A Dangerous Path Page 18

  “Oh, no,” whispered Sandstorm, as she drew herself up to crouch on the trunk beside Fireheart.

  “Brightpaw!” yowled Cloudtail. Without waiting for Fireheart’s order he launched himself across the clearing toward her.

  Fireheart tensed, waiting for whatever had hunted down these apprentices to emerge from the trees and attack, but nothing stirred. Feeling as if his legs hardly belonged to him, he sprang down and stumbled across to Swiftpaw.

  The apprentice lay on his side, his legs splayed out. His black-and-white fur was torn, and his body was covered with dreadful wounds, ripped by teeth far bigger than any cat’s. His jaws still snarled and his eyes glared. He was dead, and Fireheart could see that he had died fighting.

  “Great StarClan, what did this to him?” he whispered. For moons he had been afraid, and now it was far worse than he ever could have imagined. Swiftpaw had been slaughtered like prey. The hunters in the forest had become the hunted. Something had happened in the forest, the balance of life had changed, and for a moment Fireheart felt the ground beneath his paws shift.

  Graystripe and Sandstorm stared down at Swiftpaw’s body, too stunned to reply. Fireheart knew that Graystripe was remembering another bloodstained body, all his grief for Silverstream reawakening.

  “What a waste,” Fireheart murmured sadly. “If only Bluestar had made him a warrior. If only I’d let him fight, instead of sending him—”

  He was interrupted by a screech from Cloudtail. “Fireheart! Fireheart, Brightpaw isn’t dead!”

  Fireheart spun around and raced across the clearing to crouch beside Brightpaw. Her white-and-ginger fur, which she had always kept so neatly groomed, was spiky with drying blood. On one side of her face the fur was torn away, and there was blood where her eye should have been. One ear had been shredded, and there were huge claw marks scored across her muzzle.

  Fireheart heard a choking sound as Sandstorm came up behind him. “No…” the ginger she-cat whispered. “Oh, StarClan, no!”

  At first Fireheart thought Cloudtail was wrong and that Brightpaw must be dead, until he saw the very faint rise and fall of her breathing, and the blood bubbling in her nostrils. “Fetch Cinderpelt,” he ordered.

  Sandstorm dashed off while Graystripe stood beside Swiftpaw’s body, all his senses alert in case their fearsome enemy should return. Fireheart went on looking down at the injured Brightpaw. Somehow his fear had drained away. He felt nothing but an icy calm, and a stern, ferocious determination to avenge the young apprentices. He asked StarClan to be with him and to give him the strength to unleash all their fury on whatever had dared to wreak such havoc.

  Cloudtail curled himself close to the motionless apprentice and began licking her face and the fur around her ears. “Don’t die, Brightpaw,” he begged. “I’m with you now. Cinderpelt’s coming. Hold on just a bit longer.”

  Fireheart had never heard him sound so distraught. He hoped the white cat would not have to suffer the pain he had felt when Spottedleaf died, or Graystripe’s when he lost Silverstream.

  One of Brightpaw’s ears twitched under Cloudtail’s gentle tongue. Her remaining eye opened a slit and closed again.

  “Brightpaw.” Fireheart leaned close to her and spoke urgently. “Brightpaw, can you tell us what did this to you?”

  Brightpaw’s eye opened wider and she fixed a cloudy gaze on Fireheart.

  “What happened?” he repeated. “What did this?”

  A thin wailing came from Brightpaw, which gradually formed into words. Fireheart stared at her in horror as he made out what she was trying to say.

  “Pack, pack,” she whispered. “Kill, kill.”

  CHAPTER 20

  “Will she live?” Fireheart asked anxiously.

  Cinderpelt let out a weary sigh. She had come to Snakerocks as fast as her uneven legs could run and done her best to patch up the worst of Brightpaw’s injuries with cobwebs to stop the bleeding and poppy seeds for the pain. At last the apprentice had recovered enough to be dragged back through the forest to the camp, and now she lay unconscious in a nest among the ferns near Cinderpelt’s den.

  “I don’t know,” Cinderpelt admitted. “I’ve done the best I can. She’s in the paws of StarClan now.”

  “She’s a strong cat,” Fireheart meowed, trying to reassure himself. When he looked at Brightpaw now, curled among the ferns, she looked anything but strong. She seemed smaller than a kit, no more than a scrap of fur. Fireheart half expected each shallow breath to be her last.

