Crowfeather saw Rosepetal and Mousewhisker of ThunderClan exchanging a scornful look. “I can’t imagine how the WindClan warriors were defeated by animals that are so much smaller than them,” Rosepetal murmured.
“Yeah, they’re tiny,” Mousewhisker agreed.
Squirrelflight’s head swiveled around to glare at her Clanmates. “Hold your tongues!” she snapped.
“You’ve obviously never fought with them,” Furzepelt mewed disdainfully. “They’re fierce, their teeth are sharp, and they attack when you’re not expecting them.”
“And you should see them leaping and twisting in the air,” Larkwing added. “Does ThunderClan have any better battle moves? I don’t think so.”
Crowfeather saw several of the younger ThunderClan warriors glancing at one another, their eyes stretched wide with alarm, though the more experienced warriors looked disbelieving.
“I’m sure they must have felt like a pack of ravenous beasts,” Thornclaw meowed with a lofty air.
“Our warriors are right,” Harespring told him. “Of course I’ve seen stoats before—we all have—but not in a large pack like this. These snow-white ones are ferocious. We need to take them seriously.”
“Of course we do.” Bramblestar took control again. “So, let’s hear some ideas of how to fight the stoats without attacking in the tunnels and putting ourselves at a disadvantage.”
“I think we should block up the tunnels as we did before,” Crowfeather suggested, giving voice to an idea he’d been mulling over since the Gathering, “and then send in a force of cats to drive the stoats out to one place, where the rest of us will be waiting.”
“That could work,” Heathertail agreed. “We’ll have to be sure we cover all the tunnels.”
“Yes,” Lionblaze put in, “and make sure the stoats don’t retreat the other way and come out on ThunderClan territory. It’ll work best if we can keep them on the WindClan side of the underground river.”
Standing beside Lionblaze, his mate, Cinderheart, twitched her ears in amusement, but Crowfeather saw the golden tabby tom look suddenly sheepish, while Heathertail briefly averted her gaze. He knew Heathertail was familiar with the tunnels between the territories—he’d always wondered if she’d explored them alone, or with the ThunderClan cat.
Beside him, Crowfeather sensed Breezepelt bristling. Obviously, he had drawn the same conclusion.
Why can’t he let it go? Crowfeather wondered. Heathertail’s heart is clearly with Breezepelt now, but he still holds on to every scrap of his hostility to Lionblaze.
“I’ve got a better idea.” Breezepelt spoke loudly, and Crowfeather suspected he wanted to distract Heathertail’s attention from the golden ThunderClan warrior. He didn’t even look at Lionblaze, as if his half brother weren’t there at all. “Instead of endangering several cats by trying to drive the stoats out of the tunnels—and maybe driving them over to ThunderClan—why not send in one cat to attack a stoat and draw the others out?”
Lionblaze huffed out his breath. “Are you suggesting we put a lone cat into danger?” he meowed to Breezepelt. “Or are you volunteering to go confront the stoats yourself?”
Breezepelt turned his head to stare at him. “Of course I’m volunteering,” he responded instantly. “Mouse-brain,” he added under his breath, only loud enough for Crowfeather and perhaps Nightcloud to hear.
Crowfeather clamped his jaws shut, not allowing himself to intervene. He felt intensely proud of Breezepelt, but the thought of his son venturing alone into the stoat-infested tunnels made every hair on his pelt bristle with fear.
Then he remembered how he had once thought that a breeze was a kind of wind, driving back the engulfing water in Kestrelflight’s vision. Perhaps Breezepelt was the cat destined to take this risk and save his Clan.
“Are you sure?” Onestar asked Breezepelt.
Breezepelt nodded. “I promised at the Gathering that I would prove myself a loyal warrior,” he declared. “Now I’m fulfilling that promise.”
Crowfeather’s gaze swept over the assembled cats as Breezepelt made his courageous offer, noticing a glint of approval in Onestar’s eyes. Most of the others seemed impressed, too. But when he glanced hopefully at Lionblaze, he saw that his ThunderClan son’s face was set in cold dislike. Crowfeather felt that look like a claw slicing through his heart. Clearly, the offer wasn’t enough for Lionblaze to forgive Breezepelt for trying to kill him.
