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“It’s worth mentioning,” Whitestorm meowed calmly, “that all these cats are half ThunderClan. They have a right to ask us for shelter.”
From his vantage point on top of the Highrock, Firestar saw a ripple of shock pass through his cats as they turn e d to look at Mistyfoot, standing like a living shadow of their former leader. Remembering the hostility some of them had shown when Mistyfoot and Stonefur had shared tongues with the dead Bluestar, Firestar realized that Whitestorm was taking quite a risk in reminding them.
But this time there was no hostility. Even Mousefur and Longtail stayed silent. The story of what had happened beside the Bonehill had swung the sympathy of the Clan over to the RiverClan cats. The warriors relaxed, their shock subsiding, and there were a few murmurs of agreement with what Whitestorm had said.
Firestar looked down at the RiverClan cats where they sat at the base of the rock with Graystripe and Cinderpelt.
“Welcome to ThunderClan,” he meowed.
Mistyfoot bowed her head in gratitude. “Thank you, Firestar. We won’t forget this.”
“It was the right thing to do,” Firestar meowed. “I just hope you’ll feel completely better soon.”
“They’ll be fine, Firestar,” meowed Cinderpelt. “All they need is good food and a warm place to sleep.”
“Yes, there was no bedding in that horrible hole,” Featherpaw fretted, her eyes wide and troubled.
“You don’t need to think about that anymore,” Mistyfoot promised with a comforting lick. “Just concentrate on getting strong again. As soon as you’re fit, we’ll have to get on with your training.”
Firestar remembered that Mistyfoot was Featherpaw’s mentor. He was wondering about the difficulties of training an apprentice in unfamiliar territory, when Graystripe broke in on his thoughts.
“Stonefur was Stormpaw’s mentor, so he’ll need another one now. Is it okay if I mentor him myself?”
“Good idea,” Firestar meowed, and was rewarded by the glow of pride and pleasure in Graystripe’s eyes as he looked at his son. “We’ll hold the ceremony right away.” He wasn’t sure that it was necessary, given that Stormpaw wasn’t truly a member of ThunderClan, but there was something inside him that longed to make contact with StarClan through the old, familiar rituals.
Leaping down from the Highrock he beckoned to Stormpaw with his tail. Stormpaw came to stand in front of him, still shaky on his paws but holding his head high.
“Stormpaw, you have already begun your apprenticeship,” Firestar began. “Stonefur was a noble mentor, and ThunderClan grieves for him. Now you must continue to learn the skills of a warrior under a new mentor.” Turning to Graystripe, he went on: “Graystripe, you will continue Stormpaw’s training. You have borne suffering with a warrior’s spirit, and I expect you to pass on what you have learned to this apprentice.”
Graystripe nodded solemnly, then padded over to his son and touched noses with him. Firestar caught Brackenfur’s eye; the young tom was obviously pleased that his old mentor had a new apprentice.
Firestar brought the meeting to an end and descended from the High Rock. Glancing around, he spotted Sandstorm not far away. “Sandstorm, I want to ask you a favor.”
The ginger she-cat looked up at him. “What is it?”
“It’s about Mistyfoot. She’ll have trouble mentoring Featherpaw properly here. She doesn’t know where the training places are, or the dangers, or the best places for prey.”
Firestar hesitated, not sure if what he was about to suggest was a good idea. Not long ago he had chosen Brackenfur to mentor Tawnypaw, and Sandstorm had been deeply offended that he had passed her over. She might well take offense again at his new idea.
“Go on,” mewed Sandstorm.
“I…I wanted to ask you if you’d help Mistyfoot with Featherpaw’s training. I can’t think of any cat who would be better.”
Sandstorm gave him a long, measured look. “You think you can get around me with a bit of flattery, do you?”
“I don’t—”
Sandstrom let out a purr of laughter. “Well, maybe you can. Of course I’ll help her, you stupid furball. I’ll have a word with her now.”
Relief washed over Firestar. “Thank you, Sandstorm.”
A loud wailing interrupted him. The cats still in the clearing were staring at the entrance from the gorse tunnel. Firestar could not see what had alarmed them, but he caught the tang of blood on the air, and unfamiliar cat scent.
