Crowfeather’s Trial

  At last he heard Harespring’s voice raised high above the clamor. “Retreat! Retreat!”

  At first Crowfeather thought he wouldn’t be able to obey. Too many stoats were pressing around him, the air now so full of their scent that it made him choke. He struck out with his forepaws at the white bodies that gleamed eerily in the gathering darkness, trying to force his way up the slope.

  What if we fail to escape them?

  Dazed with pain and exhaustion, Crowfeather thought it would be better to go down fighting than show these ferocious enemies the way to WindClan’s camp.

  Then he heard Heathertail’s voice, calling to him from close by. “Crowfeather! This way!”

  Blinking the blood from his eyes, Crowfeather turned his head to see Heathertail peering out from the bottom of a gorse thicket. He stumbled over to her, thrusting himself in among the thorns, clenching his jaws at the pain of the sharp points tearing at his pelt.

  At first he thought the stoats would simply follow him into the thicket. Relief surged through him as he realized they were drawing back. He crouched among the thorns, listening to the pattering paw steps and vicious snarling of the stoats outside the thicket, until gradually the sounds died away.

  Following Heathertail, Crowfeather wormed his way through the bushes until they emerged on the far side. He was even more relieved to see that his Clanmates had pushed their way through the thorns, too. They all looked battered, with clumps of fur missing and blood trickling from scratches along their sides, but they were alive and on their paws.

  “Well,” Heathertail mewed, “I guess we know what’s in the tunnels now. Stoats! I’m glad you brought enough for every cat, Breezepelt.”

  “It was horrible!” Breezepelt still looked terribly shaken, hardly able to stand upright. “Nightcloud and I were surrounded by the disgusting things. I thought we’d go to StarClan for sure. And then we found a way out, and just ran. . . .”

  A murmur of apprehension greeted his words, but Crowfeather was silent, alarm striking him like lightning from a clear sky. He looked around.

  “Wait,” he meowed. “Where is Nightcloud?”

  “What happened, exactly?” Onestar asked.

  Back on WindClan territory, the battered survivors of the patrol stood in the middle of the camp, surrounded by a crowd of their Clanmates. Crowfeather could hardly bear to meet their anxious gazes or see the urgency in Onestar’s face as he repeated his question.

  By now night had fallen, and an icy wind was sweeping over the moor, driving ragged clouds across the moon and probing deep into the cats’ fur. But no cats thought of returning to their den or settling into their nest. They were all too worried about the discovery of the white stoats in the tunnels, and the disappearance of Nightcloud.

  Breezepelt stood with his head lowered, staring at his paws, and seemed unable to look up at his Clan leader, much less answer his question. Crowfeather guessed that he was afraid of having to explain the disaster to a Clan that already didn’t trust him.

  “Breezepelt?” Onestar prompted him. “You have to tell us what happened. Where is Nightcloud?”

  “I don’t know!” Breezepelt flashed back at him, desperation in his voice. “It was more . . . more complicated than we expected. Once we got down the tunnel, there was a fresh scent—it was very strong, and different from anything I’d scented before. Then those . . . those creatures attacked us. It was too dark to see what they were, or even how many of them were there.”

  “What did you do?” Gorsetail asked, her blue eyes fixed intently on Breezepelt.

  “What could we do?” Breezepelt retorted. “We fought. One of the creatures injured Nightcloud, and I tried to help her and get her out. Finally we managed to escape, but the creatures followed us.”

  “Stoats,” Crowfeather put in. “We know now that they are stoats.”

  Breezepelt nodded, looking utterly wretched. “Nightcloud told me to run,” he continued, “so I did. I thought she was right behind me. But when I finally got out, she wasn’t there. We looked, but we couldn’t find her.”

  “And we couldn’t go back into the tunnels to search for her,” Harespring added, “because the stoats were guarding the entrances.”

  Breezepelt lowered his head again, his claws extended, digging into the ground. “Oh, StarClan!” he choked out miserably. “Please don’t let those things have killed her. They were so vicious . . . and she was so brave. . . .”

  Watching Breezepelt as he struggled with his grief, Crowfeather felt warm sympathy flow over him, like sunlight striking down through a gap in dark clouds. He hadn’t felt like that toward his son in a long time. Pangs of compassion and anxiety gripped him like two sets of claws.

