by Erin Hunter
“May StarClan light your path,” meowed Deadfoot gratefully.
The other WindClan cats wished Fireheart and Graystripe good hunting, and went on toward their own camp.
“That was bad luck,” Fireheart growled as he and Graystripe padded down to Fourtrees.
“Why?” asked Graystripe. “The WindClan cats didn’t mind us on their territory. We’re all friends now.”
“Use your brains, Graystripe,” Fireheart mewed. “What if Deadfoot mentions that he saw us to Bluestar at the next Gathering? She’s bound to wonder what we were doing out here!”
Graystripe stopped. “Mousedung!” he spat. “I never thought of that.” His eyes met Fireheart’s, and Fireheart saw his own uneasy feelings reflected there. “Bluestar won’t like it if she finds out we’re sneaking around investigating Tigerclaw.”
Fireheart shrugged. “Let’s just hope we can settle all this before the next Gathering. Now come on; we ought to try to catch something to take back with us.”
He set off again, picking up the pace until the two cats were racing over the snow. As they skirted the hollow at Fourtrees and entered their own forest territory, he relaxed a little, pausing to drink the air in the hope of picking up the scent of prey. Graystripe sniffed hopefully among the roots of a nearby tree, and came back looking disappointed.
“Nothing,” he grumbled. “Not a single mouse—not even a whisker!”
“We haven’t got time to keep looking,” Fireheart decided. He saw that the sky was already growing lighter above the trees. Time was running out, and their absence from camp was more likely to be noticed with every heartbeat.
The dawn light was growing stronger as they reached the ravine. Limbs aching with weariness, muscles stiff with cold, Fireheart led the way silently between the boulders toward the gorse tunnel. Thankful to be home at last, he bounded into the tunnel’s dark mouth. As he emerged into the camp, he skidded to a halt so abruptly that Graystripe cannoned into him from behind.
“Move, you big furball!” Graystripe gave a muffled mew.
Fireheart didn’t reply. Sitting a few tail-lengths away, in the middle of the clearing, was Tigerclaw. His head was sunk below his massive shoulders, and his yellow eyes were gleaming with triumph.
“Maybe you’d like to tell me where you’ve been?” he growled. “And why it took you so long to get back from the Gathering?”
CHAPTER 3
“Well?” Tigerclaw challenged.
“We thought we’d hunt.” Fireheart raised his head to hold the deputy’s amber gaze. “The Clan needs fresh-kill.”
“But we couldn’t find anything,” Graystripe added, coming to stand beside Fireheart.
“Was the prey all curled up in their nests, eh?” Tigerclaw hissed. He padded forward until he stood nose to nose with Fireheart, sniffed him, and then did the same to Graystripe. “So how is it the pair of you smell of mouse?”
Fireheart exchanged a glance with Graystripe. It seemed a long time since they had hunted in the Twoleg barn, and he had forgotten that they might still be carrying the scent of the mice they ate.
Graystripe looked back at him helplessly, anxiety making his eyes wide.
“Bluestar should hear about this,” the deputy growled. “Follow me.”
Fireheart and Graystripe had no choice but to obey. Tigerclaw led them across the clearing to Bluestar’s den at the foot of the Highrock. Beyond the curtain of lichen that covered the entrance, Fireheart could see the Clan leader curled up, apparently asleep, but as Tigerclaw shouldered his way into the den she raised her head at once and sat up.
“What is it, Tigerclaw?” she meowed, sounding puzzled.
“These two brave warriors have been out hunting.” Tigerclaw’s voice was thick with contempt. “They’re full-fed, but they haven’t brought home a single piece of fresh-kill for the Clan.”
“Is this true?” Bluestar turned her ice-blue eyes on the young warriors.
“We weren’t on a hunting patrol,” Graystripe mumbled.
That was true, thought Fireheart. Strictly speaking, they hadn’t broken the warrior code by not bringing back any prey, but he knew it was no real excuse.
“We ate the first prey we caught, to keep our strength up,” he meowed. “And then we couldn’t find anything else. We meant to bring back fresh-kill, but our luck was out.”
Tigerclaw gave a snort of disgust, as if he didn’t believe a word Fireheart had said.
“Even so,” Bluestar meowed, “with prey so scarce, every cat should think of the Clan before himself, and share what they have. I’m disappointed in you both.”
