Tigerclaw's Fury

  It wasn’t long before he spotted Blackfoot’s white pelt slinking between the trunks. Tangleburr was a few steps behind, better hidden among the foliage. Tigerclaw stayed where he was, just within scenting distance of the ShadowClan border marks, and waited. They seemed to be following the line of the border, not crossing over, but close enough to be seen by any passing cats. They were talking to each other in low, anxious voices.

  “Did you forget about battle training?” Tigerclaw meowed when they were within earshot.

  Both cats stared at him, guilt shining in their eyes. “We . . . we were just on our way,” Blackfoot stammered.

  “Don’t lie,” mewed Tigerclaw, padding up to them and sniffing their fur. “You smell of ShadowClan—more than you did already, I mean. Who have you been talking to?”

  Tangleburr flattened her ears. “We didn’t cross the border, I promise. We just wanted to see how they were.”

  Tigerclaw flicked his tail. “How who were?” He wanted to force them to admit that their loyalties still lay with their former Clan, that he would never be able to trust them, that all his training had been for nothing. You should kill them where they stand, encouraged the voice.

  Blackfoot stepped forward, and Tigerclaw almost flinched as he realized the white tom was as tall and broad-chested as he was. “We have done nothing wrong,” Blackfoot insisted. “We just wanted to know why there were so few border patrols. We met Dawncloud and Rowanberry hunting on their own. There is a terrible sickness in ShadowClan, and almost every warrior has been affected. Without hunting patrols, the whole Clan is starving.”

  “The sickness came from the rats at the Carrionplace,” Tangleburr put in. “Runningnose is doing everything he can, but there are too many infected cats.”

  “Why do you think this is your problem?” Tigerclaw asked mildly. “Your Clanmates will want nothing to do with you because of your connection to Brokenstar.”

  Blackfoot’s eyes flashed. “I was loyal to Brokenstar because he was the leader of my Clan, just as every ShadowClan warrior should have been. I am still a ShadowClan cat, whatever happens.”

  Tangleburr nodded. “These cats that are sick and starving, they are my kin, my friends. I may have left the territory, but I can’t forget them.”

  For a moment, Tigerclaw felt a stab of envy. He didn’t miss a single one of his Clanmates, not treacherous Darkstripe or Longtail, nor the weak and fawning kittypet-lovers among the other warriors. Was he going to lose control of Blackfoot and Tangleburr because of their sentimental attachment to cats who no longer cared about them?

  You can’t challenge their loyalty, warned the voice. So use it for your own ends. If ShadowClan is as weak as they say, it poses no threat to your destiny. Remember, mercy is a sign of great power.

  Tigerclaw blinked. “For your own safety, I forbid you to enter ShadowClan’s territory,” he meowed. “But I want to hear for myself what is happening in their camp. We will wait for the next patrol, and I will speak to them.”

  They didn’t have to wait long. A slow, stumbling crunch of twigs and dried leaves announced the approach of a patrol. Regular pauses told Tigerclaw they were renewing border marks—as if scent alone would keep the ravaged Clan safe. Three cats stumbled into view between the tree trunks. Tigerclaw narrowed his eyes, recognizing Fernshade, Deerfoot, and Boulder. The big gray tom who had been born in Twolegplace spotted the waiting cats first and bounded forward.

  “Tangleburr! Blackfoot! Rowanberry told me she had seen you! What are you doing here?” Boulder’s eyes were bright, but his ribs showed beneath his pelt and his flanks were tucked up with hunger.

  “We live here now,” Tangleburr meowed, gesturing with her tail in the direction of the fallen oak. “Stumpytail and Clawface are with us . . . and Tigerclaw.”

  Boulder’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve heard rumors of an attack on ThunderClan,” he meowed. “Was that you?”

  Blackfoot flicked his tail. “That’s not what we want to talk to you about. What is happening in ShadowClan? Are you really dying from this sickness?”

  Fernshade padded forward. She looked older than Tigerclaw remembered, her tortoiseshell fur patched and clumpy, and one eye stuck shut with weeping yellow ooze. “We have been sick from the rats before, but never this bad,” she rasped. “Runningnose hasn’t slept for a quarter moon, trying to find enough herbs for us all.”