  A dark pit seemed to open up in front of Crowfeather as a chilling thought went through his mind.

  Nightcloud is a tough warrior. If she thought the stoats were a threat to Breezepelt, she would have fought to defend him—to her last breath if she had to. And maybe she did.

  Crowfeather’s chest felt as if he had swallowed a thorny rose stem. It made sense that Nightcloud would have chosen to give her life to save her son’s, but the idea that she might have died alone in the dark made him ache with grief and regret.

  “I don’t like to say this,” Leaftail began, breaking the silence that had followed Breezepelt’s last words, “but, Breezepelt—why didn’t you make certain that Nightcloud was with you when you were fleeing from the stoats?”

  Breezepelt didn’t meet the tabby tom’s gaze. “I told you . . . I thought she was with me.”

  Leaftail let out a contemptuous snort. “You ‘thought.’ I see . . .”

  The rest of the Clan exchanged uncomfortable glances as Leaftail’s voice died away. Crowfeather realized that every cat was wondering whether Breezepelt hadn’t fought for his mother as valiantly as he should have. He felt his shoulder fur bristling in unexpected defense of his son.

  Breezepelt and Nightcloud have always had such a strong bond. I know Breezepelt would never have let any other animal hurt her. But a worm of doubt stirred and writhed within Crowfeather’s belly. Or would he . . . ?

  Breezepelt’s gaze slowly drifted over his staring Clanmates. Finally he glared at Leaftail. “What are you suggesting?” he asked. “That I would abandon my mother like that?”

  No cat answered.

  Breezepelt dug his claws into the earth. “I was convinced Nightcloud was behind me when we left the tunnels!” he protested, clearly desperate to be believed. “There was nothing I could have done.”

  Leaftail gave his whiskers a dubious twitch but said nothing more.

  Crowfeather was opening his jaws to speak up on Breezepelt’s behalf when Onestar forestalled him.

  “You needn’t defend yourself, Breezepelt,” the Clan leader meowed. “I believe you, because you’re an honorable WindClan warrior.” His gaze raked commandingly over the assembled cats. “And I expect every one of you to believe him, too. We must unite, because we are in grave danger. There’s an infestation of stoats in the tunnels, which means they are closer to camp than I’m comfortable with.”

  Anxious murmurs broke out among the Clan as their leader spoke. Their attention momentarily shifted away from Breezepelt, who stood silently in their midst, head and tail drooping. It didn’t look as if Onestar’s faith in his loyalty had encouraged him in the slightest.

  “Onestar, do you think we should warn ThunderClan?” Harespring asked. “After all, they share the tunnels. The stoats could cause trouble in their territory, too.”

  “No,” Onestar responded, every cat’s gaze turning to him at the brusqueness of his tone. “We’ll keep this to ourselves for now. WindClan can solve this problem without involving ThunderClan, or their inexperienced new leader.”

  Harespring dipped his head in agreement, though Crowfeather thought that he still looked doubtful. Crowfeather understood his doubts—but he understood Onestar’s hesitation, too. Onestar had always bristled at Firestar’s attempts to involve hi
mself in other Clans’ business. Maybe he was hoping for a new relationship with ThunderClan, now that Bramblestar was leader.

  “It’s possible Nightcloud is trapped or being held prisoner by the stoats,” Onestar continued. “If so, we have to concentrate on rescuing her.”

  “Yes!” Hope suddenly sprang up in Crowfeather, like an unexpected sunrise. We’re acting as if Nightcloud is dead, but she could still be alive. If only we can get back there in time. . . . “We have to send a patrol out tomorrow—and I’ll lead it this time.”

  Even if we can only make sure that she’s not left alone out there, prey for scavengers, he thought but did not say aloud. Or thrown on that pile of rotting crow-food. The idea almost made him retch, and he struggled for self-control.

  “Good,” Onestar responded with a nod of approval for Crowfeather.

  After a moment’s hesitation Crowfeather suggested: “Maybe Heathertail should come, too.”

