Firestar’s Quest

Chapter 28

Cherrypaw crouched at the edge of the training area, her tail lashing from side to side and her eyes gleaming. Her tortoiseshell fur bristled as she sprang forward, her claws lashing at her mentor’s shoulders. Sharpclaw dodged to one side, trying to hook the young she-cat’s paws from under her; she barreled into him, and both cats wrestled together in the sand.

“Well done!” Firestar meowed. “Cherrypaw, you’ve learned that move really well.”

Both cats sat up, panting and shaking sand out of their pelts. Cherrypaw cast a triumphant glance at her mentor. “I’ll beat you one day,” she told him.

“I hope you will,” Sharpclaw replied calmly. “My job will be done then.”

“I think that’s enough battle training for today.” Firestar rose to his paws. “Sharpclaw, when Sparrowpaw gets back from hunting patrol, I thought you and Leafdapple could give the two apprentices an assessment.”

“What’s that?” Cherrypaw asked curiously.

“Your mentor gives you a task,” Firestar explained.

“Usually to go and hunt in a particular place. Then they fol-3 8 4

low you and see how you get on, but you won’t see them. In ThunderClan every apprentice—”

He broke off at the sound of pawsteps dashing along the gorge, and a cat yowling his name. Spinning around, he caught sight of Sparrowpaw, his tabby fur bristling and his amber eyes wide with fear.

“We’ve been attacked!” He gasped. “Patchfoot’s hurt.”

“Show me,” Firestar snapped.

Sparrowpaw turned and raced back down the gorge; Firestar followed, with Sharpclaw and Cherrypaw hard on his paws.

When he rounded the curve and passed the Rockpile, Firestar saw Shortwhisker and Sandstorm dragging Patchfoot down the lowest part of the trail to lay him in the shade of the cliff. His head hung limply and his tail dragged in the sand; blood dripped from a wound in his shoulder. Firestar’s belly lurched.

When he padded up to Patchfoot’s side he saw that his chest was heaving with rapid, shallow breaths. His eyes were open, filled with pain and fear.

“What happened?” Firestar asked, turning to Sandstorm.

Sandstorm rested her tail reassuringly on Patchfoot’s uninjured shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she mewed. “We’ll fix you up as good as new.” Giving her attention to Firestar, she went on, “We were attacked by rats outside the abandoned Twoleg barn.”

“More rats than you’ve ever seen in your life!” Shortwhisker gasped. His fur was still fluffed out with shock.

Icy claws pricked Firestar’s spine. “I knew there was something wrong with that place,” he meowed.

“We fought them off,” Sandstorm continued, “but two of them jumped on Patchfoot.”

“You’re wounded yourself,” Firestar pointed out, noticing a patch of fur matted with blood on her side.

Sandstorm twitched her ears. “That’s nothing. I’ll see to it when I’ve done what I can for Patchfoot.”

By this time, more of the cats had appeared: Leafdapple came down from the warriors’ den, while Petal and Rainfur, who had been playing with their kits a little way downriver, padded up and gazed anxiously at the wounded warrior.

“Will he die?” Petal’s voice quavered.

“Not if I can help it,” Sandstorm replied. “Cherrypaw, go to the Whispering Cave and get me some moss. Sparrowpaw, you go into some of the unused caves and bring me as many cobwebs as you can find.”

Sparrowpaw’s whiskers quivered with surprise. “Cobwebs?”

“To stop the bleeding.” Sandstorm flicked her tail at him.

“Hurry!”

Once the two apprentices had scurried off, Firestar and Leafdapple picked up Patchfoot and carried him to the lowest cave, which Skywatcher had told them once belonged to the Clan’s medicine cat. There was a large outer cave with some scrapes in the floor, and a smaller, deeper cave beyond it that would have been the medicine cat’s den. In a niche in the rock Sandstorm had discovered a few ancient, crumbled leaves, and the scent of sweet herbs seemed to hang in the air.

Patchfoot let out a groan when his Clanmates moved him, and by the time they laid him down in the medicine cat’s cave he had lost consciousness.

“Do you think you can help him?” Firestar asked.

Sandstorm’s green eyes were anxious. “I don’t know. I can stop the bleeding with cobwebs, but I’m worried the wounds will get infected. Cinderpelt would use marigold or horsetail, but I don’t know where they grow around here.”

“I do.” The voice was Petal’s; the pale gray cat had followed them and was looking in through the cave entrance. “There’s marigold in my Twoleg’s garden.”

Sandstorm spun around, hope gleaming in her green eyes.

“Can you get some?”

Petal flattened her ears; Firestar could see that she was trembling. “How… how important is it?”

