The air beneath the pine trees grew colder and the ground under Tigerclaw started to feel damp. He licked it to get some moisture, then heaved himself to his paws. He couldn’t stay here; the evening border patrol would be coming this way soon. He didn’t want to see pity in the eyes of his Clanmates if they found him wounded and exhausted, still inside ThunderClan territory. Wincing with every step, Tigerclaw limped deeper into the pine trees. He stayed away from Twolegplace, with its curious kittypets and stray dogs. Instead he headed for the wooden den behind a tall fence of pine trunks, where the Twolegs that cut down trees came in the daytime. He squeezed through the fence, leaving a smear of blood on the stripped wooden post. There was a gap the height of a rabbit below the wooden den. Tigerclaw crawled into the shadows and lay full-length on the earth. There was a faint hint of mouse from farther under the den, but Tigerclaw didn’t have the strength to pursue the scent, let alone a scampering piece of prey.
Where is the moss that lines your nest in the warriors’ den? Where are the feathers? Is this how your life will be from now on, huddled on bare dirt, starving because you’re too weak to feed yourself?
Tigerclaw’s belly rumbled, but he pressed his cheek deeper into the soil to block out the sound. Right now, sleep was more important than food. Once he had rested, once he had eaten, then he could begin the destruction of ThunderClan.
He dreamed that he was on fire, scorched by the claw marks that Fireheart had left in his skin. He thrashed with his paws, but sleep held him fast, clutching him in a semi-conscious daze. He was dimly aware of the daylight seeping in from outside, but before he could rouse himself and go out in search of food, it seemed that night was falling again, shrinking Tigerclaw’s world to a blur of pain and tortured sleep. He lashed out blindly at screeches from the mist that surrounded him, felt claws rake his fur and teeth snap close to his ears. He whirled, stumbling on legs that felt heavy and sore, but there was nothing except damp gray clouds behind him. Too slow, hissed the voice. Don’t let Fireheart and Bluestar catch you! They’ll crush you like a bug!
“Never!” roared Tigerclaw. He woke with a start, breathless and writhing on his back. His belly burned like fire and his claws were unsheathed, clogged with dirt. He crawled out from beneath the wooden den into a cool, pale dawn. How many days had he lain here? One? Two? More? His vision blurred for a moment, and he shook his head to clear it. His mouth was as dry and sore as if he had swallowed feathers, so he limped over to a puddle that lay in a muddy rut close to the fence. The water was black and brackish, but he forced himself to lap until his throat had stopped hurting.
A blackbird pecked at the ground farther along the fence. Tigerclaw gathered his haunches beneath him and crept toward the bird, testing each of his legs. He felt weak, but a careful check of his belly showed that the wound had stopped bleeding and the edges were starting to crust over with dark red scabs. As long as he didn’t stretch too much, he should be able to hunt. Better to die from hunting than from letting myself starve.
As he drew closer to the bird, he stepped onto a heap of pine needles that crackled. The blackbird let out a squawk and flapped noisily into the air. Tigerclaw cursed under his breath and sat down. He licked the ruffled, dusty fur on his chest. It tasted of blood and soil. He spat, then turned and stared into the shadows beneath the wooden den. He’d been aware of rustlings during his restless sleep, the muffled squeaks of mice and a mouthwatering scent in the musty air. It would be a cramped and difficult place to hunt, but no worse than some of the bramble thickets he’d scoured before.
Crouching low, feeling the wound in his belly strain, Tigerclaw slipped under the den. The soil rose up on the far side, blocking out the light. Tigerclaw headed for the thickest shadows, feeling his whiskers quiver as he picked up the scents of tiny furred creatures. He paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the half-light, then lunged toward the tiny twin glints that gave away a mouse staring back at him, terrified. There was a satisfying fat crunch under his paws, a high-pitched squeak cut short, and Tigerclaw buried his muzzle in the warm blood and fur of his fresh-kill. He saw no need to thank StarClan for his prey; it was his catch, his alone.
The mouse sent strength surging through his legs, and Tigerclaw emerged, blinking, into the light, shaking loose soil from his pelt. He squeezed between the wooden posts and set off through the pine trees at an uneven trot, gritting his teeth against the pain in his belly. He was outside ThunderClan scent marks here, but there was precious little undergrowth, so a passing patrol would spot him from a long way off. The tall wooden fences and red stone walls that marked the edge of Twolegplace loomed through the trees. The trunks thinned out and brambles and dense clumps of ferns began tangling around Tigerclaw’s paws. He lowered his head and began sniffing where fronds had been bent back by a passing creature. There! Barely a fox-length from the ThunderClan border, he picked up the acrid, fear-stained scent of the cats who had fought alongside him in the attack.
Fought? More like turned tail like frightened kits! came the voice in Tigerclaw’s head. You were a fool to trust them! Tigerclaw flattened his ears. I had no choice! But now that I am free from my bonds to ThunderClan, things will be different.