  Onestar tilted his head, as if wondering why Crowfeather was asking specifically for Heathertail. Crowfeather wondered how he would explain it without giving away Heathertail’s history with the tunnels, but his leader just shrugged. “Sure. And I’ll need two or three more cats to volunteer as well.”

  Crowfeather saw relief on Heathertail’s face, as Crouchfoot spoke up. “I’d like to go,” he mewed, determination in his face.

  “And me,” Larkwing added eagerly. Crowfeather guessed she was trying to shake off her reputation as a Dark Forest cat.

  Many more cats raised their voices then, volunteering to help rescue their Clanmate. Crowfeather saw Onestar’s chest puff with pride at the courage of his warriors; then he shook his head as he called quickly for quiet.

  “We should keep the search party small,” he meowed. “A small group will have a better chance of going unnoticed by the stoats. And if our enemies somehow leave the tunnels and find their way to our camp, WindClan will be better defended if we have strong fighters here, ready to meet an attack.”

  “If any stoat tries to invade WindClan territory,” yowled Emberfoot, “it’ll be the last thing it ever does.”

  As the gathered cats spoke their agreement, warmth began to spread inside Crowfeather at the way the Clan was coming together. After the terrible battle against the Dark Forest, he knew that all the Clan cats felt protective of their Clanmates and their territory, ready to defend them from every threat.

  Especially if that threat is not a cat!

  Breezepelt raised his head, the light of resolve in his eyes. “I’m going too,” he stated, with a glare at Crowfeather as if daring him to tell him he couldn’t.

  But it was Crouchfoot who objected. “You don’t have to.”

  “I am going.” Breezepelt spat out each word. “Nightcloud is my mother.”

  “Of course you can go,” Onestar agreed before Crowfeather could respond. “You’re more familiar with these creatures’ scent than the rest of us.”

  Crowfeather gave his son a nod, and was rewarded by seeing a flicker of surprise in Breezepelt’s eyes, as if he had expected a refusal from his father. “We’ll leave at dawn,” he meowed.

  That night, Crowfeather found it hard to sleep. The moss and bracken in his nest felt as if they were full of thorns and spikes, the sharp prickles reminding him all too clearly of the claws of the stoats they had fought. If he closed his eyes, he could see their sinuous white bodies glowing in the dusk and their cold, malevolent eyes, and hear their chittering cries. Once or twice he half started up, convinced that the evil creatures were invading the camp, only to realize that the attack was all in his mind.

  At the same time, Crowfeather couldn’t stop worrying about Nightcloud. Making her his mate had been a huge mistake, and things were so bad between them now that they could hardly go out on the same patrol without snapping at each other—but that didn’t mean he no longer cared about her. He felt heaviness like a stone in his belly at the thought that he might never see her again, realizing that, despite everything, he would miss her. And he wasn’t the only one.

  WindClan needed her! Crowfeather might not have loved her the way he should have, but he knew she was an amazing cat: courageous, intelligent, and loyal.

  And what about Breezepelt? he added to himself. He needs Nightcloud . . . now more than ever, when there are so many questions about his loyalty. And if she were to die in the tunnels, would those questions ever really go away?

  There were so many other concerns, too. If his mother is no longer in the Clan, who will be the one to encourage Breezepelt and defend him to the others?

  As soon as Crowfeather asked himself the question, the answer came back, in the sharp tones of the black she-cat.

  Who do you think, flea-brain? You’re his father—you do it!

  Crowfeather was so shamed by the chiding he imagined she’d give him that he turned his face away as if avoiding her. Because this thought brought a question: Yes, he was Breezepelt’s father, but . . . how long would it take him to really feel as if that was true?

  Then he let out a long sigh, and waited impatiently for the dawn.

  I hope it’s soon. . . .

  CHAPTER 5

  Crowfeather drew his patrol to a halt outside the tunnel entrance where the stoats had appeared the day before. They had traveled across the hills in a gray, reluctant dawn, the moorland grass spiky with frost beneath their pads. A cold wind gusted down from the ridge, but the ice Crowfeather could feel inside himself, spreading from his ears to the tips of his claws, had nothing to do with the bitter weather of leaf-bare.

  “Listen, all of you,” he meowed, turning to his Clanmates. “This isn’t going to be easy. We’re going to face the stoats on their own territory, and—”

  “What do you mean?” Larkwing interrupted. “The tunnels are our territory!”

