Crowfeather’s Trial

  “I’m talking about the safety of all the Clans.” The voice came down the tunnel to where Crowfeather crouched concealed, the tone loud and argumentative.

  Crowfeather recognized the voice. It’s that waste of fresh-kill Berrynose.

  “We should be making sure that the other Clans have been testing the cats who fought on behalf of the Dark Forest,” Berrynose went on. “As long as there are doubts about those cats’ loyalties, the forest might never be peaceful.”

  “But we—” Another voice, which Crowfeather couldn’t identify, tried to interrupt.

  “Yes, we have asked stern questions of our warriors.” Berrynose ignored the interruption. “But how do we know that the Dark Forest warriors in other Clans can really be trusted? If they can’t, they should be driven out.”

  Crowfeather could feel the roiling anger wafting off Breezepelt, as strong as the reek of fox scent. Glancing back, he saw his son’s shoulder fur bristling and his amber eyes glittering with fury. He was sure that in a couple of heartbeats Breezepelt would launch himself out of the tunnel and fling himself on Berrynose.

  And it’s not just Breezepelt, he told himself, thinking about the Clan deputy, Harespring; Whiskernose, who should be allowed to retire with honor to the elders’ den; and Furzepelt and Larkwing, both struggling as hard as they could to be seen as loyal WindClan cats. What right has that flea-brain Berrynose to talk about driving out any cat?

  Crowfeather began to ease his way carefully back down the tunnel, signaling to Breezepelt to do the same.

  “Let’s get back to looking for Nightcloud,” he murmured when they had put several fox-lengths between themselves and the ThunderClan cats. “Nothing good will come of you listening to anything more that stupid furball has to say.”

  “I’d like to claw his pelt off,” Breezepelt growled. But to Crowfeather’s relief he didn’t try to argue. He simply rose to his paws and began to pad back the way they had come.

  But before he and Breezepelt had traveled more than a few fox-lengths, they heard the sound they had come to dread: the scratching of innumerable claws on the stone floor of the tunnel.

  “Run!” Crowfeather yowled.

  The word had hardly left his jaws before the scuttling noises were all around them, and glittering, malevolent eyes reflected the dim light of the tunnel. He choked on the reek of the scent that had become horribly familiar by now. Chittering calls broke out on all sides, and before the cats could flee, they were engulfed in a rising tide of white stoats.

  CHAPTER 6

  Thrusting the stoats aside, Crowfeather struggled down the passage, casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure that Breezepelt was following. As he lashed out with his foreclaws, the stoats drew back, so he was able to run. With Breezepelt hard on his paws he raced down the passage toward the cavern where the river flowed, all the while hearing the scrabbling of the stoats’ paws as they gave chase.

  What if we meet more of them coming up?

  As the thought went through his mind, a stoat sprang at Crowfeather out of the darkness, fastening its teeth in his shoulder. Letting out a screech of pain, Crowfeather shook it off and veered away down a side passage. Too late he realized how stale the air was and how the tunnel floor suddenly became uneven, littered with loose stones and soil. The passage narrowed rapidly until the walls pressed in on him on either side, almost crushing his ribs, and his ears brushed the roof.

  This is a dead end!

  Crowfeather stumbled to a halt and felt Breezepelt crash into him from behind, driving him even farther into the tiny space. He could taste soil in his mouth, and the air was heavy with stoat scent; he could hardly breathe.

  “Go back!” he choked out.

  “Can’t—stoats!” Breezepelt gasped in reply.

  Crowfeather could feel Breezepelt’s weight on his hindquarters as he strained against the narrow walls, and could hear the chittering of the stoats as they approached, but he was too tightly stuck to get free and help his son. He braced himself, digging his claws into the ground, and felt with a shudder of horror the light trickle of earth falling from the roof onto his pelt like a dry rain.

  Oh, StarClan, get us out of this!

  Suddenly the pressure of Breezepelt’s body on his hindquarters eased and Crowfeather was able to start moving backward. At the same moment, the stoats’ shrill calls of defiance changed to sounds of alarm, and the scrabbling of their claws died away.

  What happened? Crowfeather asked himself, stunned.