“Very,” Sandstorm replied.

Petal straightened her shoulders. “Then I’ll go fetch some.”

“Oh, no, you won’t.” Rainfur appeared beside Petal. “I’ll go.

I know where the marigold grows.” He gave Petal’s ear a lick.

“You look after the kits, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

“That would be great,” Firestar meowed.

Rainfur darted off, and Firestar padded over to Petal.

“Thanks for offering, but you shouldn’t have to go back to that Twoleg nest again.”

Petal looked up at him, her eyes wide with guilt.

“Sometimes I think I should have stayed with my Twoleg,” she murmured. “But I can’t bear even to think about him.”

“You don’t have to,” Firestar told her. “You’re safe here.”

Petal dipped her head and went out, calling to her kits.

Sandstorm crouched down beside Patchfoot and began to clean the blood from his shoulder wound with strong rasps of her tongue. Firestar watched her for a couple of heartbeats, then went back outside, passing Cherrypaw as she entered with a huge bundle of moss.

The rest of the Clan was gathered around Shortwhisker, listening to his account of the rat attack. “And then they poured out of the barn as thick as a river!” he meowed. “You couldn’t see the ground for rats.”

“That’s enough.” Firestar stepped forward and silenced the tabby warrior with a flick of his tail. The Clan was shocked enough by Patchfoot’s injuries without hearing exaggerated stories of how he came by them. “I’ve dealt with rats before,” he went on. “They’re nasty creatures, but a strong patrol of cats can beat them. Sharpclaw, you can come with me. And Cherrypaw…” He waved the apprentice over as she reappeared from the medicine cat’s cave. “We’ll go and check this out for ourselves.”

“Aren’t you glad you practiced those fighting moves?”

Sharpclaw muttered to his apprentice.

Cherrypaw’s only reply was an enthusiastic wave of her tail; her eyes were gleaming with excitement.

“Leafdapple, you’re in charge of the camp while we’re away.

If I were you, I would get all the kits inside the nursery with Clovertail, and then guard the entrance. Just in case.”

The tabby she-cat dipped her head. “Don’t worry, Firestar.

We’ll be fine.” She bounded off to round up the kits.

Firestar took a last look at the camp, then led the way up the stony trails to the top of the cliff. There was no scent of rats here, just the hot reek of Patchfoot’s blood, but he ordered the patrol to keep silent, and crept as stealthily as he could through the undergrowth and across the scrubland toward the Twoleg barn.

Long before he reached it he began to pick up a strong rat scent, and as he and his patrol drew closer the sense of a malevolent force, of cold eyes watching him from the shadows, swept over him again. Firestar shivered to the roots of his pelt.

Rats!

That was what he had sensed in the undergrowth downstream. Rats whose hatred of cats spilled out like a dark, poisonous river. He was surprised at the strength of that hatred, and how focused it was. The rats he had met before had been vicious, but not like this, purposeful and cunning.

Everything was quiet as the SkyClan patrol approached the shiny fence that surrounded the barn. The ragged holes in the walls seemed to stare at them, but except for the scent there was no sign of a rat.

“Firestar, over here!” Sharpclaw was sniffing a little farther along the fence, beckoning his leader with his tail.

When he joined the ginger tom, Firestar saw the ground torn up by claws, and patches of soil still darkened by clots of blood.

“This must be where the attack happened,” Sharpclaw mewed.

Firestar nodded. Just beyond the clawed-up area was a gap at the bottom of the shiny fence, big enough for a cat to squeeze through. For a heartbeat his paws froze to the ground; then he gave his pelt a shake. This was just a gang of rats, nothing that he couldn’t cope with, as long as he had strong warriors to back him up.

“Okay,” he murmured. “We’re going in. Cherrypaw, follow me. Sharpclaw, keep a lookout behind.”

Ears pricked and whiskers twitching, he slid through the gap and padded softly across the white stone surface toward the barn. There was still no sign of movement. Firestar would have liked to think that Sandstorm’s patrol had frightened the rats off, if it weren’t for that overwhelming sensation of being watched.

“Are we going inside?” Sharpclaw asked.

“Not if we don’t have to,” Firestar replied. “They can do what they like on their own territory. We’ll just take a look around outside and then—”

He broke off, every hair on his pelt rising in horror. With a patter of tiny paws, rats had begun pouring out of one of the holes in the walls of the barn, more rats than he had seen in his life, more than he could have imagined living in one barn.

Whipping around, he saw yet more emerging from another hole. The two streams flowed around the three cats, a whispering torrent of brown bodies and long, thin tails. None of them squeaked; there was just the small, terrible sound of their scampering feet as they moved steadily, purposefully, into position. Firestar and his patrol were surrounded; an unbroken mass of rats stood a tail-length away from them, blocking the route to the gap in the fence. Their tiny glittering eyes were filled with malice.