Fireheart couldn’t help feeling ashamed. Bluestar had brought him into the Clan when he was a kittypet, and he wanted to show her that he deserved her trust. If he had been alone with Bluestar, he might have tried to explain his real reason for being so late back to camp. But with Tigerclaw glaring at him, it was impossible.
Besides, Fireheart wasn’t ready to tell Bluestar about Ravenpaw’s latest version of the Sunningrocks battle. He wanted to speak to cats from RiverClan first, to confirm how Oakheart had really died.
“I’m sorry, Bluestar,” he murmured.
“‘Sorry’ fills no bellies,” Bluestar warned him. “You must understand that the needs of the Clan come first, especially in leaf-bare. Until next sunrise, you’ll hunt for the Clan, not for yourselves. When the rest of the Clan have eaten, then you can take food for yourself.” Her gaze softened. “You both look exhausted,” she observed. “Go and sleep now. But I shall expect to see you out hunting before sunhigh.”
“Yes, Bluestar.” Fireheart dipped his head and backed out of the den.
Graystripe followed him, his fur fluffed up in a mixture of fear and embarrassment. “I thought she’d have our tails off for sure!” he meowed as the two cats turned toward the warriors’ den.
“Then you should think yourselves lucky.” The low growl came from behind them; Fireheart glanced over his shoulder to see that Tigerclaw was padding after them. “If I were Clan leader, I’d have punished you properly.”
Fireheart felt his fur prickle with anger. His lips drew back in the beginnings of a snarl. Then he heard a warning hiss from Graystripe, and bit back what he wanted to say, turning away from Tigerclaw again.
“That’s right, kittypet,” Tigerclaw jeered. “Slink back to your nest. Bluestar may trust you, but I don’t. I saw you at the WindClan battle, don’t forget.” He bounded past the two younger cats and pushed his way into the warriors’ den ahead of them.
Graystripe let out a long, shivering breath. “Fireheart,” he meowed solemnly, “you’re either the bravest cat in all the Clans, or raving mad! For StarClan’s sake, don’t wind Tigerclaw up any more.”
“I didn’t ask for him to hate me,” Fireheart pointed out angrily. He slid through the branches to see Tigerclaw settling himself into his place near the center. The dark tabby ignored Fireheart, turning himself around two or three times before curling up to sleep.
Fireheart made for his own sleeping place. Nearby, Sandstorm and Dustpelt were stretched out together.
Sandstorm sat up as Fireheart approached. “Tigerclaw has been watching for you ever since we got back from the Gathering,” she whispered. “I gave him your message, but I don’t think he believed me. What did you do to tweak his tail?”
Fireheart felt comforted by the sympathetic look in her eyes, but he couldn’t stop his jaws from gaping in a massive yawn. “I’m sorry, Sandstorm,” he mumbled. “I’ve got to get some sleep. I’ll talk to you later.”
He half expected Sandstorm to be offended, but instead she got up and padded over to him. As he settled into the soft moss that lined the floor of the den she crouched down beside him and pressed her side against his.
Dustpelt opened one eye and glared at Fireheart. He let out a snort and pointedly turned his back.
But Fireheart was too tired to worry about Dustpelt’s jealousy. He was already drifting into sleep. As his eyes closed, his last
sensation was of Sandstorm’s fur warm against his flank.
Fireheart paced along the hunting trail. His body felt full of energy, and he opened his jaws to taste the scent of prey. He knew he was dreaming, but he felt his belly growl in anticipation of fresh-kill.
Bracken arched over his head. A bright, pearly light poured down on him, as if the moon was full in a cloudless sky. Every fern frond, every blade of grass glowed, and the pale shapes of primroses, clustering thickly beside the path, seemed to shine with a light of their own. All around him Fireheart could feel the damp warmth of newleaf. The icy, snow-covered camp seemed nine lives away.
As the path began to lead upward, another cat stepped out in front of him. Fireheart halted, his heart thudding as he recognized Spottedleaf. The tortoiseshell cat padded forward until she could touch her soft pink nose to his.
Fireheart rubbed his face against hers, a purr rising from deep inside him. When Fireheart first came to the forest, Spottedleaf had been the ThunderClan medicine cat. She had been killed in cold blood by an invading ShadowClan warrior. Fireheart missed her still, but her spirit had returned to him in dreams more than once.