  “Even if she recovers, she’ll be hideously scarred,” Cinderpelt warned him. “I couldn’t save her ear or eye. I don’t know that she’ll ever be a warrior.”

  Fireheart nodded. He felt sick as he forced himself to look at the side of Brightpaw’s face, now swathed in cobwebs. All this reminded him of Cinderpelt’s accident, when Yellowfang had told him that the young she-cat’s leg would never heal properly.

  “She said something about the ‘pack,’” he murmured. “I wonder what it was she really saw.”

  Cinderpelt shook her head. “It’s what we’ve been afraid of all along. There’s something in the forest hunting us down. I heard it in my dream.”

  “I know.” Fireheart’s muscles tensed with regret. “I should have done something long ago. StarClan sent that warning to Bluestar too.”

  “But Bluestar has no respect for StarClan anymore. I’m surprised she even listened to them.”

  “Do you think that’s why this happened?” Fireheart spun around and faced the medicine cat.

  “No.” Cinderpelt’s voice was strained as she moved closer to Fireheart and pressed herself against him. “StarClan did not send the evil; I’m sure of that.”

  As she spoke, a rustling in the fern tunnel announced the arrival of Cloudtail.

  “I thought I told you to get some rest,” Cinderpelt meowed.

  “I couldn’t sleep.” The white cat padded over to settle himself in the ferns beside his friend. “I want to be with Brightpaw.” He bent his head to give her shoulder a gentle lick. “Sleep well, Brightpaw. You’re still beautiful,” he murmured. “Come back to us. I don’t know where you are now, but you have to come back.”

  He went on licking her for a moment more and then looked up to fix a hostile glare on Fireheart. “This is all your fault!” he burst out. “She and Swiftpaw should have been made warriors, and then they wouldn’t have gone off on their own.”

  Fireheart met his kin’s gaze steadily. “Yes, I know,” he mewed. “I tried, believe me.”

  He broke off as he heard the soft pawsteps of another cat, and turned to see that Bluestar was approaching. Fireheart had sent Sandstorm to fetch her, and the ginger warrior followed her into the medicine cat’s clearing.

  The Clan leader stood and looked down at Brightpaw in silence. Cloudtail raised his head challengingly, and for a heartbeat Fireheart thought he was going to accuse Bluestar of being responsible for Brightpaw’s terrible injuries as well, but Cloudtail stayed silent.

  Bluestar blinked a couple of times and asked, “Is she dying?”

  “That’s up to StarClan,” Cinderpelt told her, catching Fireheart’s eye.

  “And what mercy can we expect from them?” Bluestar growled. “If it’s up to StarClan, Brightpaw will die.”

  “Without ever being a warrior,” mewed Cloudtail; his voice was quiet and sorrowful, and he bent his head again to lick Brightpaw’s shoulder.

  “Not necessarily.” Bluestar spoke reluctantly. “There is a ritual—thankfully little used—if a dying apprentice is worthy, she can be made into a warrior so that she may take a warrior name to StarClan.” She hesitated.

  Fireheart held his breath in disbelief. Would Bluestar really put aside her anger at their ancestors to acknowledge the importance of StarClan in a warrior’s life? Was she about to admit that Brightpaw had been denied the warrior status she deserved?

  Cloudtail looked up at the gray she-cat again. “Then do it,” he growled.

  Bluestar did not react
to being ordered around by her newest warrior. As Fireheart and Cinderpelt looked on, pelts touching for comfort, and Sandstorm approached to bear silent witness, the Clan leader dipped her head and began to speak. “I ask my warrior ancestors to look down on this apprentice. She has learned the warrior code and has given up her life in the service of her Clan. Let StarClan receive her as a warrior.” Then she paused, and her eyes blazed with anger that burned like cold fire. “She will be known as Lostface, so that every cat knows what StarClan did to take her from us,” she growled.

  Fireheart stared at his leader in horror. How could she use this terribly wounded apprentice in her war against her warrior ancestors?

  “But that’s a cruel name!” Cloudtail protested. “What if she lives?”

  “Then we will have all the more reason to remember what StarClan have brought us to,” Bluestar replied, her voice barely more than a whisper. “They will have this warrior as Lostface, or not at all.”

