Эрин Хантер - Battles of the Clans

“We didn’t smell them before they attacked because they were covered in our own scent,” added Pineclaw. One of his ears had been ripped right to the tip, and scarlet blood streaked his dark brown fur.

“We may as well let them live here and make their hunting easier,” growled Featherwing. The pale gray she-cat had one eye swollen shut and claw marks sliced across her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Morningstar meowed. “Clearly WindClan is without honor.” He turned to walk away down the tunnel of ferns that led to the clearing.

“They have no honor because they are thieves !” Leafstorm yowled after him. She broke into a coughing fit, gasping for breath.

Morningstar winced. Leafstorm had been coughing for days. He’d suggested she stay back from the Gathering, but she’d insisted on coming. He’d thought that meant she was feeling better. As he reached the clearing, Pearnose scampered along the tunnel and joined him. The brown tabby’s eyes were serious.

“Morningstar, can we talk? In private, I mean.”

“Sure.” He led her to his den beneath Highrock. They pushed through the screen of lichen that hung across the entrance, and the medicine cat settled herself neatly on the sandy floor opposite Morningstar’s nest.

“I think Leafstorm has greencough,” she announced.

Morningstar stared at her in dismay. “But…but she went all the way to WindClan today! And fought!”

Pearnose narrowed her eyes. “She shouldn’t have done either of those things; nor should she have gone to the Gathering last night. She’s been sick for more than a moon, and I warned her it would get worse if she didn’t rest. But she’s been hunting every day, you know, often two or three times. And I haven’t seen her take anything for herself since Mossheart’s kits were born.”

Morningstar let his shoulders slump. His Clan was dying around him, and he could do nothing to protect it.

Beechfur poked his head through the lichen. “Sorry to disturb you, Morningstar, but I wondered if you wanted me to lead a border patrol? Mossheart said Leafstorm was sick.”

Morningstar lifted his head. “There will be no more border patrols,” he ordered. “I want every warrior, every apprentice, to look for food. We’ll all get sick if we don’t have something to eat.”

Beechfur’s eyes were very round. “Wha…what? No border patrols at all? But…WindClan and SkyClan will take everything!”

“Not if we catch it first. You’re wasting time! Go!” Morningstar dismissed the warrior with a flick of his tail. As the lichen quivered behind him, Morningstar turned back to Pearnose. He sighed.

“Are you going to tell me that I’m doing the wrong thing as well?”

The medicine cat shook her head. “You know me better than that, Morningstar. I would not walk in your paws for all the mice in the forest. Your path is lonelier than I could bear. Now, I must go and send Fallowpaw to look for catmint at the edge of Twolegplace. If we’re lucky, some will have survived the frost.”

She slipped out of the den. Beyond the clearing, Leafstorm’s coughs split the air. Morningstar heaved himself to his paws. He could hunt as well as any of his warriors. He’d find something for Leafstorm to eat, to get her strength back. He should have seen how thin she had become long before now. Battles or not, he needed his deputy beside him.

A quarter moon passed. It was getting hard to remember where the fresh-kill pile was supposed to be.

Any prey that was caught, any scraps of crow-food, were eaten at once. Queens first, then warriors, then apprentices. Morningstar took charge of feeding Leafstorm. She tried to refuse, but he threatened to lean on her wound if she didn’t eat. Now he stood staring at a lump of black feathers that might have been a bird once, but was so mangled and frozen that it could have been a piece of wood instead.

“Is this all you could find?” he demanded.

Pineclaw curled his lip. “No, actually. There are squirrels and mice all over the place out there, but I thought you’d prefer this.”

Morningstar winced. “It’s okay. I know you’re doing your best.”

“But WindClan is doing better!” Featherwing argued. “They don’t even try to hide from us now!

They just march in and stalk our prey as if we were nothing but unwelcome visitors.”

“I went along the border this morning, looking for yarrow, and I couldn’t even tell where our scent marks were supposed to be,” put in Pearnose’s apprentice, Fallowpaw.

“You gave WindClan a chance to have mercy,” Beechfur meowed more gently. “They have shown us none. We should stop having mercy on them.”

Morningstar gritted his teeth. StarClan, why are you destroying my Clan? I only want peace for them!

Suddenly, Pearnose burst into the clearing. “Leafstorm is dead!” she wailed.

Morningstar stared at her in disbelief. “No…” His brave, quarrelsome, sharp-minded deputy couldn’t be dead . Not from a cough.

“She was too thin to fight the infection,” Pearnose murmured, her breath warm on his ear.

“You mean I killed her,” Morningstar rasped.

Pearnose drew back in horror. “No! You tried to feed her, but she was too sick. Please don’t blame yourself.”

“Leafstorm wanted to die in battle,” whispered another voice beside him.

Morningstar spun around, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in the sweet, familiar scent.

Songbird?

“At least I had that chance,” the voice continued.

Morningstar narrowed his eyes and made out a faint outline of a brown tabby she-cat. He could see his warriors standing behind her; they were gazing at him with concern in their eyes, as if they didn’t know what he had just seen.

“Songbird,” he breathed.

“Let your warriors fight,” she told him. “Let them prove their courage and their loyalty to you by defending your borders. Peace is not the way of the Clans. We prove ourselves in battle.”

Her outline wavered like mist, and Morningstar bounded forward. “Songbird! Wait!”

He blinked, and the clearing was empty apart from his warriors and Pearnose, looking uncertainly at him. How could he have doubted their courage? Hunger wouldn’t weaken their desire to win; instead, it would sharpen their claws, lend power to each strike. Leafstorm was dead because he had not fought to keep ThunderClan’s prey safe from thieves. If any more cats were to die, it would be honorably, in battle, not starved like a helpless kit.

“Who will join me in battle against WindClan?” he roared.

There was a moment of shocked silence; then his warriors straightened up, lifting their heads and letting the fur bristle along their spines. “We will,” they yowled.

More cats emerged from the dens around them, their eyes brighter than Morningstar had seen in a long time. “We’re really going to fight?” one of them asked.

“We are,” vowed Morningstar. He turned to Pearnose. “Prepare your supplies. Fallowpaw will help you.” His gaze fell on a patchy gray-and-brown pelt among the throng of cats. “So will

Mothwhisker. I know he wants to serve his Clan once more.” His eyes met the elder’s, and they nodded to each other.

Then Morningstar lifted his tail and faced the gorse tunnel that led out of the camp.

“ThunderClan, attack!”

So, young kittypets, you have walked in the memories of our finest warriors, shared in the thrill of the fight, felt teeth meet in your fur, and struck out with your paws to bruise your enemy before they can deal a killing blow. Has your curiosity been satisfied? There is one more lesson to learn about battles: that the echoes last long after the final blow has been struck and every wound has healed.