by Erin Hunter
“Did you see that?” Specklepaw called. “Did you, Mom? Did you? I pushed Adderpaw right over!”
Daisytail turned around and forced herself to purr approvingly. She could tell from the look exchanged by Adderpaw and Slatepelt that the older apprentice had deliberately let the little cat win. “Well done, nutkin,” she called. A tuft of fur on Specklepaw’s head was sticking up, and she longed to go over and lick it flat. “You’ll be a warrior before you know it!” Before my milk has dried up, she added silently.
Slatepelt nodded to her. “He’s learning fast. Which is good, because it looks like we’ll be fighting ShadowClan again soon. They’ve been seen stealing rabbits in broad daylight, and Hazelstar won’t let them get away with it.”
Daisytail didn’t answer. Her kit was too small to take part in a real battle. He couldn’t even take on his own Clanmates, who would never try to rip his pelt, tear his eyes, claw his ears into shreds …
“Daisytail? Are you okay?” A dark brown face was peering anxiously out of the entrance to the nursery. Hawkfoot’s three kits were half a moon younger than Specklepaw: They would be made apprentices any day now and kept bouncing around their nest practicing their battle moves.
“There’s going to be another battle with ShadowClan,” Daisytail burst out. “I can’t let Specklepaw fight, I just can’t!”
“You don’t have a choice,” Hawkfoot pointed out. “He’s an apprentice now; this is what he’s being trained for.”
Daisytail lifted her head. “And if your kits are apprentices by then, will you let them go? Knowing they’ll face blood-hungry ShadowClan warriors?”
Hawkfoot prodded a bramble tendril with her forepaw. “It’s our duty to provide the Clan with new warriors,” she mewed.
“And is it our duty to see those warriors die before they’re full-grown?” Daisytail challenged. She turned and stalked away from the nursery.
“Where are you going?”
“To put a stop to this once and for all.”
A bright orange sun stretched its paws over the edge of the moor, turning the sky above to pink and cream. Dew sparkled like starlight in the shadows cast by rocks and gorse bushes. On one of the rocks, Hazelstar stood to address his warriors. They stretched in a line on either side of him, facing the ShadowClan border, marked by a line of stunted trees.
“Warriors of WindClan!” Hazelstar cried. There was an indignant murmur from farther along the line, and Hazelstar’s whiskers twitched. “And apprentices! ShadowClan has stolen from us one too many times! We will teach them that WindClan’s borders are strong, they will be defended with claw and tooth, and our prey protected for our Clan alone.”
The cats yowled in support, and the grass flickered with the shadows of lashing tails.
Like an echo, a yowl came from the trees on the other side of the border. The grass beneath the trees stirred, and a line of ShadowClan warriors stepped out. A white-furred cat with hard green eyes stood in the center. “Are you sure about that, Hazelstar?” he sneered. “Some of your warriors look awfully small.”
His gaze swept over the smallest WindClan apprentices, who suddenly looked even tinier beside their Clanmates.
“I’d say we’re evenly matched, Blizzardstar,” Hazelstar replied calmly. He glanced toward the cats at the end of the ShadowClan line, some of whom still had a fuzz of kit fur around their ears.
Blizzardstar curled his lip. “We’ll put that to the test, shall we?” he snarled. “ShadowClan, attack!”
“STOP!” Daisytail leaped onto the rock she had been hiding behind. Hawkfoot scrambled up beside her. “We won’t let you fight!”
Blizzardstar stared at the queens in astonishment. “Are all your cats this scared of combat, Hazelstar?”
“It’s not fear,” called a cat from the ShadowClan line. She stepped into the open, her amber eyes reflecting the sun.
“Oakleaf? What in the name of StarClan are you doing?” Blizzardstar demanded.
Daisytail jumped down from the rock and padded into the open space between the battle lines. The grass felt cool and springy beneath her paws; she would not let it turn red with her own kit’s blood. “We’re stopping this battle,” she announced. To her relief, her voice didn’t give away how much she was trembling inside. “Some of these apprentices are barely weaned from their mothers’ milk. They are too young to die, too young to fight, too young to be treated like full-grown warriors.”