Shortwhisker didn’t exaggerate! Firestar thought in horror. You really can’t see the ground for rats.

Sharpclaw had dropped into a crouch, ready to spring, his teeth drawn back in a snarl. Firestar stood beside him, flicking a glance at Cherrypaw. The young tortoiseshell’s eyes were glazed with terror, but she was facing her enemies and trying to stand firm, even though her legs were trembling.

“Okay,” Firestar murmured. “When I raise my tail, head for the fence.”

Sharpclaw acknowledged the order with a lash of his tail.

Firestar tensed, ready to give the signal, and wished he could have said good-bye to Sandstorm. But before he could move, the mass of rats parted and a single rat stepped out into the gap between them and the cats. It was bigger than most of the others, with a wiry, muscular body and curving yellow teeth.

“Fine,” Sharpclaw growled. “You want to die first, do you?”

The rat’s wedge-shaped head swung back and forth as its malignant gaze flicked from cat to cat, and it began to speak.

To Firestar’s astonishment he could understand what it said, though the words were so twisted it was hard to make them out.

“Rats not die.” Its voice grated like a claw dragged over stone. “Cats die.”

Sharpclaw slid his claws out. “You’re sure of that, are you?”

“Leave,” the rat went on. “All cats leave. We killed you before; now we kill you again.”

“You killed us before?” Firestar exclaimed.

“This time we let black-and-white cat live.” The rat’s eyes glittered with hatred. “But only this time. You stay by river, you die.”

It kinked its tail over its back, and as if they had been waiting for the signal the other rats separated into two streams again and flowed back into the barn. The rat who had spoken slid in among them and was lost to sight.

Firestar flicked his tail toward the gap. “Go!”

While Cherrypaw and Sharpclaw squeezed out into the scrubland, Firestar turned to face the barn. His heart was thumping hard enough to break out of his chest. “The gorge is our place,” he yowled after the river of retreating bodies.

“We will not leave.”

Then he spun around, slid through the gap, and raced across the open ground with Cherrypaw and Sharpclaw by his side. They didn’t stop until they reached the shelter of the bushes at the top of the cliff.

“I’ve never seen so many rats!” Cherrypaw panted, her eyes wide.

“Nor have I,” Firestar admitted. “And I’ve never come across a rat who could speak to cats before.”

Sharpclaw was giving himself a quick grooming, as if he was trying to hide how troubled he was. “I’ve never met one, but I’ve heard of rats like that—rats who could think, and plan, and hate. My mother used to tell me stories, and I thought that’s all they were—just stories.”

“I wish they were.” Firestar’s alarm was growing. “He said, ‘We killed you before.’ I’ve got a horrible feeling I know what he meant.”

“What?” Cherrypaw asked.

Firestar wasn’t ready to reply; there was something he needed to check. Waving his tail for the others to follow, he pushed through the bushes to the cliff top and down the trail as far as the warriors’ den.

“Look at that,” he mewed, pointing with his tail to the scratches on the column of rock by the entrance.

“Yes, our ancestors’ claw marks.” Sharpclaw nodded.

“Look at the smaller claw marks at the bottom, the ones that go across instead of up and down. I always assumed that kits made them, but now I think they’re the marks of rats.”

Peering more closely at the marks, Firestar matched them in his memory with the tiny claws of rats. No kit would have claws so thorn-sharp.

Cherrypaw’s eyes stretched wide. “Rats came here?”

Firestar nodded. “We’ve always known that something drove the first SkyClan cats out of here and scattered them so that the Clan was destroyed. Now I think we know what that ‘something’ was.”

“Rats!” Sharpclaw snarled.

“Rats,” Firestar agreed.

Gazing down at the thin claw marks, scored across the ones made by cats, Firestar found it was easy to imagine hordes of rats pouring into the gorge and overwhelming the SkyClan warriors. They had set their marks in this cave to proclaim their victory. Firestar had no doubt that he was looking at a record of SkyClan’s defeat.

This was the secret that Skywatcher had refused to tell him, the secret of how the first SkyClan had been driven from the gorge. The rats’ hatred had been passed down and now it was being nourished by the leader Firestar and his patrol had met outside the barn—the rat who spoke cat, who must have learned to speak the language of his enemies to let them know exactly what he would do to them. He would stop at nothing to rid his territory of cats, just as his ancestors had done long ago.

Firestar worked his claws in the sandy floor. Were SkyClan doomed to be driven out of their homes again, just as their ancestors had been?