  “Why are you telling them this?” snarled Deerfoot, shouldering his way between his Clanmates. “These cats are no longer our Clanmates. They turned their back on the warrior code when they chose to follow Brokenstar.” He glared at Blackfoot and Tangleburr, then let his gaze rest on Tigerclaw. “And this cat is not to be trusted,” he growled softly. “What are you planning, Tigerclaw? I thought your Clanmates would have clawed your fur off by now.”

  Tigerclaw forced his pelt to lie flat. “I chose to leave,” he meowed. “ThunderClan is ruled by a kittypet now that Bluestar listens to Fireheart before anyone else.”

  Deerfoot’s nostrils flared. “I can’t imagine you giving up that easily, Tigerclaw.”

  Tangleburr rested her nose against Fernshade’s flank. “You look so tired,” she mewed sadly. “Would you like us to hunt for you?”

  “No!” snapped Tigerclaw and Deerfoot at the same time.

  “We can hunt for ourselves,” insisted the ShadowClan cat.

  “You owe these cats nothing,” hissed Tigerclaw. “I’ve heard enough. Come, follow me.” He turned, and for a moment his heart beat faster as he wondered if Tangleburr and Blackfoot would obey. There was a brief silence, then he heard paw steps padding after him.

  “May StarClan light your path!” Fernshade called.

  “And yours,” Tangleburr whispered in reply.

  “We meet again, Tigerclaw!” snarled the ginger cat. “And this time, I won’t let you live!”

  “Really, Fireheart?” Tigerclaw sneered. “Have you forgotten that you’re nothing but a soft-bellied kittypet?” He launched himself forward, claws raking the air in search of the orange pelt. All around him, he could hear ThunderClan cats yowling in fury, and the thud and scrape of paws as blows were landed. In his dream, Tigerclaw looked desperately around, trying to see who was fighting alongside him. Was he supposed to take on the whole of his former Clan alone?

  But instead of well-trained ranks of warriors matching his strikes, there were nothing but shadows—shadows filled with shrieks and the crash of paw steps, but thin black air nonetheless. Tigerclaw felt Fireheart’s claws find the half-healed wound on his belly and he leaped sideways, snapping his teeth where the tom’s neck should be.

  His jaws closed on a mouthful of dusty leaves, and Tigerclaw woke coughing and churning the leaf-mold with his paws.

  “Are you all right?” Clawface asked sleepily from beside him.

  “Fine,” growled Tigerclaw. He stood up and left the nest, shaking the bad dream from his pelt. If he had to fight every battle alone, he would not give up! Even with an army of shadows, he would still win!

  He paused. He had dreamed of shadows fighting alongside him, screeching and matching him blow for blow. He tipped back his head and looked up at the milky sky between the branches. Was it an omen from StarClan?

  Would it be ShadowClan that helped him destroy Fireheart?

  CHAPTER 4

  Tigerclaw waited until the patrol was nearly on top of him before stepping out from behind the clump of brittle ferns. Rowanberry stopped dead, her brown-and-cream pelt already spiking along her back. Behind her, the patrol scrambled to a halt, staring at Tigerclaw in alarm.

  Tigerclaw flicked his tail. “I come in peace,” he rumbled. “I know about the sickness in ShadowClan. My friends and I will hunt for you, asking nothing in return except that your former Clanmates are forgiven for their misguided loyalty to Brokenstar. They know they were wrong, and they want to make amends.”

  Rowanberry peered past him. “I don’t see them here, though.”

  Tigerclaw bent his head. “They don’
t know I’m talking to you. They would be too proud to beg for your forgiveness, so I am appealing on their behalf. Please, let us stock your fresh-kill pile, find herbs for Runningnose, at least until you have beaten this sickness.”

  Dawncloud stepped forward, her pale ginger coat glowing in the dawn sunlight. “Do they want to come back to the camp?” she asked.

  Tigerclaw shook his head. “No, we will stay out here, in the den we have made for ourselves. I promise, we want nothing else but to help you.”

  “I can understand why our former Clanmates might want to hunt for us,” meowed Flintfang, a gray tom who looked ready to join the elders, if his legs held up long enough to get back to the camp. “But why you, Tigerclaw? You have never been a friend to ShadowClan.”