The ShadowClan queen walked out to join her. “Daisytail came to see me with her Clanmate Hawkfoot two sunrises ago. She told me that she didn’t want to let her kit go into battle when he was too small to fight his own Clanmates, and she asked me if I would let my kit die like this, too.” When Blizzardstar let out a questioning grunt, she turned and explained, “I met Daisytail once at a Gathering, when we had both just learned we were expecting kits. She remembered me and knew I would not want my kit to fight any more than she did.”
Hazelstar turned to Daisytail. “What are you saying?” he queried, looking baffled. “That we should never fight again? Do you really think that is how the Clans could live?”
Daisytail shook her head. “No. I know battle is part of our life. It’s what warriors train for. But they should only be asked to fight when they are old enough to stand a chance of winning. What is the point of training kits so young that they’ll be lost in their first conflict?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Specklepaw duck behind Adderpaw. Embarrassment prickled from every hair on his pelt, and he refused to meet her gaze. Inwardly Daisytail gave an amused purr. One day, he’d understand—he’d still be alive to know why his mother did this.
Oakleaf trotted across the grass and stood side by side with Daisytail and Hawkfoot. “We are united, Blizzardstar,” she told him. She nodded toward the line, and several other she-cats padded out. Daisytail dipped her head to greet them; some of these queens were too old to have kits as young as hers, but they all felt the same: The youngest cats should not be expected to fight. The grass whispered softly as WindClan she-cats joined them, falling in beside their ShadowClan rivals.
Daisytail held her breath and looked from Hazelstar to Blizzardstar and back again. The leaders could still order their warriors into battle. All that would happen would be that she would be forced to watch her kit fall beneath the paws of a giant ShadowClan warrior, never to get up again.
“Hazelstar? Our queens have spoken.” Blizzardstar stepped out from his battle line, looking hard at his rival leader. “Should we ignore them and fight?”
The ginger tom paused, letting his gaze rest on the group of she-cats before glancing at his tiny warriors. Then he faced Blizzardstar again. “What sense is there in losing the future of our Clans, when if we let them grow stronger, battles will be more easily won?”
Daisytail almost purred out loud. Hazelstar had managed to make this sound like a threat to ShadowClan rather than a decision to decrease his battle line.
Blizzardstar nodded. “If you are going to remove your youngest cats, then so must I. ShadowClan cannot be accused of being unfair in battle.”
“I would never suggest such a thing,” Hazelstar murmured. He turned to Daisytail. “How do you propose that we make sure all Clans keep their youngest cats from battle?” he asked.
Daisytail gulped. Was she really being consulted by the leader of her Clan? She thought rapidly. “I think there should be an addition to the warrior code. That kits must be”—she looked up and down the battle line, judging which cats looked big enough to take on a fully trained warrior—“six moons old before they are allowed to train as apprentices.”
Oakleaf brushed the tip of her tail against Daisytail’s shoulder. “Until then, they must live within the camp, where the queens can be responsible for their safety.”
Hazelstar nodded. “That makes sense to me. Thank you, Daisytail. And thank you, Oakleaf.” He dipped his head to the ShadowClan queen. “Blizzardstar, are we agreed?”
The ShadowClan leader bow
ed his head. “We are. We will take this to the Gathering at the next full moon.”
Daisytail gazed at Specklepaw, who looked ready to burst with frustration. There will be other battles, my little warrior. But not yet. Not until you are ready.
The Smallest Warrior
Only a leader that walks the blackest of paths would break the code that protects kits. Brokenstar of ShadowClan was such a leader.
The WindClan warrior sprang with his claws unsheathed, and the little black-and-white cat fell to the ground without making a sound. A trickle of blood crept from his ear, which was crumpled in the dust. Flintfang shook off the warrior trying to sink her teeth into his tail and bounded over to his unmoving Clanmate.