Stepping carefully through the thick grass, Tigerclaw followed the scents along the very edge of Twolegplace. Splashes of blood left a visible trail, and he hoped the cats were not too badly wounded. He didn’t have time to nurse anyone. These pitiful creatures were weak enough already. He kept one ear pricked toward ThunderClan territory, listening for a patrol. The sun was high overhead, the shadows at the foot of the Twoleg boundary barely wide enough to conceal him. Tigerclaw guessed that his former Clanmates would be resting after morning patrols, sharing fresh-kill before setting out again. His belly growled at the thought of food, but he forced himself to keep going. He wouldn’t be caught taking prey that belonged to ThunderClan!
The rumble of the Thunderpath drifted through the trees, and the scent of scared cats was muffled by the stench of monsters and their foul black breath. Tigerclaw forced his way into a solid clump of brambles, guessing that if he were frightened and wounded, he’d seek the thickest cover. He stiffened as he heard tiny whispers ahead of him.
“Keep still! Someone’s coming!”
“Has a ThunderClan patrol found us? We can’t stay here and be trapped like rabbits!”
“Hush! They’ll hear us!”
Tigerclaw burst through the wall of thorns with a yowl. Five pairs of eyes stared at him in horror. Then, one by one, they blinked and lost the sheen of terror.
“Tigerclaw!” meowed a scrawny brown tom. “You survived!”
“No thanks to you, Clawface,” Tigerclaw snarled.
“We were going to come back for you once our wounds had healed,” protested a broad-shouldered white tom with one black forepaw. His name was Blackfoot, and like Clawface, he had been a ShadowClan warrior loyal to their leader, Brokenstar, before he had been taken prisoner and his followers driven out of the Clan.
Two other former ShadowClan warriors, a brown tabby named Stumpytail and a gray-and-brown she-cat called Tangleburr, stood up and stepped alongside Tigerclaw to brush their tails against him.
“I’m so pleased to see you,” purred Tangleburr, but the row of fur pricking along her spine told Tigerclaw that she was lying. All of these cats, including the former stray Snag, a huge ginger tom who lingered at the back of the makeshift den, watching with wary amber eyes, were terrified to see Tigerclaw risen from the dead. They knew they had failed him, had let themselves get beaten by a bunch of queens and elders in an unguarded camp. Tigerclaw breathed in their fear-scent and felt a thrill of satisfaction. These cats would do anything he wanted. He forced his long claws to stay sheathed, pushed down the urge to rip their ears for leaving him to face his former Clanmates alone. These were the only allies he had for now, and while they were scared of him, and in his debt, he could shape them exactly as he wanted.
He looked around. “Where’s Mowgli?” He had found the green-eyed, brown tom among the loners in Twolegplace, spotting at once the potential in his sleek muscles and hard, unflinching gaze. Tigerclaw had vowed to make Mowgli a senior warrior if he fought alongside him, and the brown tom had lapped up his promises as hungrily as any forestborn cat.
Stumpytail shrugged. “I don’t know. He got his ears clawed pretty harshly by that brown ThunderClan apprentice—Brackenpaw, I think he’s called. We haven’t seen him since.”
Tigerclaw curled his lip. Beaten by an apprentice? He hoped he hadn’t been wrong about Mowgli. Clearly he needed more training, more encouragement to fight to the limits of his strength, even if his opponent still had kitten fluff around his ears.
Clawface limped forward with a scrap of fur and meat in his jaws. He dropped it at Tigerclaw’s feet. “I caught this mouse earlier,” he mewed. “You can have the rest if you want.”
Tigerclaw eyed the pathetic piece of fresh-kill. Would he be showing weakness if he admitted to his hunger and ate it? Or should he take advantage of these cats offering to feed and shelter him? What would a Clan leader do?
Bluestar would look for the weakest elder and give them the fresh-kill, purred the voice. But is that the kind of leader you want to be?
Tigerclaw bent his head and devoured the mouse loin in a single bite. He looked up, swiping his tongue around his lips. “We’ll need more than that to survive. Who is the least wounded among you?”
Tangleburr raised her tail. “I have a bite on my flank, but it’s healing fast.” She glanced over her shoulder. “And Snag’s fur was thick enough to save him from any deep scratches.”
The loner padded out of the shadows. “I’ll hunt if you want,” he rumbled.
Tigerclaw nodded. “Good. You two, bring back at least two pieces each of fresh-kill.”
Tangleburr’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. Well done, you’re learning, thought Tigerclaw. The two cats threaded their way out of the brambles.
“Tigerclaw, your belly seems to be bleeding,” mewed Blackfoot hesitantly. He stretched out his neck and sniffed at the sticky scarlet fur on Tigerclaw’s side.
“It’s nothing,” snapped Tigerclaw. “It’ll heal in a couple of days.”
Blackfoot stepped back. “Those ThunderClan cats fought more fiercely than I expected,” he admitted. Beside him, Clawface nodded. “Especially that so-called kittypet, Fireheart,” Blackfoot went on. “He may have been born in Twolegplace, but he’s sure learned how to fight like a warrior.”
“He is a kittypet!” Tigerclaw spat. “Don’t ever speak of him as a warrior. He has no right to be in the forest, no right to speak to Bluestar as if the blood of the Clans runs in his veins.” He turned away and paced in a tight circle, flicking his tail. “I will find more cats, and teach you how to fight properly, and then we will take on ThunderClan again and Fireheart will die!”