  Crouchfoot let out a snort. “ThunderClan might not agree with you there.”

  “Well, it’s our territory up to the underground river,” Larkwing retorted. “And one thing’s for sure—it doesn’t belong to these crow-food-eating stoats!”

  “That’s enough,” Crowfeather snapped, raising his tail to put an end to the wrangling. He knew that his Clanmates were only arguing because they didn’t want to think about the danger they would soon be facing. Working themselves up into a rage would distract them from the dread they felt. “The point is, the stoats think it’s their territory. Remember that they didn’t follow us very far when they chased Breezepelt out of the tunnels last night. But inside the tunnels, they’ll be a lot more confident.”

  “Encourage us, why don’t you?” Crouchfoot muttered.

  Crowfeather ignored the comment. “Every cat needs to be very careful,” he continued. “We have to stick together, avoid the stoats if we can, and do whatever it takes to find Nightcloud.”

  But where is Nightcloud? he wondered Trapped in a stoat’s den? Or lying on one of those piles of rotting crow-food? He shuddered. Then another thought occurred to him, terrifying in its own way. What will we do if we can’t find her?

  The tunnel gaped in front of them, seeming darker and eerier than ever before. Glancing at Breezepelt, Crowfeather could see fear in his son’s amber eyes, but instead of worrying he might panic, he felt a renewed pang of sympathy for him.

  It would be a weird cat who wasn’t unnerved, he thought. He couldn’t help but admire Breezepelt for his determination to be part of the patrol, even after his earlier encounter with the stoats.

  Impulsively he turned to his son, meaning to tell him this, but Heathertail, who had padded right up to the entrance and stuck her head inside, interrupted before he could speak.

  “I think I can scent Nightcloud!” she exclaimed.

  Crowfeather hurried to join her, sniffing carefully at the air just inside the tunnel. The stench of stoat was overwhelming, and he could distinguish Breezepelt’s scent, reeking of his fear when he fled. But there was a faint trace of Nightcloud, too.

  Turning to the rest of the patrol, Crowfeather was about to di
scuss with them what the best approach would be, when he realized that Heathertail was simply walking into the tunnel. He caught a glimpse of her tail disappearing into the darkness.

  “Wait for us!” he called out with an exasperated lash of his tail. Just because the tabby she-cat knew the tunnels well didn’t mean that she should just stroll in there unprotected. What happened to “stick together” and “be careful”? he asked himself. Does she think she’s a kit exploring her own camp?

  “Come on,” he added to the others. His muscles tensed with urgency as he imagined Heathertail pulled down by a crowd of bloodthirsty stoats.

  Just as the patrol was about to enter the tunnel, Crowfeather heard a strange scrabbling sound and stopped to listen. That doesn’t sound like a cat’s paw steps.

  A faint gust of air floated out of the tunnel, making his nose and whiskers twitch. It was the scent of stoat—and it was fresh.

  “Heathertail!” Breezepelt exclaimed hoarsely. “She’s in danger!” He sprang forward, but Crowfeather was faster, leading the way into the passage. Breezepelt pressed up close behind him, with Crouchfoot and Larkwing following.

  Soon the last of the light died away, and the cats padded forward in darkness. Crowfeather kept his ears pricked, straining to hear what was ahead. He could still taste stoat scent in the air, mingled with Heathertail’s. Every instinct was telling him to call out to her, but he kept silent, in case his voice would draw more stoats toward them.

  Now we have two missing cats, he thought. And we have no idea where either of them might be.

  Crowfeather’s heart pounded harder with every paw step. He could hardly bear to think what Breezepelt must be feeling. But Crowfeather could detect no signs that his son was panicking; he could hear Breezepelt’s paw steps following steadily behind. If he had any impulse to bolt, he was doing a good job fighting it.

  Then a faint shimmer from somewhere above showed Crowfeather that the tunnel was widening out into a cavern. Looking up, he saw a thin ray of light striking down from a hole in the roof. The scrabbling sound came again, claws scraping on the stone floor of the tunnel. At the same moment Crowfeather heard a chittering cry and saw a flash of white in the dimness. Briefly he halted.