Rising Storm

Chapter 18

“Not as long as Fireheart is alive,” Cinderpelt argued.

Fireheart felt warmed by her faith in him and was about to respond when Thornpaw complained, his words muffled, “It’s still bleeding you know!”

“Not for long,” answered Yellowfang briskly. “Here, Cinderpelt. You make use of these cobwebs while I see to Fireheart’s wounds.” She nudged the cobwebs closer to Cinderpelt and led Fireheart away to her den. “Wait here,” she ordered, and disappeared inside. She emerged with a mouthful of well-chewed herbs. “Now, where does it hurt?”

“This one’s the worst,” answered Fireheart, twisting his head to point to a bite on his shoulder.

“Right,” meowed Yellowfang. She began to rub in some of the herb mixture with a gentle paw. “Bluestar’s very shaken,” she murmured, not looking up from what she was doing.

“I know,” Fireheart agreed. “I’m going to organize more patrols at once. That may calm her.”

“It may help calm the rest of the Clan too,” Yellowfang remarked. “They’re really worried.”

“They should be.” Fireheart winced as Yellowfang pressed the herbs deep into his wound.

“How are the new apprentices coming along?” she asked, her voice deceptively casual.

Fireheart knew the old medicine cat was offering advice in her wise and indirect fashion. “I’ll speed up their training, starting at dawn,” he told her. Sorrow caught in his throat as he thought of Cloudpaw. The Clan needed him now more than ever; no matter what the white apprentice had thought of the warrior code, no cat could deny that he was a brave and skillful fighter.

Yellowfang stopped massaging his shoulder.

“Have you finished?” he meowed.

“Nearly. I’ll just put a little on those scratches; then you can go.” The old cat blinked at him with wide yellow eyes. “Have courage, young Fireheart. These are dark times for ThunderClan, but no cat could do more than you have.” As she spoke, there was a low rumble of thunder in the distance, a hint of menace that sent a chill through Fireheart’s fur in spite of the medicine cat’s encouragement.

When he returned to the main clearing, his wounds numbed by Yellowfang’s healing herbs, Fireheart was surprised to find many of the cats still awake. Bluestar, Whitestorm, and Mousefur crouched silently beside Runningwind’s body, their grief made plain in their lowered heads and tense shoulders. The other cats lay in small groups, their eyes blinking in the shadows and their ears twitching nervously as they listened to the noises of the forest.

Fireheart lay down at the edge of the clearing. The stifling air made his fur prickle. The whole forest seemed to be waiting for the storm to break. A shadow moved near the edge of the clearing. Fireheart swung his head around. It was Darkstripe.

Fireheart beckoned the striped warrior closer with his tail. Darkstripe slowly padded toward him. “I want you to take out a second patrol as soon as the dawn patrol returns tomorrow,” Fireheart meowed. “From now on there will be three extra patrols every day, and all patrols will have three warriors.”

Darkstripe looked coolly at Fireheart. “But I’m taking Fernpaw out training tomorrow morning.”

Fireheart’s fur prickled with irritation. “Then take her with you,” he snapped. “It’ll be good experience. We need to speed up apprentice training anyway.”

Darkstripe’s ears flicked, but his gaze remained steady. “Yes, deputy,” he murmured, his eyes glittering.

Fireheart wearily pushed his way into Bluestar’s den. Even though it was not yet sunhigh, he’d been out on patrol twice already that day. And he would be taking Whitestorm’s apprentice, Brightpaw, out hunting this afternoon. The days since Runningwind’s death had been busy. All the warriors and apprentices were exhausted trying to keep up with the new patrols. With Willowpelt and Goldenflower in the nursery, Whitestorm reluctant to leave his leader’s side, Cloudpaw gone, and Runningwind dead, Fireheart barely had time to eat and sleep.

Bluestar crouched in her nest, her eyes half-closed, and for a moment Fireheart wondered if she had caught the ShadowClan sickness. Her fur was even more matted, and she sat with the stillness of a cat who could no longer care for itself, but waited silently for death.

“Bluestar,” Fireheart quietly called her name.

The old she-cat turned her head slowly toward him.

“We’ve been patrolling the forest constantly,” he reported. “There’s been no sign of Tigerclaw and his rogues.”

Bluestar looked away without answering. Fireheart paused, wondering whether to say more, but Bluestar had drawn her paws farther under her chest and closed her eyes. Disheartened, Fireheart dipped his head and backed out of the cave.

The sunlit clearing looked so peaceful that it was hard to believe the Clan faced any dangers. Brackenfur was playing with Willowpelt’s kits outside the nursery, flicking his tail for them to chase, while Whitestorm rested in the shade beneath the Highrock. Only the fact that the white warrior’s ears were pricked toward Bluestar’s den betrayed the strain the Clan was under.

