Эрин Хантер - Crowfeather's Trial

Crowfeather wondered again whether Breezepelt would object, but now his son just seemed relieved to have something active he could do. “Okay, we won’t,” he promised.

Onestar nodded approvingly. “I’m not sure you two should go by yourselves, though,” he mused. “Perhaps you need one more cat. . . . Hey, Weaselfur!”

The ginger tom, who had been heading for the warriors’ den, halted and turned toward his Clan leader.

Once again, Onestar beckoned him over with his tail.

Weaselfur padded up and dipped his head respectfully to his Clan leader. “Is everything all right, Onestar?” he asked, with an unfriendly glance at Breezepelt.

“Breezepelt and Heathertail are going to keep watch outside the tunnels to find out what they can about the stoats,” Onestar replied. There was a gleam in his eyes as he spoke to Weaselfur, and Crowfeather realized that he was enjoying himself. “You can go with them.”

Weaselfur gaped. “What? Go with him ?”

“Do you have a problem with obeying your Clan leader?” Onestar asked, his eyes narrowing.

“No, but—”

“Perhaps this will make you change your mind about making unkind comments during a vigil,” Onestar interrupted. “Not to mention blurting out information at a Gathering that should have been kept within this Clan. I had thought about giving you a moon of dawn patrols, but this will be better. And by the time you return to camp, I expect you to have learned that there are times when you should keep your mouth shut.”

Weaselfur hung his head, his tail drooping. “Yes, Onestar,” he mumbled.

“And since you seem to have a problem with Breezepelt,” Onestar went on, “perhaps it will help you to spend time with him, and work together on a WindClan task. In fact, Weaselfur, it had better .”

Weaselfur nodded, looking completely crushed.

“Don’t worry, Weaselfur,” Heathertail meowed cheerfully. “We won’t let the nasty stoats get you.”

“It’s not the stoats I’m worried about,” Weaselfur retorted in a low hiss. Fortunately for him, it didn’t reach Onestar’s ears as the Clan leader turned away and entered his den.

Breezepelt didn’t look particularly pleased at having Weaselfur as a companion, but Crowfeather was glad to see that he had the sense to say nothing. He also needs to learn that there are times when a cat should hold his tongue.

Crowfeather watched as the three cats turned and headed out of the camp. He could feel nervous flutterings in his belly, as if a nestful of blackbirds were trying out their wings inside him. His paws itched to join his Clanmates, but then he reflected that he couldn’t look after Breezepelt all the time. He had accused Nightcloud of being overprotective, and now it was important for Breezepelt to take responsibility for himself.

Whatever they find at the tunnels, he thought, I just hope it brings Breezepelt a little peace.

CHAPTER 12

The yowls and screeches of battle rose all around Crowfeather. The air was thick with the stench of blood. As far as he could see in all directions, the ground was covered in tussling cats, and beside Crowfeather lay the body of his daughter, Hollyleaf, her black fur soaked in her own blood. Recognition tingled through his pads.

This is the Great Battle! Crowfeather thought, realizing that he was dreaming. It’s exactly as I remember it.

The memory grew sharper, even more painful, as he saw Breezepelt leap onto Lionblaze, catching him off-balance and taking him to the ground and raking his claws along his cheek. “You’re not as strong as I expected,” Breezepelt gloated.

Crowfeather charged forward, hearing Ivypool pleading with Breezepelt not to destroy the Clans.

“Lionblaze should never have been born,” Breezepelt told her. “None of them should . . .”

Then his tail flicked triumphantly, spitefully, toward Hollyleaf’s body. “She’s dead; now it’s your turn, Lionblaze.” And then he bit into Lionblaze’s neck.

Finally reaching his sons, Crowfeather gripped Breezepelt’s shoulders with his claws. “This has to stop!” he yowled as he dragged him off his other son.

But then the dream changed. As Crowfeather released Breezepelt, and Lionblaze dived back into the battle, Breezepelt took a step forward, then turned to face Crowfeather, whose neck fur rose at the look in his son’s eyes. Before he could react, Breezepelt raised a paw and slashed his claws down Crowfeather’s face.

Dazzling light, unimaginable pain, exploded inside Crowfeather’s head and faded, leaving him in darkness. I’m blind! Breezepelt blinded me. . . . Does he hate me that much?

For a moment Crowfeather was too stunned to do more than crouch close to the ground, feeling a pelt sticky with blood pressing against his side. That must be Hollyleaf’s body, he thought. He knew this wasn’t what had happened in the waking world.

“Now you’ve got what you deserve!” Breezepelt taunted him. His voice sounded unnaturally loud, as if it was echoing inside Crowfeather’s mind. “For never loving your WindClan mate, and for choosing your ThunderClan kits over me. Why did you do that, Crowfeather?”

Feeling blood trickle from his ruined eyes, Crowfeather couldn’t answer his son’s challenge. I hardly know Lionblaze and Jayfeather . . . but I couldn’t let Breezepelt kill my other son. Could I? There would have been no way back for Breezepelt if he had killed Lionblaze. But if Breezepelt can’t see that, can there ever be any help for him?

Dizziness swept over Crowfeather, and he felt the scene shift around him. The shrieks of battle faded, though he could sense that some cat was still close by. Maybe more than one, he thought, peering around uselessly through the black fog of his blindness.

Then, gradually, the darkness Breezepelt’s claws had created began to lift. The forest swam into Crowfeather’s vision, lit by a gray, weak dawn. Standing in front of him was a muscular dark tabby tom. Even before his sight had cleared completely, Crowfeather recognized him by his powerful shape and brown tabby pelt, and at last by his piercing ice-blue eyes.

Hawkfrost!

This was the treacherous cat from RiverClan, the cat who had supported Mudclaw when the former WindClan deputy had tried to oust Onestar from the leadership of his Clan. The cat who had given Hollyleaf her fatal wounds.

Rage surged through Crowfeather, driving out the pain in his eyes. It’s because of you, you piece of fox dung, that I’ll never know my daughter!

Summoning every scrap of his strength, Crowfeather launched himself at Hawkfrost, but the sleek tabby tom simply darted aside, his scarred muzzle curling in contempt.

Crowfeather charged again, and again Hawkfrost nimbly stepped aside. “I’m too quick for you, rabbit-chaser,” he sneered. “Give it up, before you make me angry.”

Crowfeather knew his vision was still too blurred for him to fight effectively. It’s a dream, he told himself. I can’t really take vengeance for Hollyleaf’s death. But his grief and fury propelled him forward to attack Hawkfrost one more time.

Hawkfrost slipped aside with a disdainful twitch of his tail-tip. As Crowfeather landed from his leap, he felt his body slam into another cat. He lost his balance and fell, paws flailing, and looked up into the face of his son Breezepelt.

Breezepelt stood over him, fixing him with an amber glare, pinning him down with his forepaws. “Why are you fighting for your ThunderClan kin?” he hissed. “What about your WindClan son?”

Crowfeather tried to reply, but no sound came out of his mouth. Breezepelt drew back, raising one paw as if he was about to strike again.