  The stoat scent began to fade, too, and another, stronger scent rose up to take its place. A familiar voice spoke from somewhere behind him.

  “You can come out now. The stoats are gone.”

  That’s that mouse-brain Berrynose’s voice, Crowfeather realized. So much for not alerting ThunderClan that we’re here!

  Paw step by paw step Crowfeather backed out of the tight tunnel until he reached the main passage again. Breezepelt was waiting for him, along with four ThunderClan warriors.

  Every hair on Crowfeather’s pelt grew hot with shame at the thought of being rescued by another Clan. Could we have been any more undignified, creeping out with our tails and hindquarters in the lead? He was grateful that it was too dark to make out the ThunderClan cats; he was embarrassed enough without having to see the satisfied look in their eyes.

  “Thank you,” he meowed, the two words needing a massive effort.

  Berrynose spoke again, his tone brusque. “Follow us up the tunnel.”

  Crowfeather and Breezepelt had no choice but to comply; Berrynose took the lead with another ThunderClan cat behind him and the remaining two ThunderClan warriors bringing up the rear. Crowfeather almost felt as if he had been taken prisoner, and had to fight to stop a growl escaping his throat. The last thing he and Breezepelt needed was to start a fight when they were not only on another Clan’s territory, but also outnumbered.

  As they brushed past the hanging ferns into the open, Crowfeather recognized Spiderleg following Berrynose; Rosepetal and Cinderheart made up the rest of the patrol.

  No problem. Nothing to worry about here. Crowfeather gave his pelt a shake, raising his head and tail, and tried to look like a seasoned, competent warrior as he faced the ThunderClan cats. But when he caught sight of Breezepelt, his fur torn and clotted with earth, his eyes wide with the memory of terror, he realized that he probably didn’t look much better himself.

  “You’re on ThunderClan territory,” Berrynose snapped. “What are you doing at our end of the tunnels?”

  “That’s none of your—” Breezepelt began defensively, but Berrynose paid no attention.

  “Don’t you know how it looks, WindClan cats lurking up here?” he demanded. “We haven’t forgotten the last time you tried launching an attack from the tunnels.”

  “We’re not here to fight,” Crowfeather mewed, trying to sound peaceable.

  “Even so, you should know better,” Spiderleg pointed out, the tip of his tail twitching to and fro. “Suppose we’d been a group of more hotheaded cats? There could have been trouble.”

  Who are you to lecture me, you bee-brain? But before Crowfeather could respond, Breezepelt let out a furious hiss. “It sounds like ThunderClan is planning for trouble—trying to tell other Clans what to do about their Dark Forest warriors. Saying they should be driven out. We’re not the cats who are causing problems!”

  Crowfeather winced as a tense silence followed his son’s words. Breezepelt, I may be angry too, but that was a really bad idea. The two ThunderClan she-cats exchanged an alarmed glance, while Spiderleg’s tail lashed even more furiously, and Berrynose slid out his claws and flattened his ears.

  “Were you eavesdropping?” he challenged Breezepelt. “Is that what you were up to? Is WindClan spying on us now?”

  Crowfeather could see Breezepelt’s muscles bunching beneath his pelt, and stepped forward quickly before his son could leap at Berrynose. Crowfeather realized he was in the strange position of trying to temper another cat??
?s anger. Usually he was the angry cat. But as much as he would have liked to claw Berrynose’s mangy pelt off and use it to line his nest . . . they were outnumbered here. And Onestar probably wouldn’t like it if they accidentally started a war with ThunderClan.

  “Breezepelt wasn’t up to anything,” Crowfeather assured them. “We were just in the tunnels . . .” He paused, wondering whether he ought to tell them about Nightcloud. If they know stoats possibly killed one of our warriors, they might try to interfere, because that’s what ThunderClan does. . . . “We weren’t spying, or trying to cause trouble,” he went on rapidly, before the ThunderClan warriors could get annoyed at his hesitation. “The stoats took us by surprise, and we didn’t realize we’d ended up close to ThunderClan until it was too late.”

  Spiderleg’s gaze flicked from Crowfeather to Breezepelt and back again. “I suppose you might have had your reasons,” he admitted grudgingly. “But given everything that’s happened, we really should take you to Bramblestar.”