Spottedleaf took a pace back. “Come, Fireheart,” she mewed. “I want to show you something.” She turned and padded softly away, glancing around from time to time to make sure he was following.
Fireheart bounded after her, admiring the dapple of moonlight on her fur. Soon they came to the top of the hill. Spottedleaf led him out of the bracken tunnel and onto a high, grassy ridge. “Look,” she meowed, raising her muzzle to point.
Fireheart blinked. Instead of the familiar span of trees and fields ahead of him, a shining expanse of water stretched as far as he could see. The reflected light dazzled him, and he closed his eyes. Where had all this water come from? He couldn’t even tell if this was Clan territory—the silver sheen flattened everything and hid the usual landmarks.
Spottedleaf’s sweet scent filled the air around him. Her voice sounded close to his ear. “Remember, Fireheart,” she murmured, “water can quench fire.”
Startled, Fireheart opened his eyes again. A chill breeze fluttered the surface of the water, penetrating his fur. Spottedleaf was gone. As Fireheart turned in every direction, searching for her, the light began to fade. The warmth went with it, and the feeling of grass under his paws. In less than a heartbeat he was plunged into cold and darkness.
“Fireheart! Fireheart!”
A cat was nudging him. Fireheart tried to duck away, and heard his name called again. It was Graystripe’s voice. Fireheart forced his eyes open to see the big gray cat crouched anxiously over him.
“Fireheart,” he repeated. “Wake up. It’s nearly sunhigh.”
Grunting with the effort, Fireheart hauled himself out of his nest and sat up. Pale, cold light was filtering through the branches of the den. Willowpelt and Darkstripe still slept closer to the center of the bush, but Sandstorm and Dustpelt had left already.
“You were muttering in your sleep,” Graystripe told him. “Are you okay?”
“What?” Fireheart had not yet shaken off the dream. It was always a bitter waking, to realize that Spottedleaf was dead, and he would never speak to her again except in his dreams.
“It’s nearly sunhigh,” repeated Graystripe. “We should be out hunting.”
“I know,” Fireheart mewed, fighting to wake up properly.
“Hurry up, then.” His friend gave him a final nudge before heading out of the den. “Meet you at the gorse tunnel.”
Fireheart licked one paw and rubbed it over his face. As his head cleared, he suddenly remembered Spottedleaf’s warning: “Water can quench fire.” What was she trying to tell him? Fireheart thought back to Spottedleaf’s earlier prophecy, that fire would save the Clan. As he followed Graystripe out of the den, Fireheart found himself shivering, and not from cold. He could feel trouble gathering like rain-heavy storm clouds. If the water that was coming quenched fire, then what would save the Clan? Did Spottedleaf’s words mean that ThunderClan was doomed?
CHAPTER 4
Fireheart bounded up the ravine, the snow crisp under his paws. The sun shone in a pale blue sky, and though there was little warmth in its rays the sight of it cheered Fireheart and made him hopeful that newleaf was not far away.
Just behind him, Graystripe echoed Fireheart’s thoughts. “With any luck, the sun will bring some prey out.”
“Not if they hear you stomping along!” Sandstorm teased as she scrambled past him.
Brackenpaw, Graystripe’s apprentice, protested loyally, “He doesn’t stomp!” but Graystripe only responded with a good-natured growl. Fireheart felt new energy flow into his limbs. Even though their duties today were meant as punishment, no cat had told them they had to hunt alone, and it was good to be with friends.
Fireheart winced at the memory of Bluestar’s ice-cold gaze when she had rebuked him and Graystripe for apparently hunting for themselves. He would make up for lying to her by bringing back as much fresh-kill as he could. The Clan needed it badly. By the time he and Graystripe left the den that morning, the store of prey in the camp had almost gone, and most of the cats had already left to hunt. Fireheart had spotted Tigerclaw on his way back down the ravine with the morning patrol. A squirrel was clamped in his jaws, its long tail brushing the snow. The deputy’s eyes narrowed menacingly as he passed Fireheart, but he did not put his prey down to speak.
