Эрин Хантер - Crowfeather's Trial

“Both of you try it,” Crowfeather meowed after he had demonstrated the move for a second time. “For now, just imagine your opponent.”

While he watched the two apprentices trying to copy what he had shown them, Crowfeather reflected that a major onslaught against the stoats couldn’t be far off. Breezepelt and Heathertail were still checking on the tunnels. I hope they’re all right. But Crowfeather knew that the rest of the Clan must be prepared for the next step. The apprentices wouldn’t be chosen for the first attack, but no cat knew what might happen after that.

I want them to be ready.

“That’s very good, Hootpaw,” Crowfeather meowed, pleasantly surprised at how quickly the young cat had picked up the new move. He balanced well on his hind paws, and there was real strength behind his blows. “Go on like that, and you’ll scare the fur off the stoats!”

Hootpaw ducked his head in embarrassment. “I had a great mentor,” he reminded Crowfeather. “Nightcloud was smart and strong, and she taught me a lot about strategy.”

Crowfeather hadn’t expected to hear such praise of his former mate, though of course Hootpaw, as her apprentice, would have been closer to her than almost any other cat, except for Breezepelt. Crowfeather had always known that Nightcloud was a capable warrior, but he wondered whether he had ever given her the due she deserved. There was probably a lot about her that I never knew. He stifled a sigh. And now I never will.

“You’re doing well too, Featherpaw,” Crowfeather continued to his own apprentice. “Just remember that—”

He broke off at the sound of distressed yowling from the edge of the camp, and recognized Heathertail’s voice. Turning swiftly, he saw Heathertail and Weaselfur at the top of the slope, carrying the limp, black-furred body of a cat between them.

Breezepelt! No!

Why wasn’t Breezepelt moving? Crowfeather’s belly lurched in terror.

Why would he be hurt? Onestar made clear they weren’t supposed to engage the stoats. . . . But seeing Breezepelt’s limp form, Crowfeather knew that there would be plenty of time for explanations later. Great StarClan, he begged, please tell me he isn’t dead. . . . I don’t think I could bear it. His mind flashed back to seeing Hollyleaf’s bloodstained body in his dream. Is that why I had the dream? Was something trying to prepare me for this?

Crowfeather raced up the slope toward the returning warriors, spotting as he did that Weaselfur’s white paws were stained red with blood.

Shock pulsed through Crowfeather’s body from his ears to his claws. Where did that come from? Did Weaselfur kill my son?

Crowfeather stormed to a halt in front of the group of cats, his pelt bristling all along his spine. Breezepelt hung motionless between them, supported on their shoulders, a wound gaping open all along his side.

“What happened?” Crowfeather demanded. Turning on Weaselfur, he added, “Did you do this to him?”

For the first time Crowfeather noticed that Weaselfur was carrying something limp and bloody in his jaws. As he dropped it, Crowfeather could see that it was the body of a stoat, its white fur completely covered in drying blood.

“Of course I didn’t!” Weaselfur snapped, his eyes narrowed in fury. “I don’t think I could cause this much damage if I tried.”

“Please, Crowfeather,” Heathertail meowed, “leave Weaselfur alone and help us get Breezepelt to Kestrelflight’s den.”

He’s not dead!

Relief flooded so strongly through Crowfeather that he had nothing more to say. He rushed to support Breezepelt’s hindquarters, and he and the others struggled across the camp to the medicine-cat den.

“We were doing as Onestar said and watching the tunnels from outside,” Weaselfur explained on the way, “but when we saw so many of them leave to go hunting, we thought it would be a good chance to explore. We found the stoats’ dens and their prey-piles, and the entrances and exits they’re using. Everything was quiet in there, and we were on our way out before we scented stoats. We worked out they were in a den off the main tunnel.”

“We wanted to sneak past, avoiding danger like Onestar told us to,” Heathertail continued. “But Breezepelt . . .” Her voice choked.

“Breezepelt dived in there and attacked them,” Weaselfur meowed, taking up the story again. “He killed one easily.” He jerked his head back to the edge of the camp, where he had left the body of the stoat. “But the other was fiercer, and fought back. It slashed Breezepelt’s side. He would have gone on fighting, but Heathertail and I forced him to retreat. He was losing blood, and finally he lost consciousness. So we carried him out and headed back to camp.”

Crowfeather glanced at Heathertail, who nodded in confirmation of what Weaselfur had told him. “We both tried to stop Breezepelt,” she mewed. “But he was too intent on killing the stoats.”

As she spoke, Crowfeather could see the worry in her eyes. Shivers were passing through her pelt, and she kept turning her head to lick Breezepelt’s wounded side. She must really care about him.

More cats were gathering around as Crowfeather and the others approached Kestrelflight’s den. Shock mingled with gleams of interest in their faces. Crowfeather could hear muttering among them, though he couldn’t make out the words. I imagine most of them are hoping Breezepelt is dead. That would solve a lot of their problems! But it’s not going to happen yet, flea-pelts.

Featherpaw had raced over to the medicine-cat den to alert Kestrelflight, and now the mottled gray tom emerged from the cleft in the rock and padded up to meet them.

“Great StarClan!” he breathed out at the sight of Breezepelt’s injury.

Crowfeather’s pelt prickled with apprehension. It has to be bad when a medicine cat reacts like that!

At once Kestrelflight pulled himself together and added more briskly, “Quick—bring him inside.”

Crowfeather helped the others carry Breezepelt into the den and lay him down on a nest of springy moss. As he watched Kestrelflight examine his son, Crowfeather felt a new feeling flowing through him, warming him from ears to tail-tip. At first he couldn’t identify it, until at last he realized that it was pride.

Breezepelt must have had bees in his brain to go into that stoats’ nest, he thought. But still, that was very brave. Breezepelt had been afraid of the tunnels since he was an apprentice, and Nightcloud’s death couldn’t have helped. It would have taken real courage to face his fears and attack the stoats.

Kestrelflight rose from where he had been crouching beside Breezepelt, licking his wound clean, and turned to Crowfeather. “His injuries are serious,” he reported, “but you can see that already. He’ll need watching carefully.”

Crowfeather’s belly roiled at the medicine cat’s words. Surely I’m not going to lose my son just as I’m beginning to understand him?

“I can stay with him,” Heathertail offered immediately.

Crowfeather shook his head. “Thanks, Heathertail,” he meowed, “but I want to watch over my son—at least for now. Will you go and tell Onestar what happened, and take the stoat to show him?”

Heathertail hesitated, casting an uncertain glance at Breezepelt. Crowfeather could tell that she wanted to stay with him.

“I’ll call you when he wakes,” he promised the young she-cat. “But for now it’s important for Onestar to know what we’re up against.”

“I understand.” Giving her pelt a shake, Heathertail left the den.

While Kestrelflight headed to his herb store at the back of the den, Crowfeather found himself standing beside Weaselfur. The ginger tom’s head was lowered, his expression hard to read. Crowfeather’s pelt prickled with the awkwardness of the moment, remembering what he had said when Weaselfur first appeared. “I’m sorry I accused you of attacking Breezepelt,” he muttered after a moment.