  “Yes, just to make sure he knows exactly what’s going on,” Berrynose agreed.

  “You can try,” Breezepelt growled.

  Crowfeather fixed him with a glare. He sympathized with his son’s anger, but if he started a fight with the ThunderClan cats, there was no guarantee either one of them would come out of it alive. He urged him silently to keep quiet.

  “Hang on, Spiderleg,” Cinderheart meowed. “Aren’t you making too much of this? It’s not like we caught Crowfeather and Breezepelt stealing prey. Wouldn’t it be better just to escort them off our territory?”

  Finally, Crowfeather thought, A ThunderClan cat speaks reason.

  “And we can report this to Bramblestar without them,” Rosepetal added.

  “You bet we will,” Berrynose muttered.

  Flea-brain.

  He and Spiderleg exchanged a glance; then Berrynose shrugged. “I suppose they might be right.”

  At a nod from Spiderleg, Crowfeather stalked away from the tunnel entrance and headed for the stream that formed the border with ThunderClan. Breezepelt followed him, with the ThunderClan cats following in a ragged half circle.

  At first Crowfeather was relieved that the tension has passed and that he and Breezepelt were not going to be dragged into the fight that he was fearing. But then he remembered why they’d stepped into the tunnels, and his relief was replaced with a twinge of bitterness, a sick feeling in his throat, as if he had eaten crow-food.

  That went about as badly as it could have, he thought. And we still haven’t found Nightcloud.

  “Don’t come back,” Berrynose snarled as Crowfeather and Breezepelt padded across the stepping stones to the WindClan side of the stream. “And stay out of the tunnels. Next time you get into danger, ThunderClan might not be around to save your tails.”

  Breezepelt opened his jaws to retort, but he closed them again when Crowfeather slapped him on the shoulder with his tail. Both WindClan cats watched in silence as the ThunderClan warriors turned and vanished into the undergrowth.

  Crowfeather’s fur was tingling with anger—partly at the arrogance of the ThunderClan cats, but mostly at his own son.

  “If you had just kept your jaws shut, we wouldn’t have had that argument. Whatever tension remains between ThunderClan and WindClan after the Great Battle, you’ve just made it worse.”

  “But they were talking about driving cats out,” Breezepelt responded. Crowfeather could see his own anger reflected in his son’s eyes. “It might start with the cats who fought for the Dark Forest, but who’s to say it will stop there? What if they decide it will make their whole Clan safer if they just drive the whole of WindClan away?”

  “Oh, be quiet!” Crowfeather snapped. “That’s ridiculous.” Inwardly, though, he conceded that Breezepelt might have a point. Bramblestar hadn’t been leader of ThunderClan for very long. How would he react if he felt WindClan was a threat? He might be quicker to start trouble than Firestar used to be.

  Crowfeather had lost track of time while he and Breezepelt had been searching the tunnels. Now he saw that the sun was going down, the short leaf-bare day drawing to a close.

  “We can worry about ThunderClan later,” he meowed to Breezepelt. “Right now, our main problem is that we haven’t found Nightcloud, and we can’t go on looking for her in the dark. We’ll have to try again in the morning. And I’m going to have to speak to Onestar about looking on the ThunderClan side of the tunnels. I think those are the only tunnels we haven’t checked yet.”

  Breezepelt’s only response was a grunt. Sadness rose up in Crowfeather like rain filling a pool. What he wasn’t saying—what he dreaded saying—was that if Nightcloud was alive, there had to be a reason she wasn’t coming home on her own. And if she was injured or confused, it would be easier to understand her staying lost on ThunderClan territory than being unable to find her way home from WindClan’s side of the tunnels.

  He glanced at Breezepelt, who stared at the ground as they walked. Down in the tunnels, he and his son had briefly grown closer to each other, but now that seemed to be over. For a moment he tried to find something to say, something that might help to heal the breach—but the words eluded him like wily prey.

  And now isn’t the time to worry about that, he told himself. Not with Nightcloud still missing. It’s been more than a day since the stoats’ attack. Do we still have time to help her, if she’s injured? Or are we now just looking for a body?

