here. With a lash of his tail he strode out of the camp, feeling the stares of the lionesses burning into his hide.

  I don’t take orders from Artful.

  And I need to talk to Loyal.

  His fury distracted him from the broiling heat as the sun rose higher and the kopje came into sight, quivering in the haze. Loyal was near the rocks, crouched over the body of a gazelle.

  “Fearless!” the big lion called with delight. Abandoning the carcass, Loyal padded toward him. But as he met Fearless’s eyes he hesitated, one paw raised. Then he dipped his great gold-streaked head.

  “She’s gone, hasn’t she?” Closing his eyes, he butted Fearless’s nose with his own. “I’m so sorry. I know how much you loved your mother.”

  Fearless flinched, yanking his head back. “Get off!”

  “What? I don’t—”

  “I told Mother about you.”

  Loyal froze. A wary look crept across his scarred face. “And what did she say?”

  “That you were an oath-breaker. One of the last things she said was to stay away from you.”

  Loyal said nothing. He turned to gaze off toward the southern horizon, his face hidden from Fearless.

  “You knew she would, didn’t you?” Fearless pressed him. “That’s why you didn’t want me to mention you.”

  Loyal didn’t turn. “Fearless, you don’t understand,” he muttered.

  “I need to know what you did. What oath did you break?”

  Loyal’s crooked tail twitched. “You’re not ready to hear about it,” he growled more aggressively. “Not yet.”

  “You wanted us to come and live with you. How could we do that if we can’t trust you?”

  Loyal turned at last and padded closer. “Listen to me,” he said in a tight voice. “You need to eat something. You’re exhausted. Eat, rest, and you’ll feel better.”

  Fearless’s pelt prickled. “Stop telling me what to do,” he spat. “I don’t take orders from an oath-breaker!”

  Loyal’s mane bristled huge, and his pupils narrowed to slits. Fearless took a pace back, suddenly aware of how colossal Loyal was. His shoulders were as broad as Titan’s, and each paw was as large as all four of Fearless’s put together. The ragged scar beneath his left eye gave him a look of wild, unpredictable ferocity.

  “Your mother was right,” snarled Loyal. “Yes! I am an oath-breaker. I went against my word, and I caused a lot of pain. But I will never regret it, not as long as I live. No matter what any lion thinks of me—even you.”

  Fearless stood his ground. “It was you who told me oaths are sacred!”

  A low, grunting growl came from Loyal’s throat. “One day, I’ll tell you what happened, and you’ll understand. But not yet.” He nodded toward the gazelle carcass. “Now, enough of this. Go and eat.”

  Fearless stared at him, breathing hard. “I will not share food with an oath-breaker.”

  Loyal blinked, dismayed. “Fearless—”

  But Fearless sprang into a bounding run, leaving Loyal standing alone by the kopje. He ran until his chest ached with the burning heat, until he could no longer feel the sting of pain in his heart.

  “I can’t go on like this,” he told Stinger.

  He had found the Crownleaf resting on a shelf of ocher rock, looking out to the grassland; it wasn’t far from the escarpment where the hyenas had lived until Titan ravaged them. Just the sight of his old friend and mentor had broken the tight constriction of Fearless’s throat. His story had come spilling out of him, like water overflowing the banks of a river. Stinger had always understood him best.

  Thoughtfully the baboon stroked the scar on his snout as Fearless paced back and forth. “Do you remember what I told you about Titan?” he asked.

  Fearless nodded. “That when the time comes, I can strike like a scorpion. That I should watch and wait. But I don’t think I can stand it anymore!” He raked the cracked earth with his claws, sending clouds of dust flying. “My father told me that one day I’d be able to fight anyone in Bravelands. But I won’t be full-grown for another year. I don’t even have a mane yet. Is Titan going to let me live another year? And if he does, what will things be like by then?”

  Stinger stretched out a paw to stroke the lion’s muzzle. “Poor Fearless,” he said softly. “Brightforest Troop and I will always be here for you. Baboon or not, you are one of us.”

  Fearless pressed his muzzle into Stinger’s paw. “I want to do something about Tita
n now,” he growled. “But I don’t know what.”

  Stinger sat up abruptly on his hind legs. His amber eyes gleamed. “But there is something you can do!” he said. “You can prepare for the right time. You’ll need to be powerful.”

  “I know,” Fearless broke in, but Stinger raised a finger to silence him.

  “Power doesn’t just come from strong muscles and sharp claws,” he said. “It comes from your allies, too. Titan knows this. It’s why he’s invited those young lions into the pride. What you need, Fearless, is a pride of your own.”