  Tigerclaw shrugged. “I am rival to no Clan now that I live outside any borders. Your Clanmates helped me not so long ago, and I am in their debt.”

  The old tom narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know what Nightstar would say about this.”

  “He’d say, ‘Pride won’t stock the fresh-kill pile!’” retorted Dawncloud spiritedly. “Tigerclaw, it’s a generous offer, and we accept.”

  “But you don’t need to bring the fresh-kill to the camp,” meowed Flintfang. “We’ll meet you here at dawn tomorrow, and take it from you.”

  Tigerclaw nodded. “Of course, if that’s what you wish. Have a safe journey back to your camp. We will be here tomorrow.” He turned before the cats could speak again and pushed deeper into the ferns. Mercy is a sign of great power. By the time the sun rose again, ShadowClan would be in his debt.

  Blackfoot and Tangleburr were delighted to hear that ShadowClan would let them hunt on its behalf, but Clawface was less trusting.

  “What if it’s a trap?” he muttered. “They may be sick, but they still outnumber us. Once we’re inside the camp, anything could happen.”

  “They’re taking the fresh-kill from us on the border,” Tigerclaw mewed. “I’m not putting any of us in danger for the sake of filling their bellies.”

  The ancient oak trees offered good hunting, though the ground was damper than Tigerclaw was used to. Snag managed to knock a squirrel clean out of a tree with a single blow from his paw, and Tangleburr returned with a brace of frogs dangling from her mouth.

  “ShadowClan cats like them,” she mewed defensively when Tigerclaw curled his lip.

  By the time they returned to the clump of ferns at the border, Tigerclaw was satisfied with their offering. Enough to make a significant contribution to a Clan’s fresh-kill pile, but not so much that it looked like hunting for ShadowClan was the only concern these cats had in their lives. Even after two long hunts the day before, Tigerclaw had insisted on battle practice as the sun sank behind the trees. Tangleburr’s strong neck muscles gave her a ferocious bite, and Tigerclaw had been encouraging her to sharpen her teeth on the stump of an old apple tree, which had the strongest wood. Snag was becoming less cautious about using his weight to his advantage, and it had taken Stumpytail several moments to catch his breath after a particularly heavy blow.

  “You came.”

  Tigerclaw ignored the faint note of surprise in Flintfang’s voice. “I always keep my promises,” he meowed.

  Boulder lowered his head and sniffed the heap of prey. “This will fill our fresh-kill pile better than it has been for days,” he commented.

  Dawncloud blinked warmly at her former Clanmates. “Thank you. I’ll make sure Nightstar knows what you have done. There will be no grudges against you after this.”

  “Good,” Tigerclaw mewed. “And to make sure that Nightstar knows precisely who has helped him, we’ll help you take this to the camp.”

  Boulder tensed. “You said you’d stay out of ShadowClan territory for now. We can’t guarantee how our Clanmates will react.”

  Tigerclaw stepped confidently across the scent line. “As Dawncloud said, your Clanmates will only be grateful for our help.” He looked over his shoulder at the cats waiting by the ferns. “Come on, all of you.” The former ShadowClan cats padded warily to join him. Snag brought up the rear, his nostrils flaring as the scent of the Clan washed over him.

  Tigerclaw picked up the squirrel—the largest piece of prey—and gestured with his tail to prompt the others to help. Flintfang narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Dawncloud led the way back through the pines, reaching out with her tail to brush against Stumpytail. Tigerclaw knew they had been close friends as apprentices, and he decided to watch the brown tom closely to make sure his loyalties didn’t return too wholeheartedly to his former Clan.

  As they approached the thicket of brambles where ShadowClan made its camp, a wave of stench filled Tigerclaw’s mouth and nose. Behind his mouthful of squirrel, he tried not to retch, and he could tell by the looks of alarm on his companions’ faces that they were equally repulsed.

  Boulder put down the sparrow he was carrying and halted just outside the entrance to the camp. “No cat has escaped the sickness,” he meowed quietly. “If you don’t want to risk getting infected, you should turn back now.”

  Tigerclaw lifted his head. “We are not afraid to deliver help,” he insisted around his mouthful of squirrel fur. Beside him, Blackfoot nodded, although Snag looked increasingly reluctant to keep going.

