Эрин Хантер - Crowfeather's Trial

Crowfeather hurried to join her, sniffing carefully at the air just inside the tunnel. The stench of stoat was overwhelming, and he could distinguish Breezepelt’s scent, reeking of his fear when he fled. But there was a faint trace of Nightcloud, too.

Turning to the rest of the patrol, Crowfeather was about to discuss with them what the best approach would be, when he realized that Heathertail was simply walking into the tunnel. He caught a glimpse of her tail disappearing into the darkness.

“Wait for us!” he called out with an exasperated lash of his tail. Just because the tabby she-cat knew the tunnels well didn’t mean that she should just stroll in there unprotected. What happened to “stick together” and “be careful”? he asked himself. Does she think she’s a kit exploring her own camp?

“Come on,” he added to the others. His muscles tensed with urgency as he imagined Heathertail pulled down by a crowd of bloodthirsty stoats.

Just as the patrol was about to enter the tunnel, Crowfeather heard a strange scrabbling sound and stopped to listen. That doesn’t sound like a cat’s paw steps.

A faint gust of air floated out of the tunnel, making his nose and whiskers twitch. It was the scent of stoat—and it was fresh.

“Heathertail!” Breezepelt exclaimed hoarsely. “She’s in danger!” He sprang forward, but Crowfeather was faster, leading the way into the passage. Breezepelt pressed up close behind him, with Crouchfoot and Larkwing following.

Soon the last of the light died away, and the cats padded forward in darkness. Crowfeather kept his ears pricked, straining to hear what was ahead. He could still taste stoat scent in the air, mingled with Heathertail’s. Every instinct was telling him to call out to her, but he kept silent, in case his voice would draw more stoats toward them.

Now we have two missing cats, he thought. And we have no idea where either of them might be.

Crowfeather’s heart pounded harder with every paw step. He could hardly bear to think what Breezepelt must be feeling. But Crowfeather could detect no signs that his son was panicking; he could hear Breezepelt’s paw steps following steadily behind. If he had any impulse to bolt, he was doing a good job fighting it.

Then a faint shimmer from somewhere above showed Crowfeather that the tunnel was widening out into a cavern. Looking up, he saw a thin ray of light striking down from a hole in the roof. The scrabbling sound came again, claws scraping on the stone floor of the tunnel. At the same moment Crowfeather heard a chittering cry and saw a flash of white in the dimness. Briefly he halted.

They’re taunting us, trying to draw us farther in, he thought. Then they can pick us off at their leisure.

“This is mouse-brained,” Crouchfoot meowed, padding up to stand beside Crowfeather. “We could be heading right into an ambush.”

“But we have to go on,” Breezepelt protested. “We have to do whatever we can to save Nightcloud and Heathertail.”

Crowfeather gave his son a nod of approval, pleased at how he was overcoming his fear. “Breezepelt is right,” he declared, noticing his son sharply turning his head toward him, surprise in his eyes. “What choice do we have? Go back to camp with another cat missing when none of us has even seen a stoat yet?” But still an inner voice warned him: Cats might get hurt, or even killed, trying to save their Clanmates. . . . Oh, StarClan, help us. . . . Help us all make it back to camp today!

Crowfeather shuddered. He wondered how StarClan could give them any help at all, down here in the earth where no stars had ever shone.

“We keep going,” he mewed.

Determinedly he padded on across the cavern with his Clanmates behind him, aware of flickering white shapes ahead of them and on either side. Their high-pitched cries came from all directions, as if the creatures were calling out to one another. Or taunting us, Crowfeather thought.

Then one of the stoats darted out less than a fox-length in front of Crowfeather, appearing so quickly that he had no time to warn the others. It was almost a relief, after the long tension of waiting—the attack they had been expecting was finally about to start.

Instinctively Crowfeather drew backward, only to collide with Breezepelt, feeling his son’s body rigid with tension and anger. For a moment neither of them could move, and in that brief hesitation the small, long-bodied creature leaped forward and fastened its teeth in Crowfeather’s side.

Crow-food-eating mange-pelt! Crowfeather let out a screech of pain and batted the creature away with a fierce swipe of his paw. The stoat fell back, tearing out a chunk of Crowfeather’s fur as it went.

Why are you such a pain in the tail? Normally, Crowfeather knew, an infestation of stoats would be easy for WindClan to deal with. But these stoats were so destructive! Peering through the weak light, Crowfeather saw that it was pure white, except for a black tip on its tail—exactly like the stoats that had come pouring out of the tunnels on the previous evening. A shiver of fear passed through him at the sight of it.

They’re so eerie. . . . I’d rather face a fox or a badger.

The stoat leaped at Crowfeather again, and Crouchfoot and Larkwing thrust their way forward, dragging it off as it sank its claws into Crowfeather’s shoulders. Crouchfoot raked his claws down its side and the stoat fled, whimpering, into the darkness. But as it vanished, more and more of the white shapes came skittering into the cavern, converging on the group of cats. The stoats’ malignant eyes glinted in the pale light, and their lips were drawn back to reveal their spiny fangs.

So they’re showing themselves at last, Crowfeather thought grimly. That first one was just to get us in the mood for a battle!

Breezepelt charged ahead with an earsplitting caterwaul, obviously ready to fight every single one of them. Crowfeather’s belly lurched with fear, and he sprang forward to put his own body between his son and their enemies. Larkwing helped him drag Breezepelt back down the passage, with Crouchfoot in the rear, slashing and raking his claws to drive the stoats back until they all burst out into the open.

“But what about Heathertail?” Larkwing gasped. “I didn’t see her in there.”

“I’ll find her!” Breezepelt yowled.

Before Crowfeather could stop him, he whipped around and barreled back into the tunnel, slamming into the stoats and knocking them aside to force his way through them.

“Breezepelt, no!” Crowfeather screeched after him. But his son paid no attention. The lithe, white-furred stoats closed around him as he fought his way through and vanished into the darkness. Soon the sound of skittering claws and pounding paw steps died away.

For a heartbeat Crowfeather stood frozen, stunned by the speed of Breezepelt’s attack. Then, with a massive effort, he pulled himself together. “We have to go after him,” he meowed.

Larkwing and Crouchfoot exchanged an anxious glance, then nodded and stood a little taller—as if, by pretending, they could make themselves feel more confident than they actually were. “We’re with you,” Crouchfoot responded.

Crowfeather braced himself to plunge back into the tunnel, into the deadly crowd of stoats, but before he could move, Larkwing yowled, “Wait!”

Turning toward her, Crowfeather saw that she was pointing with her tail. Looking in that direction, Crowfeather spotted a light brown tabby she-cat stumbling out of another tunnel opening farther along the bank, with a black tom hard on her paws. Heathertail and Breezepelt . . . they’re alive! As soon as they emerged, Breezepelt spun around and dropped into a crouch, baring his teeth and sliding out his claws.