  Cloudtail held her gaze for a moment longer, the light of challenge in his blue eyes, and then dipped his head as if he knew there was no point in arguing.

  “Let StarClan receive her by the name of Lostface,” Bluestar finished. She bent her head and lightly touched her nose to Lostface’s head. “There, it is done,” she murmured.

  As if the touch had roused her, Lostface’s eyes opened and a look of terrible fear flooded into them. For a moment she struggled back to wakefulness. “Pack, pack!” She gasped. “Kill, kill!”

  Bluestar recoiled, her fur bristling. “What? What does she mean?” she demanded.

  But Lostface had sunk into unconsciousness again. Bluestar looked wildly from Cinderpelt to Fireheart and back again. “What did she mean?” she repeated.

  “I don’t know,” Cinderpelt mewed uneasily. “That’s all she will say.”

  “But, Fireheart, I told you…” Bluestar was struggling to speak. “StarClan showed me an evil in the forest, and they called it ‘pack.’ Is it the pack that has done this?”

  Cinderpelt avoided her eyes, going instead to check on Lostface. Fireheart sought for an answer that would satisfy his leader. He did not want Bluestar to know that her cats were being hunted down as if they were prey for some nameless, faceless enemy. But he knew that she would not be satisfied by empty reassurances.

  “No cat knows,” he replied at last. “I’ll warn the patrols to be on their guard, but—”

  “But if StarClan has abandoned us, patrols will not help us,” Bluestar finished scornfully. “Perhaps they have even sent this pack to punish me.”

  “No!” Cinderpelt faced her leader. “StarClan did not send the pack. Our ancestors care for us, and they would never disrupt the life of the forest or destroy a whole Clan for a single grudge. Bluestar, you must believe this.”

  Bluestar ignored her. She padded over to Lostface and stood looking down at her. “Forgive me,” she meowed. “I have brought down the wrath of StarClan on you.” Then she turned away toward her den.

  Almost as soon as she had gone, an agonizing wail broke out in the main clearing. Fireheart raced through the ferns to see that Longtail and Graystripe were bringing Swiftpaw’s body back for burial. When the limp black-and-white shape had been laid in the center of the clearing, his mentor crouched beside him, touching his nose to his fur in the ritual position of mourning. Swiftpaw’s mother, Goldenflower, sat next to him, while Bramblekit and Tawnykit, Swiftpaw’s half brother and half sister, looked on with wide, scared eyes.

  A fresh wave of grief flooded through Fireheart. Longtail had been a good mentor to Swiftpaw. He did not deserve the pain he was going through now.

  Returning to Cinderpelt’s clearing, he saw that Sandstorm had padded over to stand beside the medicine cat, who was pressing fresh cobwebs onto the blood-soaked dressings. “Maybe she’ll pull through,” she mewed. “If any cat can help her, you can, Cinderpelt.”

  Cinderpelt looked up and blinked gratefully. “Thanks, Sandstorm. But healing herbs can only do so much. And if Lostface lives, she might not thank me.” She caught Fireheart’s eye, and he saw in her face a fear that the injured cat would be unable to cope with her horrifically changed appearance. What future lay ahead for a cat whose scars would remind her forever of this living nightmare?

  “I’ll still look after her,” vowed Cloudtail, glancing up from his gentle licking.

  Fireheart felt a burst of pride. If only his former apprentice could show the same unquestioning loyalty to the warrior code, he would be one of the finest warriors in ThunderClan.

  Sandstorm gently nosed Lostface and then drew away. “I’ll fetch some fresh-kill for you and Cloudtail,” she meowed to Cinderpelt. “And a piece for Lostface too. She might want something if she wakes up.” Determinedly optimistic, she padded out into the clearing.

  “I don’t want anything to eat,” mewed Cloudtail. His voice was dull and exhausted. “I feel sick.”

  “You need to sleep,” Cinderpelt told him. “I’ll give you some poppy seeds.”

  “I don’t want poppy seeds either. I want to stay with Lostface.”

  “I’m not asking you what you want; I’m telling you what you need,” Cinderpelt retorted. “You kept vigil last night, remember?” More gently, she added, “I promise I’ll wake you if there’s any change.”