  CHAPTER 7

  “We’re going to need a patrol,” Crowfeather told Onestar confidently the next morning, “but this time we should confine our search to the ThunderClan side of the tunnels. If Nightcloud made it out, that must be where she is. We’ve checked all the entrances on the WindClan side; we know she’s not here.”

  Onestar, who was resting outside his den, let out a sound that landed somewhere between a growl and a purr. He didn’t look pleased by this idea. “And you think ThunderClan will cooperate with this search?” he asked.

  If we ask the right cat, Crowfeather thought. He hadn’t forgotten Berrynose’s snarl when he’d dropped them off at the edge of WindClan territory. And he’d purposely approached Onestar without Breezepelt, so that the conversation wouldn’t shift to the confrontation with the ThunderClan warriors. “I think Bramblestar would,” he replied.

  Onestar twitched his whiskers. “Do you?” he asked. His expression was curious, and not entirely pleased.

  Crowfeather hesitated before replying. He remembered his comradeship with Bramblestar on the journey to the sun-drown-place. The young leader had worked hard to throw off the dark shadow Tigerstar had cast over all his kin. Long before he became leader he had proved himself to be a brave and loyal warrior. I feel I can trust him, Crowfeather mused, whatever Onestar believes of him.

  “I haven’t spent much time with Bramblestar lately,” he meowed honestly, “but what I have seen makes me think that he is an honorable cat.”

  Onestar snorted and got to his feet. “Honorable cat or no, I don’t want him involved in WindClan business.” He avoided Crowfeather’s eyes, casting his gaze across the camp to where Oatpaw was cleaning out Whiskernose’s nest.

  But is it just WindClan business? Crowfeather wondered, remembering Kestrelflight’s vision. Whatever’s coming for us—the wind wasn’t enough to drive it back alone.

  “Onestar,” he said, carefully choosing his words. Don’t say “flea-brained”; don’t say “flea-brained.” “It would be . . . foolish . . . of us to give up on finding Nightcloud just because we don’t want to involve ThunderClan.”

  “Who said we’re giving up?” Onestar retorted, turning back with an irritated expression. “No, I don’t want to look on ThunderClan territory. But if you want to look elsewhere . . .”

  “But what if she’s on ThunderClan territory?” Crowfeather asked, struggling to hide his frustration. If you make Onestar mad, he’ll dismiss the patrol idea for sure. “It isn’t a matter of where we want to go. It’s a matter of where she is. We know there?
??s something wrong. Nightcloud must be injured, or confused. If she’d come up on the WindClan side of the tunnels, she would be home by now.”

  “It hasn’t been that long,” Onestar mewed calmly. “Don’t give up on her so easily. Nightcloud is a strong warrior. If she’s alive, she’ll find her way home.”

  “I’m not giving up on her,” Crowfeather retorted, gritting his teeth. Why will no cat listen to reason in this bee-brained Clan? “Badgering you to find her is the opposite of giving up.”

  Onestar turned away now, in the direction of the fresh-kill pile. “No,” he said shortly. “I’ve heard you, but I won’t involve ThunderClan. Just be patient, Crowfeather. She’ll come home . . . if she’s alive.”

  As the leader strolled away, Crowfeather felt frustration gripping his heart like a rabbit in a trap. What if she’s alive and can’t come to us? he thought miserably.

  And how am I going to explain this to Breezepelt?

  Later that morning, Breezepelt returned from the dawn patrol and strolled immediately up to Crowfeather. “When do we leave?” he asked.

  “Leave?” Crowfeather asked, caught off guard. He was finishing up a vole and preparing to take Hootpaw and Featherpaw on a hunt. With Nightcloud missing, Hootpaw was temporarily his second apprentice. The two apprentices tousled with each other in the grass, laughing and taunting each other. It reminded Crowfeather how close they were to still being kits. And how little sense they have.

  “To find Nightcloud,” Breezepelt explained. The irritated tone in his voice seemed to add “obviously.” “I was thinking of her when we passed the memorial stones this morning. WindClan lost so many warriors in the Great Battle. . . . Nightcloud must know we need her more than ever. If she were able to come back on her own, I know she’d be here.” He looked at Crowfeather urgently.