Эрин Хантер - Crowfeather's Trial

“And me!” Whiskernose called from the WindClan side. Onestar shook his head at the light brown elder, but Whiskernose ignored him.

Crowfeather noticed that all the volunteers had trained with the Dark Forest cats; they were all cats who had been doubted and feared and distrusted by their Clanmates, yet here they were, eager to prove themselves loyal warriors of their Clans at last.

Glancing around, he saw that other cats had realized it too: Murmurs of praise rose from them, and they exchanged glances of approval.

Let’s hope their lives will be easier from now on, Crowfeather thought.

CHAPTER 30

Crowfeather stood at the tunnel entrance where—moons ago, it seemed—Hootpaw had first glimpsed the white stoat. The sky was scarlet over the moor, the cats’ long shadows stretching out behind them as the sun went down. It was the day after the meeting with Bramblestar and the ThunderClan warriors at the stream, and everything was ready for the final attack on the stoats.

The creatures seemed to be more active at night, and so during the day, while they slept, the cats had filled in as many unblocked tunnels as they could find. Now only this one entrance remained. Crowfeather raised one paw to lick his pad where it still stung from maneuvering stones and brush. His fur itched with dust, but he felt warm with satisfaction from ears to tail-tip.

The stoats should be waking up by now. I hope they’re ready to be lured out.

Breezepelt padded up while Crowfeather was still licking his sore pads. “Ready?” he asked.

Crowfeather nodded, glancing up at his son. He was surprised to see that Breezepelt wore an expression of determination and held his head high. I know he’s afraid of the tunnels, Crowfeather thought, but he’s not showing the slightest sign of fear now.

Breezepelt returned Crowfeather’s nod, his gaze softening a little.

“We can do this,” Crowfeather mewed. “For WindClan.”

“We can,” Breezepelt agreed. “I’m ready.”

His voice was steady and resolute. Crowfeather couldn’t help thinking of the danger ahead. It didn’t matter so much for him, but Breezepelt had his whole future to lose if he was killed or injured: his place in the Clan; the opportunity to take a mate, have kits, and raise them as warriors. He’s willing to risk all that to prove his loyalty, Crowfeather reflected, even more impressed by his son’s courage. I may have been lacking as a father, but Breezepelt still turned out to be a worthy warrior.

Crowfeather glanced around at the moorland landscape that surrounded him. He knew that behind the rocks and underneath the gorse bushes, warriors of ThunderClan and WindClan were hiding, waiting to leap out into battle. There was a strong scent of cat, but he couldn’t see any of them, not even a single whisker or the tip of a tail.

The stoats will get the shock of their lives!

But with that realization Crowfeather accepted that he had to contain himself. He couldn’t let his longing for revenge get the better of him. Excitement and confidence were bubbling up inside him like a spring of fresh water, but he knew that he needed intelligence, too, and a cool head.

Then Heathertail emerged from behind a boulder halfway up the slope and padded down to join Crowfeather and Breezepelt. “You’re sure you know what to do?” she asked.

Like we haven’t gone over it so many times! Crowfeather thought, but he didn’t speak the thought aloud. He was well aware that Heathertail wasn’t really asking that question; what she wanted to know was whether Breezepelt was sure he wanted to go through with this.

She knows he’s a capable warrior, but she wants to be his mate. Of course she’s worried.

“Yes, we’ll be fine,” Breezepelt replied.

“You’ve been in there before, so you should remember what it’s like,” Heathertail continued. “There’s a clear path in a huge circle to take you deep into the tunnels and back out here. For StarClan’s sake, don’t head off down any side passages.”

“We’ll be careful,” Breezepelt promised her.

Crowfeather wasn’t sure that “careful” was the word he would have chosen. He and Breezepelt would be running the path as fast as they could, swiping and yowling at stoats to attract their attention and make them give chase.

I hope we don’t get caught and find ourselves surrounded by stoats. It would be easy enough to get the creatures’ attention, and easier still to get trapped in the tunnels, outnumbered in the dark. I know how that feels, and I don’t want to feel it again—but that’s in the paws of StarClan.

Breezepelt and Heathertail had leaned closer together, speaking softly to each other, when Onestar padded up. Crowfeather suppressed a mrrow of amusement when he saw the two young cats guiltily jump apart.

“It’s time,” Onestar declared; if he had noticed anything, he made no comment. “Are you ready?”

Crowfeather nodded; Breezepelt stood up a little straighter.

“Then may StarClan light your path,” the Clan leader meowed. “Go!”

Crowfeather let Breezepelt take the lead as the two toms raced into the tunnels. Light from the entrance quickly died away behind them, though the passage was dimly lit through chinks in the roof.

At first the only sign of the stoats was the smell. Crowfeather’s nose wrinkled at their scent and the reek of their rotting prey. Then a stronger, fresher scent flooded over him, and he realized that the passage opened up at one side into a den. He could make out several white bodies crowded together.

Without hesitation Breezepelt darted in among them and slashed his claws across the nearest stoat’s face before darting out again and running on. “Take that, mange-pelt!” he yowled. The injured stoat let out a screech of pain, and a furious chittering rose from its denmates.

As Crowfeather ran past the den, hard on Breezepelt’s paws, he heard the stoats scrambling after him, their tiny claws scratching on the floor of the passage, their scent like a foggy cloud around him. Alarmed by how close they were, he bunched and stretched his muscles in an effort to run even faster.

We must have had bees in our brains to volunteer for this!

As he and Breezepelt raced onward, attacking stoats in every den they passed, Crowfeather realized that more and more of the stoats were following them. A hasty glance over his shoulder showed them pouring down the passage like a vast white wave ready to engulf them.

How much farther? he asked himself desperately. We must be close to the way out by now!

Reaching what Crowfeather thought must be the last den, Breezepelt once more leaped into the attack. But this time the stoats in the den seemed more alert, maybe warned by the sound and scent of their approaching denmates. The leading stoat sprang forward beneath Breezepelt’s outstretched paws and fastened its fangs into his throat.

Breezepelt let out a yowl of shock and fear. A heartbeat later the white creatures were swarming around him; he almost looked as if he were sinking into a snowdrift, except this wasn’t snow: It was a heap of squirming bodies, with claws and teeth bared to tear and bite.

Crowfeather didn’t take time to think. He waded into the swarm of stoats, lashing out with his claws to thrust the creatures aside on his way to his son. When he reached Breezepelt, he swiped with all his strength at the stoat that still clung to him, breaking its grip and knocking it back against the den wall.

“Run— now !” he screeched to Breezepelt.

Breezepelt turned and fled down the passage; Crowfeather barreled after him, hearing the whole crowd of stoats on his hind paws. Moments later the dim light of the tunnel grew brighter, and Crowfeather spotted the ragged circle of the tunnel entrance a few fox-lengths ahead.