“Get off him, you mangy worm!” Flintfang snarled. Then he bent down to grasp Badgerpaw’s scruff between his teeth. The apprentice’s fur was still soft and fluffy, and it tickled Flintfang’s nose. Blinking to stop the sneeze, Flintfang lifted the tiny limp body into the air and carried it to the edge of the WindClan camp. Behind him, screeches and thuds echoed around the shallow dip in the ground where WindClan had once made its home. Now all the dens were trampled and ruined, and the ground was sticky with blood. Brokenstar was right: This battle would force WindClan to leave the moor, and ShadowClan hunters would be able to take over the territory to feed their growing Clan.
But not Badgerpaw. His breathing was quick and shallow and a strange smell came from him, sour like blood and crow-food. There was nothing any cat could do to help him. Flintfang shook his head angrily. He had trained his apprentice in every battle skill he knew and made sure he could duck and roll and slash as well as any of the other apprentices. But Badgerpaw was only three moons old; he was too small to take on a full-grown WindClan warrior, his legs too short to reach the easily wounded parts of belly, eyes, and ears. What could a mentor do when he was expected to train a kit? The warrior code said that a warrior must be at least six moons old, but that didn’t worry Flintfang as much as he feared Brokenstar. Flintfang had failed his leader—and Brokenstar would make sure every cat in the Clan knew. He turned away, ready to abandon his apprentice and teach that fox-faced WindClan warrior a lesson he wouldn’t forget.
Badgerpaw’s eyes flickered. “Flintfang? Is that you?”
Flintfang’s heart sank. “Yes, it’s me.”
“Was … was I good enough?” Badgerpaw rasped in a tiny voice. His paws shifted in the dust and a bead of blood appeared at the corner of his lip. “I tried to remember everything you taught me.”
Flintfang stared at the battered little body. Badgerpaw hadn’t stood a chance from the moment the first battle yowl split the air.
“I hope Brokenstar is proud of me,” Badgerpaw went on. His eyes were clouding over and starting to close. “And my mom.”
Flintfang felt something stir inside him. What was he going to tell Fernshade? That her kit was always going to die in this battle because he was too small, too weak?
“Fernshade will be very proud of you,” he meowed.
Badgerpaw opened his eyes with an effort and looked straight at Flintfang. “Are you proud of me?”
Flintfang crouched beside Badgerpaw and stroked the apprentice’s eyelids with the tip of his tail to close them again. “You fought brilliantly,” he murmured.
“Will you be all right without me?” Badgerpaw asked fretfully. He moved his head and the trickle of blood coming from his ear thickened, spilling out faster.
“We’ll do our best,” Flintfang replied gravely. “And we’ll always remember you and how brave you were.”
Was it his imagination, or did the tiny black-and-white chest swell with pride?
“Do … do you think StarClan will make me a warrior now?”
Flintfang swallowed hard; there seemed to be a stone wedged in his throat. “I’m sure they will.”
“What will my name be?” Badgerpaw wondered, his voice growing even fainter.
“I expect they’ll let you choose your own name,” Flintfang replied. The lump in his throat was growing, making it hard to speak.
“I’d like to be called Badgerfang. Like you, because you were such a great mentor.”
Flintfang leaned forward and rested his muzzle on top of his apprentice’s head. “That is a great honor. Badgerfang is a very good name for a warrior.” He could feel Badgerpaw’s breaths coming quicker now, his flank hardly rising at all as he fought for air. “You will watch over us from StarClan for all the moons to come.” Badgerpaw let out a tiny sigh, and his flank stilled.
Flintfang straightened up. “This was not your time to die. For as long as I live, I will honor the warrior code and not train another kit who should still be at his mother’s belly. Go now, little one, and walk with warriors.”
CODE SIX
NEWLY APPOINTED WARRIORS WILL KEEP A SILENT VIGIL FOR ONE NIGHT AFTER RECEIVING THEIR WARRIOR NAME.
Being a warrior isn’t just about catching prey and fighting other Clans, you know. It’s about being part of a tradition that stretches back longer than any cat can remember, and one that will last for all the moons to come. It was a RiverClan medicine cat who learned that the time when every cat realizes this most is when they are first given their warrior name and become responsible for the safety and survival of their Clan.
A Night of Listening
“Meadowpelt! Meadowpelt, we need you!”