  “That’s easy to say,” rumbled Fearless. “Titan stole my pride.”

  “He stole your father’s pride,” Stinger corrected him. “What about those lions who escaped from Dauntlesspride? What if you asked them to join you?” He smiled, his yellow fangs flashing. “Fearlesspride sounds rather good, doesn’t it?”

  Fearless blinked in surprise. “No cub has ever led a pride.”

  Stinger shrugged. “Maybe not. But has any cub ever been found in an eagle’s nest and raised by baboons? Anything is possible, Cub of the Stars.”

  Fearless felt his heart lighten, as if Stinger had shouldered a great part of the burden he’d been carrying alone. Stinger always has a plan!

  And Fearlesspride did sound good. . . .

  “I’ll do it,” he blurted, stiffening his shoulders. “I saved Keen Dauntlesspride, didn’t I? I’ll find him, ask him to join me!”

  Stinger grinned. “Good,” he said briskly. He plucked a beetle from a crack in the rock and popped it into his mouth. “Now, my Cub of the Stars, I need to ask for your help.”

  “Anything,” Fearless said eagerly.

  Stinger’s expression grew serious. He leaned a paw on Fearless’s neck, as if weariness had overcome him. “I don’t need to ask this favor yet,” he murmured. “But the time may come soon.”

  “All you have to do is ask,” said Fearless firmly.

  “It will be difficult,” sighed Stinger. “And perhaps painful. I will be asking a lot of you, my Cub of the Stars. Can I count on your absolute loyalty?”

  Fearless pressed his head to his mentor’s, wishing he could rub the tired sadness from the baboon’s face. “You have always been there for me, Stinger. You’ve done more for me than I could ever have dreamed.”

  Bright hope overcame Stinger’s expression of misery. Fearless licked his jaw, so happy to have cheered his old friend.

  “I’ll do anything to help you, Stinger Crownleaf. Anything at all.”

  CHAPTER 27

  The yellow earth was dry and cracked from the relentless heat, and it was easy enough for Thorn to scrape it away, but his breath came in rapid pants and he glanced frequently over his shoulder. He must not be seen.

  As his paw-tips touched something thin and fragile, he paused. Digging away the loose earth around it, he drew out a parcel of wrapped leaves, then another. The stuff inside the leaves was still soft and squashy; Grass and Fly had protected their sweetpulp well.

  With one more nervous glance around, he peeled aside the leaves and scraped out a pawful of pulp. Beside him was a heap of crushed roots and nuts that he’d brought from the food pile; he mixed the sweetpulp into it, agonizing about the quantity. Not so much that they’ll notice. But enough to have an effect.

  Something rustled behind him, and his heart skipped. It was time to go. Brushing earth back over the hoard and gathering up the sweetpulp-laden food, he hurried back to the den. He made an effort to look nonchalant as he added the roots and nuts to the Strongbranches’ rations.

  “Thieving from the supplies, are we?” Worm was right behind him, and Thorn almost jumped out of his pelt.

  He took a steadying breath, then rose and turned to Worm with a grin. “I don’t see why not. We’re Strongbranches, right?” He turned to the Deeproots’ rations, grabbed up a wizened spiky melon, and bit into it.

  Worm looked taken aback, but then she gave a hoot of amusement. “That’s the spirit, Thorn.” She crouched and stole a handful of marula nuts for herself. “The Deeproots are so scrawny and lazy, they don’t need all this anyway.”

  “That’s right.” Thorn stretched his features into a grin. “It’s not exactly the tastiest stuff, though.” He threw back the half-eaten melon and sat down by the Strongbranch pile, just as the others trooped into the cave. “Let them eat that rubbish. There’s a fat lizard on our pile.”

  As the Strongbranches settled down to eat, Thorn eyed them nervously. He made a slow meal of the lizard he’d snatched, avoiding all the roots and nuts; he didn’t want to choose the tainted ones.

  “Phew, these roots taste strong,” remarked Fang, wrinkling his muzzle.

  Thorn’s heart skipped. “Probably the heat.”

  Fly grunted. “I wish the weather would break. Though it was really funny when one of the Deeproots fainted yesterday.” He chomped on a jawful of nuts. “And actually, they taste good like this.”

  “I was just thinking that.” Fang grinned and grabbed another root. “Hey, I ever tell you ’bout the time I killed a python?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” slurred Grass.

  “’S true! It was the biggest one I ever saw. . . .”