He padded out of the den and gazed across the gorge.

Clouds covered the sky, though there was a pale gleam of light where the sun was trying to break through. Slowly the clouds shifted into a pattern of light and dark, until the SkyClan ancestor’s face was looking down at him with eyes full of wisdom. Firestar’s paws seemed to freeze to the rock, and every hair on his pelt tingled. Why should the SkyClan ancestor appear now, when Firestar had not seen him for so long? Somehow Firestar was convinced it must be because there was a way to defeat the rats and save the Clan.

The clouds shifted again and the face of the ancestor disappeared. But the encouragement he had given Firestar flowed through his body from ears to tail tip. “Come on,” he meowed, glancing over his shoulder at Sharpclaw. “I’m going to call a Clan meeting.”

“Cats of SkyClan.” Firestar stood on top of the Rockpile, his flame-colored pelt gleaming in a shaft of sunshine. “You heard what happened today, first to Sandstorm’s patrol and then when I went back with Sharpclaw and Cherrypaw. Now we have to decide what we’re going to do.”

Pausing, he let his gaze travel over the Clan below. All the cats were sitting close to one another, as if they needed the physical support of their Clanmates. Petal was missing, looking after the kits in the nursery cave, but Rainfur was here, even though he wasn’t a Clan warrior. Sandstorm was sitting at the mouth of the medicine cat’s den, where she could keep an eye on Patchfoot and still listen to what was being said at the meeting.

“Can we do anything?” Leafdapple asked. “If there are as many rats as you say, how can we possibly beat them?” Her eyes met Firestar’s as she spoke; she wasn’t frightened or despairing, but Firestar could tell she saw no point in facing a battle they couldn’t win.

He knew he had to be honest with her. “It’s going to be tough. I’ve never come across rats like these before. But we don’t have to kill them all. Just enough to make them stay in their own territory.”

“They drove out the first SkyClan,” Sparrowpaw mewed nervously. “Why should we be any different?” Shortwhisker murmured agreement, his whiskers twitching.

“At least we know what we have to face,” Firestar replied.

He scraped his claws along the rock, desperate to turn this huddle of shaken cats into a Clan of loyal, determined warriors. “Your warrior ancestors are watching you now,” he told them, hoping it was true. “You should fight for their sakes, not just your own. This is your chance to take revenge!”

“Why?” Cherrypaw demanded. “We’ve never met our warrior ancestors. Okay, we’re living in their camp, but that doesn’t mean we have to fight their battles.”

Clovertail nodded, taking a pawstep that brought her to the young tortoiseshell’s side. “Cherrypaw is right. We’ve got to decide what’s right for us, not for some dead cats who already lost their battle.”

Firestar winced; Clovertail’s words were harsh, but she had a point.

“And what about the kits?” Shortwhisker fretted. “They can’t fight. But the rats will kill them if they come here.”

Rainfur bared his teeth. “Over my dead body.”

Firestar gazed frustratedly down at them. Shortwhisker obviously didn’t understand the warrior code that would protect the weakest members of the Clan above all else. And Rainfur didn’t seem to realize that he could rely on the Clan for help.

Before he could speak again, Sharpclaw stepped forward.

“What are you, warriors or mice? Are you going to let prey beat you? I’ll fight to the death if necessary—and as often as I have to,” he added, with a dark look at Firestar.

Firestar tensed. Sharpclaw couldn’t have given a more obvious hint that he expected to be chosen as Clan leader.

But at least he seemed to have shaken off some of the despondency that had settled over the Clan like a clinging fog.

“There’s no point in every warrior fighting to the death,” Firestar pointed out quietly. “Then there would be no Clan left to fight for. But think about this,” he went on. “If you don’t want to fight for your warrior ancestors, then how about fighting for yourselves? You’ve achieved so much—making a home here, rescuing Petal and her kits. Isn’t that worth fighting for?”

His heartbeat quickened when he saw that he was reaching them at last. “This is a good home for you,” he meowed, waving his tail to take in the river and the caves of the camp.

“You’ve all worked hard for it, and you deserve to be here.

Are you going to let the rats drive you out?”

“No! We’re staying,” Sharpclaw hissed. “And we’ll tear the throats out of any rats who try to stop us.”

“Yes!” Cherrypaw screeched, springing forward.

“We’ll fight!” Sparrowpaw jumped up to stand beside them, and the rest of the Clan yowled in agreement. “We’ll fight!”

Firestar gazed over their heads to where Sandstorm was still sitting outside the medicine cat’s den. Their eyes met.

Oh, StarClan, Firestar thought, I hope I’m not leading them to their deaths.