Fireheart stared unenthusiastically toward the growing pile of fresh-kill. His belly felt tight and hollow, but he couldn’t imagine being able to swallow anything. He spotted Sandstorm eating a piece of fresh-kill. The sight of her sleek orange pelt was an unexpected pleasure, and Fireheart suddenly couldn’t help thinking how much he’d enjoy her company while he was out hunting with Brightpaw. The thought restored Fireheart’s appetite, and his belly growled with anticipation of the chase. He would leave the fresh-kill for the others to share.

At that moment Brightpaw trotted into the camp behind Mousefur, Frostfur, and Halftail. They were bringing water-soaked moss for the queens and elders. Brightpaw carried her dripping bundle toward Bluestar’s den under Whitestorm’s appreciative gaze.

Fireheart called across to Sandstorm. “You promised you’d catch us a rabbit whenever I asked. You up for coming hunting with Brightpaw and me?”

Sandstorm looked up. Her green eyes shone with an unspoken message that made Fireheart’s pelt glow more warmly than the rays of the sun ever could. “Okay,” she called back, and quickly gulped down her last mouthful of food. Still licking her lips, she trotted toward Fireheart.

They waited side by side for Brightpaw, and although their pelts barely touched, Fireheart could feel his fur tingle.

“Are you ready to go hunting?” Fireheart asked Brightpaw as soon as she emerged from Bluestar’s den.

“Now?” mewed Brightpaw, surprised.

“I know it’s not sunhigh yet, but we can leave now if you’re not too tired.”

Brightpaw shook her head and hurried after them as Fireheart and Sandstorm raced through the gorse tunnel, out into the forest.

With Brightpaw on his heels, Fireheart followed Sandstorm up the ravine and into the woods, impressed at the way her muscles flexed smoothly under her pale ginger coat. He knew she must be as tired as he was, but she kept up a quick pace through the undergrowth, her ears pricked and her mouth open.

“I think we’ve found one!” she hissed suddenly, dropping into a hunting crouch. Brightpaw opened her mouth to scent the air. Fireheart stood still while Sandstorm drew herself silently through the bushes. He could smell the rabbit and hear it snuffling in the undergrowth beyond a clump of ferns. Sandstorm suddenly shot forward, making the leaves rustle as she sped through them. Fireheart heard the rabbit’s hind legs pound against the parched ground as it tried to escape. Leaving Brightpaw behind, he leaped instinctively, swerving around the ferns, and chasing it through the undergrowth and across the forest floor as it bolted away from Sandstorm’s sharp claws. He took its life with one sharp bite, uttering a silent prayer of thanks to StarClan for filling the forest with prey, even if they hadn’t sent rain for so long. The storm that had been promised by the rumbles of thunder a few evenings ago had not come, and the air was as brittle and stifling as ever.

Sandstorm skidded to a halt beside Fireheart as he crouched over the rabbit. He could hear her panting. His own breath was coming in gasps too.

“Thanks,” she meowed. “I’m a bit slow today.”

“Me too,” Fireheart admitted.

“You need a rest,” Sandstorm meowed gently.

“We all do.” Fireheart felt the warmth of her soft green gaze.

“But you’ve been twice as busy as everyone else.”

“There’s a lot to do.” Fireheart forced himself to add, “And I don’t have to spend time training Cloudpaw anymore.”

Cloudpaw’s loss disturbed him more and more. He had been half hoping the young cat would turn up at the camp, having found his way back on his own, but there had been no sign of him since the monster had taken him away. As Fireheart began to give up hope of ever seeing his apprentice again, his awareness that he’d lost two apprentices—Cinderpelt as well as Cloudpaw—wreathed his mind in thorns. How could he take on the responsibilities of deputy when he couldn’t handle his duties as a mentor? By giving himself more patrols and hunting missions than any other cat, Fireheart knew that he was trying to prove himself to the rest of the Clan, and to push away his own private doubts about his abilities as a warrior.

Sandstorm seemed to sense Fireheart’s anxiety. “I know there’s a lot to do. Perhaps I can help more.” She glanced up at him, and Fireheart thought he detected a tiny hint of bitterness in her mew as she added, “After all, I don’t have an apprentice either.”

Seeing Dustpelt with Ashpaw must have pricked at her pride, and Fireheart felt a twinge of guilt. “I’m sorry…” he began. But tiredness had clouded his brain, and he realized too late that Sandstorm would have no idea that he had chosen the mentors. She would have assumed, along with the rest of the Clan, that Bluestar had made the decision.