The need to show his support for Breezepelt flooded over Crowfeather. He wanted to be the father to him that he always should have been. And now he knew how to do it, and at the same time show that he put his Clan’s needs above his own.
It will be dangerous, but if Breezepelt can take the risk, then so can I.
“I’ll go as well,” he meowed, padding up to his son’s side.
A murmur of surprise came from his Clanmates. “It’s not necessary,” Harespring told him.
“I want to support my son,” Crowfeather responded, catching a look of surprise on Lionblaze’s face, and Jayfeather’s. Did I choose the right words there? he asked himself, briefly anxious. Will they think I don’t accept them as my sons? Then he dismissed the worry. This wasn’t the right time. Glancing at Onestar, he added, “I suppose I need to prove my loyalty to WindClan, too.”
Onestar clearly shared his Clan’s surprise, but something in his gaze told Crowfeather that he was impressed, too. “I think we should combine the plans,” he suggested to Bramblestar. “We’ll block every tunnel that we can, and leave just one entrance open, on the WindClan side.”
Bramblestar nodded agreement. “Then Breezepelt and Crowfeather will try to infuriate the stoats—”
“They should find that really easy,” Jayfeather put in.
His Clan leader gave him a stare from narrowed eyes. “Thank you, Jayfeather,” he mewed, an irritated edge to his voice. “As I was saying,” he continued, “Crowfeather and Breezepelt will infuriate the stoats enough to draw them out of the tunnels, where the warriors will be waiting for them.”
“It should work well.” Harespring, who had been sitting at the very edge of the stream near his Clan leader, sprang to his paws. “I’ll lead the patrol to find the tunnels and block them off, if Lionblaze and Heathertail will help.”
“Of course,” Heathertail mewed, and Larkwing added quickly, “I’d like to help, too.”
Birchfall stepped forward from the ThunderClan group across the stream, with Mousewhisker at his side. “We’ll organize the fighters to be ready to spring out and attack the stoats.”
“We’ll be waiting for them,” Blossomfall meowed, pushing forward with Thornclaw hard on her paws.
“And me!” Whiskernose called from the WindClan side. Onestar shook his head at the light brown elder, but Whiskernose ignored him.
Crowfeather noticed that all the volunteers had trained with the Dark Forest cats; they were all cats who had been doubted and feared and distrusted by their Clanmates, yet here they were, eager to prove themselves loyal warriors of their Clans at last.
Glancing around, he saw that other cats had realized it too: Murmurs of praise rose from them, and they exchanged glances of approval.
Let’s hope their lives will be easier from now on, Crowfeather thought.
CHAPTER 30
Crowfeather stood at the tunnel entrance where—moons ago, it seemed—Hootpaw had first glimpsed the white stoat. The sky was scarlet over the moor, the cats’ long shadows stretching out behind them as the sun went down. It was the day after the meeting with Bramblestar and the ThunderClan warriors at the stream, and everything was ready for the final attack on the stoats.
The creatures seemed to be more active at night, and so during the day, while they slept, the cats had filled in as many unblocked tunnels as they could find. Now only this one entrance remained. Crowfeather raised one paw to lick his pad where it still stung from maneuvering stones and brush. His fur itched with dust, but he felt warm with satisfaction from ears to tail-tip.
The stoats sh
ould be waking up by now. I hope they’re ready to be lured out.
Breezepelt padded up while Crowfeather was still licking his sore pads. “Ready?” he asked.
Crowfeather nodded, glancing up at his son. He was surprised to see that Breezepelt wore an expression of determination and held his head high. I know he’s afraid of the tunnels, Crowfeather thought, but he’s not showing the slightest sign of fear now.
Breezepelt returned Crowfeather’s nod, his gaze softening a little.
“We can do this,” Crowfeather mewed. “For WindClan.”
“We can,” Breezepelt agreed. “I’m ready.”
His voice was steady and resolute. Crowfeather couldn’t help thinking of the danger ahead. It didn’t matter so much for him, but Breezepelt had his whole future to lose if he was killed or injured: his place in the Clan; the opportunity to take a mate, have kits, and raise them as warriors. He’s willing to risk all that to prove his loyalty, Crowfeather reflected, even more impressed by his son’s courage. I may have been lacking as a father, but Breezepelt still turned out to be a worthy warrior.