  While she went to fetch the seeds, Fireheart gave his kin a sympathetic glance. “She’s the medicine cat,” he pointed out. “She knows what’s best.”

  Cloudtail didn’t reply, but when Cinderpelt came back carrying a dried poppy head and shook a few seeds out in front of him, he licked them up without complaining. Exhausted, he curled himself close to Lostface and was asleep within a few heartbeats.

  “I never thought he would care for another cat as much as that,” Fireheart murmured.

  “You didn’t notice?” For all her anxiety, there was a glint of amusement in Cinderpelt’s blue eyes. “He’s been padding after Brightpaw—Lostface—for a season now. He really loves her, you know.”

  Seeing the two young cats curled up together, Fireheart could believe it.

  Fireheart headed toward the pile of fresh-kill. It was almost sunhigh, but though the rays poured down brightly into the clearing there was little warmth in them. Leaf-bare had come to the forest.

  Days had passed since Swiftpaw had been killed and Lostface injured. Fireheart had just been to check on her, and she still clung to life. Cinderpelt began to be cautiously optimistic that she would survive. Cloudtail spent nearly every moment with her; Fireheart had excused him temporarily from warrior duties so that he could care for the injured cat.

  As Fireheart crossed the clearing, he saw Graystripe emerge from the warriors’ den and approach the fresh-kill pile. Darkstripe overtook him before he reached it and shouldered him aside to snatch up a rabbit. Dustpelt, already choosing his own meal, gave Graystripe a hostile glare and the gray warrior hesitated, unwilling to go any closer until the other two warriors had withdrawn to the nettle patch to eat.

  Quickening his pace, Fireheart came up beside his friend. “Ignore them,” he muttered. “They keep their brains in their tails.”

  Graystripe flashed him a grateful glance before picking a magpie out of the pile.

  “Let’s eat together,” Fireheart suggested, choosing a vole and leading the way to a sunny patch of ground near the warriors’ den. “And don’t let those two worry you,” he added. “They can’t stay hostile forever.”

  Graystripe did not look convinced, but he said nothing more, and the two warriors settled down to eat. Across the clearing, Tawnykit and Bramblekit were playing with Willowpelt’s three kits. Fireheart felt a pang of grief as he remembered how Lostface had sometimes played with them, as if she were looking forward to having kits herself. Would she ever mother her own litter now?

  “I can’t get over how much that kit looks like his father,” meowed Graystripe after watching them for a moment.

  “Just so long as he doesn’t behave like his father,” Fireheart replie
d. He stiffened when he saw Bramblekit bowl over one of Willowpelt’s much smaller kits, but relaxed again as the tiny tortoiseshell sprang up and hurled herself joyfully on Bramblekit.

  “It must be time he was apprenticed,” remarked Graystripe. “He and Tawnykit are older than—” He broke off, and a distant, sorrowful expression clouded his amber eyes.

  Fireheart knew that he was thinking of his own kits, left behind in RiverClan. “Yes, it’s time I was thinking about mentors,” he agreed, hoping to distract his friend from his bittersweet memories. “I’ll ask Bluestar if I can mentor Bramblekit myself. Who do you think would—”

  “You’ll mentor Bramblekit?” Graystripe stared at him. “Is that a good idea?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Fireheart asked, feeling his fur start to prickle. “I haven’t an apprentice, now that Cloudtail has been made a warrior.”

  “Because you don’t like Bramblekit,” retorted Graystripe. “I don’t blame you, but wouldn’t he be better off with a mentor who trusts him?”

  Fireheart hesitated. There was some truth in what Graystripe said, but Fireheart knew that he couldn’t give the task to any other cat. He had to have Bramblekit under his own guidance to make sure he stayed loyal to ThunderClan.

  “My mind’s made up,” he mewed curtly. “I wanted to ask you who you think would be good for Tawnykit.”

  Graystripe paused, as if he wanted to go on arguing, then shrugged. “I’m surprised you have to ask. There’s an obvious choice.” When Fireheart didn’t speak, he added, “Sandstorm, you mouse-brain!”

  Fireheart took a mouthful of vole to give himself time to think of an answer. Sandstorm was an experienced warrior. She had been an apprentice along with Fireheart himself, Graystripe, and Dustpelt, and she was the only one of the four never to have had an apprentice of her own. Yet something made him reluctant to give Tawnykit to her.