Sandstorm stared at him, bewildered. “Sorry about what?”

“Bluestar asked me to choose the mentors for Fernpaw and Ashpaw,” Fireheart confessed. “And I chose Dustpelt instead of you.” He anxiously searched Sandstorm’s face for a trace of irritation, but she gazed steadily back at him.

“You’ll make a great mentor one day,” he went on, desperate to explain. “But I had to choose Dust—”

“It’s okay.” She shrugged. “I’m sure you had your reasons.” Her tone was casual, but Fireheart couldn’t help noticing the fur prickling along her spine. An awkward silence stretched between them until Brightpaw pushed her way out of the undergrowth behind them.

“Did you get it?” She panted.

Suddenly Fireheart realized how tired the apprentice looked, and remembered how hard it had been to keep up with the bigger, stronger warriors when he was training. He nudged the dead rabbit toward Brightpaw with his nose. “Here, you have first bite,” he offered. “I should have given you time to eat before we left camp.”

As Brightpaw gratefully began to eat, Sandstorm caught his eye. “Perhaps you could order fewer patrols?” she suggested doubtfully. “Everyone’s so tired, and we haven’t seen Tigerclaw since Runningwind died.”

Fireheart felt a twinge of regret. He knew she couldn’t really believe her hopeful words. The whole of ThunderClan knew that Tigerclaw would not give up so easily. Fireheart had seen the tension in the warriors’ lean bodies as they patrolled with him, their ears always pricked, their mouths always open, tasting the air for danger. He had also sensed their growing frustration with their leader, who was needed more than ever to unite her Clan against this invisible threat. But Bluestar had hardly left her den since the vigil for Runningwind.

“We can’t cut down our patrols,” Fireheart told Sandstorm. “We need to be on our guard.”

“Do you really think Tigerclaw will kill us?” Brightpaw mewed, looking up from her meal.

“I think he’ll try.”

“What does Bluestar think?” Sandstorm asked the question tentatively.

“She’s worried, of course.” Fireheart knew he was being evasive. Only he and Whitestorm understood how completely Tigerclaw’s return had swept Bluestar back into the dark and tortured place she had been in after the treacherous warrior had tried to murder her.

“She’s lucky she has such a good deputy,” Sandstorm meowed. “Every cat in the Clan trusts you to lead us through this.”

Fireheart couldn’t help glancing away. He had been well aware of the way the other cats had been looking at him lately, with a mixture of hope and expectancy. He felt honored to have their respect, but he knew he was young and inexperienced, and he longed for Whitestorm’s unshakable faith in his StarClan-led destiny. He hoped he was worthy of the Clan’s trust. “I’ll do my best,” he promised.

“The Clan couldn’t ask for more than that,” Sandstorm murmured.

Fireheart looked down at the rabbit. “Let’s finish this and find something else to take home.”

When the three cats had eaten, they moved on, heading toward Fourtrees. They traveled without speaking, wary of betraying their presence in the forest to any watching eyes. With Tigerclaw around, Fireheart felt as if the ThunderClan cats were the hunted as well as the hunters.

An unfamiliar cat-scent hit his nostrils as they neared the slope that led down to Fourtrees, and his fur bristled. Sandstorm had clearly smelled it too, for she froze, arching her back, her muscles tense.

“Quick,” Fireheart hissed. “Up here!” He clawed his way up a sycamore tree. Sandstorm and Brightpaw followed, and the three cats crouched on the lowest branch and peered down at the forest floor.

Fireheart saw a shadow weaving through the ferns, dark and slender. Two black ears poked above the fronds. There was something about the shape of them that stirred a distant memory, not unpleasant. Was it a cat that they had helped from one of the other Clans? But with Tigerclaw’s dark, plotting presence in the forest, there was no way of knowing which cats were to be trusted. All strangers were enemies.

Fireheart flexed his claws, preparing to pounce. Beside him Sandstorm quivered with anticipation, and Brightpaw stared down, her small shoulders tense. As the stranger padded under the ash tree, Fireheart let out a vicious yowl and dropped onto its back.

The black cat screeched with surprise and rolled over, knocking Fireheart to the ground. Fireheart leaped nimbly to his paws. He had felt the size and strength of this cat in his first pounce, and knew it would be easy to chase off. He faced the cat, arching his back, and gave a warning hiss. Sandstorm leaped down from the tree, Brightpaw right behind her, and Fireheart saw the black cat’s eyes widen in panic as it realized it was outnumbered.

But Fireheart was already letting the fur lie flat on his shoulders. His first instinct had been right: he recognized this intruder. And from the look on the cat’s face, which had turned from panic to relief in a single heartbeat, the intruder recognized Fireheart too.