Crowfeather glanced around at the moorland landscape that surrounded him. He knew that behind the rocks and underneath the gorse bushes, warriors of ThunderClan and WindClan were hiding, waiting to leap out into battle. There was a strong scent of cat, but he couldn’t see any of them, not even a single whisker or the tip of a tail.
The stoats will get the shock of their lives!
But with that realization Crowfeather accepted that he had to contain himself. He couldn’t let his longing for revenge get the better of him. Excitement and confidence were bubbling up inside him like a spring of fresh water, but he knew that he needed intelligence, too, and a cool head.
Then Heathertail emerged from behind a boulder halfway up the slope and padded down to join Crowfeather and Breezepelt. “You’re sure you know what to do?” she asked.
Like we haven’t gone over it so many times! Crowfeather thought, but he didn’t speak the thought aloud. He was well aware that Heathertail wasn’t really asking that question; what she wanted to know was whether Breezepelt was sure he wanted to go through with this.
She knows he’s a capable warrior, but she wants to be his mate. Of course she’s worried.
“Yes, we’ll be fine,” Breezepelt replied.
“You’ve been in there before, so you should remember what it’s like,” Heathertail continued. “There’s a clear path in a huge circle to take you deep into the tunnels and back out here. For StarClan’s sake, don’t head off down any side passages.”
“We’ll be careful,” Breezepelt promised her.
Crowfeather wasn’t sure that “careful” was the word he would have chosen. He and Breezepelt would be running the path as fast as they could, swiping and yowling at stoats to attract their attention and make them give chase.
I hope we don’t get caught and find ourselves surrounded by stoats. It would be easy enough to get the creatures’ attention, and easier still to get trapped in the tunnels, outnumbered in the dark. I know how that feels, and I don’t want to feel it again—but that’s in the paws of StarClan.
Breezepelt and Heathertail had leaned closer together, speaking softly to each other, when Onestar padded up. Crowfeather suppressed a mrrow of amusement when he saw the two young cats guiltily jump apart.
“It’s time,” Onestar declared; if he had noticed anything, he made no comment. “Are you ready?”
Crowfeather nodded; Breezepelt stood up a little straighter.
“Then may StarClan light your path,” the Clan leader meowed. “Go!”
Crowfeather let Breezepelt take the lead as the two toms raced into the tunnels. Light from the entrance quickly died away behind them, though the passage was dimly lit through chinks in the roof.
At first the only sign of the stoats was the smell. Crowfeather’s nose wrinkled at their scent and the reek of their rotting prey. Then a stronger, fresher scent flooded over him, and he realized that the passage opened up at one side into a den. He could make out several white bodies crowded together.
Without hesitation Breezepelt darted in among them and slashed his claws across the nearest stoat’s face before darting out again and running on. “Take that, mange-pelt!” he yowled. The injured stoat let out a screech of pain, and a furious chittering rose from its denmates.
As Crowfeather ran past the den, hard on Breezepelt’s paws, he heard the stoats scrambling after him, their tiny claws scratching on the floor of the passage, their scent like a foggy cloud around him. Alarmed by how close they were, he bunched and stretched his muscles in an effort to run even faster.
We must have had bees in our brains to volunteer for this!
As he and Breezepelt raced onward, attacking stoats in every den they passed, Crowfeather realized that more and more of the stoats were following them. A hasty glance over his shoulder showed them pouring down the passage like a vast white wave ready to engulf them.
How much farther? he asked himself desperately. We must be close to the way out by now!
Reaching what Crowfeather thought must be the last den, Breezepelt once more leaped into the attack. But this time the stoats in the den seemed more alert, maybe warned by the sound and scent of their approaching denmates. The leading stoat sprang forward beneath Breezepelt’s outstretched paws and fastened its fangs into his throat.
Breezepelt let out a yowl of shock and fear. A heartbeat later the white creatures were swarming around him; he almost looked as if he were sinking into a snowdrift, except this wasn’t snow: It was a heap of squirming bodies, with claws and teeth bared to tear and bite.