Thrusting his way through his warriors, Firestar reached the entrance. Limping out of the tunnel was a cat that was almost wounded beyond recognition. Blood dripped from a long gash in his flank. His fur was matted with sand and dust, and one eye was closed.
Then Firestar made out the mottled dark pelt under the dirt and managed to distinguish the scent of WindClan. The newcomer was Mudclaw, barely able to stand from pain and exhaustion.
“Mudclaw!” Firestar exclaimed. “What happened?”
Mudclaw staggered toward him. “You’ve got to help us, Firestar!” he rasped. “TigerClan is attacking our camp!”
CHAPTER 19
Firestar leaped up the slope leading into WindClan territory from Fourtrees. Behind him streamed a patrol of his warriors: Graystripe, Brackenfur, Sandstorm, Cloudtail, and Dustpelt with his apprentice, Ashpaw. Firestar had not dared bring more cats to WindClan’s aid; he had left Whitestorm in charge of the ThunderClan camp with every other warrior on watch, in case Tigerstar planned to attack them as well.
His paws skimmed the springy moorland turf as his legs drove him toward the WindClan camp. A cold wind flattened his fur, carrying the distant scent of ShadowClan. Although Firestar knew he was still too far away, he imagined he could hear the screeches of battle as Tigerstar’s warriors fell on the unsuspecting WindClan.
“We’ll be too late,” panted Graystripe at his shoulder. “Ho w long did it take Mudclaw to reach us, wounded like that?”
Firestar did not waste breath in replying. He knew Graystripe was right. This was not the first time that ThunderClan had raced to help WindClan against an alliance of ShadowClan and RiverClan. But that time they had been given more warning and they had managed to drive the attacking warriors away. No w, by the time they reached the WindClan camp, the battle could be over, and yet Firestar knew that they had to try. The warrior code, his own friendships within WindClan, and the urgency of joining together to resist TigerClan, all forced him to lead his warriors to the rescue as quickly as he could.
As they drew nearer, the scent of ShadowClan was joined by a trace of RiverClan, mingling in a new scent that Firestar realized was the distinctive odor of TigerClan. They were near enough that he expected to hear the yowls of fighting cats, and the silence gripped his heart like cold claws. The battle must be over. Firestar slowed his pace as he and his patrol climbed the last slope toward the camp, his belly filling with dread at the thought of what they might find.
Firestar slipped quietly up to the ridge where he could look down over the camp. There was a strong scent of WindCl
an in the air, along with the tang of blood and fear. A single eerie wail broke the silence as Firestar breasted the rise and saw what Tigerstar had done.
The hollow where the WindClan cats had their camp was lined with gorse bushes. A few yellow flowers still showed on the spiny branches. Beyond, in the center of the camp, Firestar could see cats huddled together, scarcely moving. As he watched, a tortoiseshell queen raised her head and let out another chilling wail.
“Morningflower!” Firestar exclaimed.
Flicking his tail for his warriors to follow him, he raced down through the bushes and into the camp. Bursting out into the open, he was confronted by the WindClan leader, Tallstar. The black-and-white tom’s fur was torn and covered in dust, and his long tail drooped with exhaustion.
“Firestar!” His voice was rough with pain. “I knew you would come.”
“Not soon enough. I’m sorry.”
The WindClan leader shook his head helplessly. “You did your best.” He turned toward the cats who crouched on the floor of the clearing, too shocked or injured to move. “You can see what Tigerstar has done.”
“Tell us what happened,” urged Graystripe.
Tallstar twitched his ears. “You can see. Tigerstar and his warriors crept up on us…we had no warning, and in any case there were too many for us to fight.”
Firestar padded forward, feeling his stomach turn over. None of the WindClan warriors had escaped with o u t wounds. Deadfoot, the WindClan deputy, was lying very still with blood trickling from a gash on his flank; next to him lay Runningbrook, a she-cat whose pale gray fur was hanging off her shoulder in clumps. Their eyes stared at nothing, as if they couldn’t believe what had happened.
Firestar could scarcely believe it either. This had been a completely unprovoked attack. There had been no warning at the last Gathering. Tigerstar had gained no extra territory for his Clan. The purpose of this attack had been nothing more than to bring fear to the WindClan cats.
