“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!”
Part Five:
The Aftermath
Cedarheart’s Final Warning
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.
With each challenge and each blow landed, lives are changed forever.
Before I take you back to Onestar, there is a story to tell from long ago, when there were still five Clans in the forest. ThunderClan and SkyClan argued for many moons over the land on their shared border. So much blood was spilled that Darkstar, the leader of SkyClan, decided to give it to ThunderClan at a Gathering. His Clanmates were horrified, especially his deputy, Raincloud, but Darkstar refused to go back on his word. Each Clan set new border marks the following day, and SkyClan had to watch their rivals feast on prey that had once been theirs.
Seasons passed, and Twolegs began building new nests on SkyClan’s borders. As their territory shrank on one side, their leader, Cloudstar, looked at the hunting grounds that had once belonged to them, and knew that those grounds would give his Clan a chance of survival if Twolegs stole any more of their land. He launched an invasion with his warriors and tried to take back the territory by force. But ThunderClan was expecting this and fought back, hard, and with the strength of full-fed warriors.
Two Clans licked their wounds and told stories to their kits, stories that could not have been more different, on each side of the border…
The Victorious Clan
Clanmates, we won!”
Redstar crossed the clearing in two bounds and leaped onto the Highrock. He gazed down at his Clan circling beneath him, purring and yowling with delight. The scratch on his muzzle, the ache in his hind leg where a SkyClan warrior had crushed it, the patch of fur missing from his flank: None of that mattered now. Victory was better than any herbs at making pain disappear.
Kestrelwing, the ThunderClan medicine cat, stood on tiptoe at the mouth of his den and called, “Any cats with injuries, come see me!”
A few warriors shuffled toward him, but most stayed, sharing their stories with the queens and elders who hadn’t taken part in the battle. One gray tabby was dragged to the ground by a tumble of squeaking kits, who succeeded in flooring him when several SkyClan warriors dropping from trees had failed.
“Tell us about the battle!” the biggest kit begged.
“Were the SkyClan cats superbig and scary?” squealed another.
Nettleclaw shook his head. “No, but they were hungry, and that makes any enemy more dangerous.”
“Not too dangerous for us!” chirped the first kit. “I bet you showed them who’s the best around here!”
Nettleclaw let out a snort of amusement. “I guess we did, little one,” he purred.
Redstar jumped down from Highrock, planning to see Kestrelwing once the first rush for treatment was over. His deputy, Seedpelt, padded up to him.
“Welcome back,” she meowed, her eyes shining. “All was quiet while you were out.”
Redstar nodded. “I thought it would be. SkyClan could barely muster enough warriors to take us on. They wouldn’t have had any to spare to attack the camp. Thanks for staying behind, though. I know you would have liked to have been there.”
“My turn will come,” Seedpelt murmured. “Until then, I am honored to protect the Clan while you are not here.”
A long-legged ginger cat passed them on his way to the fresh-kill pile. He flicked Redstar’s shoulder with his tail as he drew level. “Well fought, old friend,” he purred.
Redstar dipped his head. “Thank you, Amberclaw. You weren’t too shabby yourself. Nice move with the sand-colored she-cat, I thought.”