At the top of the slope, Sandstorm ran on ahead, while Graystripe began showing Brackenpaw where to search for mice among the tree roots. Watching them, Fireheart couldn’t suppress a pang of loss as he thought of Cinderpaw, who had been his own apprentice. She would be with them now if it hadn’t been for her accident. Instead, her crippled leg, the result of an accident on the Thunderpath, kept her in the den with Yellowfang, the ThunderClan medicine cat.
Pushing away these heavy thoughts, he crept forward, his jaws parted as he examined the forest smells. A faint breeze stirred the surface of the snow and brought a familiar scent. Rabbit!
Lifting his head, Fireheart could see the brown-furred creature snuffling under a clump of bracken, where a few green spikes of grass poked through the snow. He dropped into a hunting crouch, and delicately, pawstep by pawstep, drew closer. At the last moment the rabbit sensed him and sprang up, but it was too late. Before it could even squeal, Fireheart pounced.
Triumphantly, Fireheart headed back to the camp, dragging the rabbit along with him. As soon as he entered the clearing, he saw with relief that the pile of fresh-kill was swelling again after the morning patrols. Bluestar was standing beside it. “Well done, Fireheart,” she meowed as he brought the rabbit to the pile. “Will you take that straight to Yellowfang in her den?”
Warmed by his leader’s approval, Fireheart hauled the rabbit across the clearing. A tunnel of ferns, brown and brittle now, led to the secluded corner of the camp where the ThunderClan medicine cat had her den inside a split rock.
Ducking under the ferns, Fireheart saw Yellowfang lying in the mouth of her den with her paws tucked under her chest. Cinderpaw sat in front of her, her smoky gray fur fluffed up and her blue eyes focused on the medicine cat’s broad face.
“Now, Cinderpaw,” came the old cat’s rasping mew. “One-eye’s paw pads are cracked because of the cold. What are we going to do for her?”
“Marigold leaves in case of infection,” Cinderpaw replied promptly. “Ointment of yarrow to soften the pads and help them heal. Poppy seed if she’s in pain.”
“Well done,” purred Yellowfang.
Cinderpaw sat up even straighter, and her eyes shone with pride. As Fireheart knew only too well, the medicine cat didn’t give praise lightly.
“Right, you can take her the leaves and the ointment,” meowed Yellowfang. “She won’t need the poppy seed unless the cuts get worse.”
Cinderpaw stood up and was on her way into the den when she caught sight of Fireheart standing by the tunnel. Mewing in delight, she hurried over to him with an awkward,
lurching gait.
Regret stabbed at Fireheart, sharp as a claw. Cinderpaw had been a ceaseless bundle of energy before the Thunderpath accident that crushed her leg. Now she would never run properly again, and had had to give up her dreams of becoming a ThunderClan warrior.
But the Thunderpath monster had not crushed her bright spirit. Her eyes were dancing as she reached Fireheart. “Fresh-kill!” she exclaimed. “Is that for us? Great!”
“About time too!” grumbled Yellowfang, still sitting inside her den. “Mind you, the rabbit’s very welcome,” she added. “We’ve had half the Clan in here since sunrise, complaining about some ache or other.”
Fireheart carried the rabbit across the clearing and dropped it in front of the medicine cat.
Yellowfang poked it with one paw. “It might have a bit of flesh on its bones for once,” she remarked grudgingly. “All right, Cinderpaw, take the marigold leaves and the yarrow to One-eye, and hurry back. If you’re quick there might be some rabbit left.”
Cinderpaw purred and brushed Yellowfang’s shoulder with the tip of her tail as she went past her into the den.
Softly, Fireheart mewed, “How’s she doing? Is she settling down?”
“She’s fine,” snapped Yellowfang. “Stop worrying about her.”
Fireheart wished he could. Cinderpaw had been his apprentice. He could not help feeling that he had been partly responsible for her accident. He should have stopped her from going to the Thunderpath alone.
Then he brought himself up short, remembering exactly how the accident had happened. Tigerclaw had asked Bluestar to meet him by the Thunderpath, but Bluestar had been too ill to go. Few warriors were in the camp; Fireheart himself had been about to leave on an urgent mission for catnip to treat Bluestar’s greencough. He had told Cinderpaw not to go meet Tigerclaw instead of him, but Cinderpaw had ignored his order. The accident had happened because Tigerclaw had placed his scent marker too close to the edge of the Thunderpath. Fireheart suspected that it was meant as a trap for Bluestar, and Tigerclaw was responsible.