Crowfeather didn’t take time to think. He waded into the swarm of stoats, lashing out with his claws to thrust the creatures aside on his way to his son. When he reached Breezepelt, he swiped with all his strength at the stoat that still clung to him, breaking its grip and knocking it back against the den wall.
“Run—now!” he screeched to Breezepelt.
Breezepelt turned and fled down the passage; Crowfeather barreled after him, hearing the whole crowd of stoats on his hind paws. Moments later the dim light of the tunnel grew brighter, and Crowfeather spotted the ragged circle of the tunnel entrance a few fox-lengths ahead.
Breezepelt broke out into the open, his voice raised in a triumphant yowl, and Crowfeather followed him. The stoats poured out behind them, an unstoppable wave.
Ahead of them, cats rose up from the seemingly empty hillside. WindClan and ThunderClan together charged down the slope into the attack. Their eyes gleamed in the last of the daylight, and their voices were raised as one in a challenging caterwaul.
Crowfeather kept on running until he and Breezepelt were well away from the tunnel, then gave his son a hard shove with one shoulder into the shelter of a jutting rock.
“Catch your breath,” he panted.
Breezepelt nodded, his breath coming in harsh gasps as if he couldn’t manage to speak. “Thanks, Crowfeather,” he rasped eventually. “I can’t believe how strong you were, attacking that last stoat!”
Crowfeather let out a snort. “Nor can I. I have no idea where that came from. Maybe it was just seeing my kit attacked!”
Breezepelt’s tail curled up with amusement, but there was unexpected warmth in his gaze. “If you hadn’t been there,” he mewed, “I’m not sure what would have happened. But I doubt I’d be here to tell the story.”
“Are you okay?” Crowfeather asked. Breezepelt’s throat was bleeding, but not too badly; it looked as if the stoat’s fangs hadn’t sunk in very deep.
“Fine,” Breezepelt replied. “You?”
Crowfeather nodded. “Let’s go and kill some stoats!”
Breezepelt instantly leaped into the battle, but Crowfeather paused a moment to take in what was happening. The open ground between the gorse-covered hillside and the tunnel entrances in the steep bank was covered by writhing bodies: cats and stoats locked together in combat. Harespring and Thornclaw had taken
up their position in front of the only open entrance to make sure that the stoats couldn’t flee back into safety. Yowls and shrieks split the air, and the scents of cats and stoats were already mingling with the tang of blood.
Our blood as well as the stoats’, he realized, fury welling up inside him.
For a heartbeat his anger blinded him, so he didn’t notice that one stoat had broken away from the main battle and charged at him, until it was almost on top of him. As it sprang, he lashed out at it, scoring his claws down its side. The stoat scrabbled away, whimpering. Then fighting surged all around him, and it was all he could do to stay on his paws.
The cats were much larger than the stoats, but even the two Clans together were still vastly outnumbered. The stoats were sharp-toothed, and very fast-moving; Crowfeather saw many of them leap into the air unexpectedly, to land on their enemies’ backs and tear at their spines and shoulders. He spotted Furzepelt with a stoat clinging to her shoulders; she rolled over in a desperate attempt to get rid of it, smothering it under her weight. Next to her Mousewhisker slashed his claws down the side of a stoat that had pushed Emberfoot down; the gray tom scrambled to his paws, and the two cats together drove the stoat back into the press of its denmates.
Heading for where the fighting was thickest, Crowfeather raked his claws across the faces of stoats that got in his way. Already it was hard to move because of the bodies of stoats lying underpaw, yet he could see that many of the cats had serious injuries. He spotted Birchfall, who had blood running down his muzzle from a wounded ear, and Larkwing had a long gash down one side. Even though they were so badly injured, they were still standing, still moving forward, not letting their wounds slow them down.
It’s the cats who trained with the Dark Forest who are fighting hardest, Crowfeather realized. They’re throwing themselves into the worst of the battle.
As he looked around, Crowfeather’s heart swelled with pride as he saw his Clanmates, who had suffered so much suspicion after the mistake they’d made, showing their loyalty by risking their lives for their Clan. At the same time, rage against the stoats gave him new strength and energy.