Meadowpelt put down the willow stick he was shredding and wove his way between the pale yellow stalks that shielded his den from the rest of the camp. It was greenleaf, and for once the ground underpaw was dry and dusty rather than pooling with water.
Several other RiverClan cats were in the clearing, looking anxious as their Clanmates crackled nearer. Suddenly the reeds rattled together and a small black tom burst out. “Snaketooth is hurt!” he yowled.
“What happened, Molewhisker?” Troutstar demanded. Just then, two more cats appeared with a third propped between them, his dark brown head lolling and one of his hind legs trailing uselessly behind.
Troutstar glanced over his shoulder. “Meadowpelt, take over.”
Meadowpelt ran forward to take a look at his latest patient. This wasn’t the first injury he’d treated among these young warriors in the last moon. Molewhisker had ripped out one of his claws trying to jump across the river, and Lightningpelt, a light brown tabby with a distinctive white streak down her back, had nearly poked out her own eye chasing through the thickest part of the reeds. Every day, the warriors seemed to come up with yet another competition to discover who was the strongest, fastest … or most mouse-brained, Meadowpelt thought crossly.
Lightningpelt and Nettlepad laid Snaketooth on the ground in the middle of the clearing. Meadowpelt studied the twisted leg, noticing the way the snapped bone jutted out beneath the skin. There was a chance Snaketooth would never walk without a limp.
“What was it this time?” Meadowpelt sighed. “Climbing one of the Great Oaks,” Snaketooth muttered through gritted teeth. “I won.”
“You should have seen him!” Lightningpelt burst out. “He practically climbed onto a cloud!”
“If I had seen him, I wouldn’t have let him do something so utterly mouse-brained,” Meadowpelt growled. “When will you learn to stop showing off and start putting your Clan first? At this rate there’ll be no warriors left by leaf-bare.” Lifting his head, he looked around and spotted Oatpaw, whom he was thinking of taking as his apprentice. “Oatpaw, fetch me some poppy seeds, will you?”
Oatpaw ducked his head and ran to the den, quickly returning with several tiny black seeds stuck to his forepaw.
“Lick these up,” Meadowpelt told Snaketooth. He turned back to Oatpaw. “Help me carry him to my den. He’ll need to stay there tonight.”
Moonlight filtered through the reeds, striping the floor of the medicine cat’s den with sharp, thin shadows. Meadowpelt checked that the reeds on Snaketooth’s splint were bound tightly enough, and then padded heavily across the clearing to his nest.
The reeds
slid apart and Molewhisker, Lightningpelt, and Nettlepad squeezed into the tiny space beside their sleeping friend. “We wanted to see if he was okay,” Molewhisker explained in a loud whisper.
“That’s up to StarClan now,” Meadowpelt replied. “I’ve done as much as I can. Now go to your own dens and let him sleep.”
It was too late. Snaketooth stirred and lifted his head a little way off the pillow of moss. “Hey, guys!” he croaked.
Nettlepad bent over him. “How’s your leg? It looked really gross!”
Meadowpelt flicked his tail. “You can stay for a few moments, but no more, understand?”
The three healthy warriors looked at the medicine cat and nodded solemnly. With a grunt, Meadowpelt threaded his way between the reeds that circled his nest and settled down. Tired as he was—and getting a little deaf in his old age, he had to admit—he could still hear the warriors whispering to Snaketooth.
“You’ve got to get better real soon!”
“We’re jumping into the gorge on the full moon, remember?”
“Yeah, I dared you, so if you don’t do it, I win!” That was Nettlepad, his voice rising with excitement.
“Hush!” Lightningpelt hissed. “Don’t let every cat hear you! You know what the old ones are like—they never want us to have fun.”
“They just wish they were young enough to jump into the gorge. But I bet they were never brave enough to try. Not like us!” Molewhisker sounded as if he thought he could grow wings and glide safely into the river as it thundered and foamed through the steep-sided canyon at the edge of their territory.
“Look, he’s gone to sleep,” whispered Lightningpelt. “Come on, let’s leave him.”
Meadowpelt listened to them padding away, bristling at their foolishness. His mind filled with shadows, and sleep was a long time coming.