  The conversation was already growing ridiculous, and before long the Strongbranches were rambling complete nonsense. Fly kept giggling, his lips peeled back from his broken teeth. After a while, Grass slumped against the wall and began to snore, letting nuts tumble from his paw.

  Thorn waited, heart in his throat, until he was sure all four of them were dazed with sweetpulp and at least half asleep. When he rose and backed away, Worm mumbled an unintelligible question, Fly giggled again, and the others didn’t move at all.

  Hardly daring to breathe, Thorn crept from the den.

  Bounding over the ridge that led to the watering hole, Thorn halted in surprise. The hillside and the banks were thronged with animals, as densely packed as they had been on the day Stronghide was declared Great Father. But the mood seemed very different. Zebras, gazelles, wildebeests, and kudus tossed their heads and snorted. Close to the water, hippos pawed the ground, jaws wide. At the front of the crowd, a huddle of elephants blocked Thorn’s view, their ears spread in aggression.

  Everyone’s angry, he thought. Unease tugged at him.

  A cheetah passed Thorn—the same one he’d seen at the Great Gathering, old, with just one eye. Thorn tailed him as he padded through the mass of hot, sweating bodies down toward the water. A wildebeest shunted her haunches into Thorn, sending him sprawling, but she didn’t even notice what she’d done. “I can’t believe it,” she cried to her herd-mate. “No wonder the Great Spirit has been punishing us.”

  Thorn’s heartbeat quickened. Do they know already?

  The cheetah’s black-tipped tail still twitched ahead of him; he trailed it down the hill, brushing past a group of gazelles and giving the hippos a wide berth. Furious brays and growls rang out all around him. He stumbled out between two grumbling warthogs and saw the water sparkling in front of him.

  The elephants had Stronghide surrounded. Their tusks were lowered menacingly at the rhino, their trunks curled for butting. Stronghide faced them bullishly, his horn low.

  “Murderer!” the matriarch Rain trumpeted. She reared back, then slammed her forefeet down, making the earth tremble. The nearest animals flinched, but the rest of the crowd took up her cry.

  “Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!” The chant was bellowed and snarled along the length and breadth of the shore.

  Stronghide was panting now, tossing his horn from side to side, as if he were looking for an escape route. He reminded Thorn of the scorpions trapped by Stinger.

  Rain strode forward, vast and menacing. “You killed Great Mother!” She lunged at the rhino, but he twisted away with an agility born of desperation.

  “Listen to me!” he bellowed. “Please! There are things you don’t know!”

  “Can you explain the rhino horn found in Great Mother’s wounds?” It was the cheetah, prowling along
the shore. His hackles were raised, his spotted tail switching. “Stinger Crownleaf told us all about it. He advised us to have mercy, but I don’t think so.”

  “There’s nothing you can say, Stronghide.” Rain advanced on him. “You’re a murderer, and you’re no Great Father. If it weren’t against the Code, I’d kill you myself.”

  The crowd surged toward Stronghide, growling and whinnying in agreement. The big rhino lurched backward, an expression of horrified fright on his face.

  Thorn stared, his stomach clenching. This was what he had wanted, wasn’t it?

  So why doesn’t it feel right?

  “Please,” Stronghide begged, “you have to listen—”

  “Exile is better than he deserves,” a hippo bellowed.

  “Get out of Bravelands and don’t come back!” came the hoarse cry of a wildebeest.

  The elephants thundered forward, and the crowd charged behind them. The ground trembled with the impact of hundreds of hooves, feet, and paws. Stronghide bolted along the shore, wheezing and gasping; Thorn had to splash into the shallows to avoid being trampled, but he saw the rhino’s rolling eyes, his contorted snout. The herds pursued him the long length of the watering hole, harrying and snapping and kicking, until at last Stronghide struggled, exhausted, over the crest of a low hill and vanished. The mob of animals trotted and slowed, screeching and roaring in triumph.

  Thorn waded back to the empty shore. Despite the heat, he felt bitterly cold. Listen, Stronghide had begged the animals. There are things you don’t know. . . .

  Had those things been about Stinger? Thorn could suddenly imagine Bravelands covered in a gigantic spiderweb, with Stinger crouched at the center, drawing in his victims with a twitch of a silky thread. But there was only one way for Thorn to find out what the rhino knew about that web.

  I have to go after Stronghide.

  Thorn could just make out Stronghide’s big, three-toed footprints in the parched dust, but where the rhino had fled across rockier ground, he had to rely on broken twigs and smashed leaves. There were plenty of those to guide him. Stronghide had trampled shrubs and even saplings in his panicked escape.