  They followed Boulder through the gap in the brambles, into the clearing at the center of the camp. Tigerclaw spotted the remains of a fresh-kill pile in a corner—now a pitiful scraping of bones and feathers—and strode over to it. He deposited the squirrel and turned to look around. Dozens of eyes gleamed from the shadows under the thorns, and the air was filled with shocked whispers.

  Rowanberry emerged from a den. “Dawncloud told us you were going to hunt for us. We didn’t expect you to deliver it yourselves.”

  Tangleburr dropped her frogs on the pile and trotted over to her old Clanmate. “We had to know how you are,” she mewed. “Please don’t send us away.”

  There was a faint rustle of branches behind Tigerclaw, and he spun around to see Runningnose, the sickly ShadowClan medicine cat, stumble out beside a black tom who was so thin, his fur looked as if it was sliding from his bones.

  “You did a brave thing, coming here,” Nightstar rasped.

  Tigerclaw dipped his head. “Your former Clanmates would not stand by and let you starve, and my loyalty is to them now. This is not courage, it is merely following the warrior code.”

  Dawncloud went over to Nightstar. “Look, do you see the fresh-kill pile?” she prompted gently. “We will all fill our bellies tonight!”

  “We can still hunt for ourselves,” growled a voice from the side of the clearing. Deerfoot walked forward, his eyes glistening with what Tigerclaw thought might be the beginnings of the infection. “These cats left our Clan for a reason. Maybe we should think twice before welcoming them back.”

  Runningnose flattened his ears. “These cats, as you call them, may have saved us all from starving to death,” he meowed. “Show them some gratitude, Deerfoot.”

  Clawface was looking around. “Where’s Cinderfur?” he asked. “I heard he’d been made deputy.”

  Rowanberry padded over to him. Tigerclaw recalled that she and Clawface had been mates a long time ago, and Cinderfur was one of their kits. “He died, Clawface,” she whispered, leaning into the fur on his shoulder. “He was the one who brought the sickness into the camp, when he caught an infected rat.”

  Clawface swayed and took a step back. “He died?” he echoed. “I should have been here, Rowanberry. If I had caught that rat instead . . .”

  The she-cat tapped his mouth with her tail. “Hush. Our son walks with StarClan now. He will know what you have done for us today.”

  Tigerclaw put his head on one side. “Who replaced Cinderfur as deputy?” he asked Nightstar.

  The old leader started, as if he had dozed off while still on his feet.

  “Nightstar has been too sick to choose a new deputy,” Runningnose put in. He stepped a little closer to the black tom so that he was su
pporting some of his weight. Tigerclaw thought he had never seen a weaker, more pitiful-looking pair of cats. “I fulfill the duties of a deputy for now,” the medicine cat went on.

  Tigerclaw couldn’t imagine that took up much time. There weren’t enough healthy cats to organize regular hunting or border patrols, as he and the others had noticed from the other side of the boundary. He felt a stir of curiosity in his belly. A sick, elderly leader, no deputy, a medicine cat run ragged trying to treat the illness that ravaged his Clanmates . . . ShadowClan was sinking faster than a stone in a river.

  Nightstar twitched and stood more upright. “Tigerclaw, you are most welcome to stay and share the fresh-kill with us,” he meowed formally. He gestured with his tail. “Please help yourself first.”

  Tigerclaw bowed his head low. “We wouldn’t dream of it, Nightstar,” he mewed. “We caught this prey for you. ShadowClan’s need is far greater than ours. But, if you will allow it, we will continue to hunt on your behalf, until your Clanmates are strong and well again.”

  Nightstar let out a faint purr. “You are so kind,” he rasped. “May StarClan light your path, always.”

  “Oh, they will,” Tigerclaw murmured as he turned and summoned his cats with a flick of his tail. Clawface drew reluctantly away from Rowanberry, and Stumpytail cast a yearning glance toward Dawncloud, but they all followed him as he padded out of the camp and into the pine trees.

  “I’ll show you to the border,” Flintfang offered, but Tigerclaw shook his head.

  “Stay and eat with your Clanmates,” he urged. “We know the way back.”