Daisytail shook her head. “No. I know battle is part of our life.
It’s what warriors train for. But they should only be asked to fight when they are old enough to stand a chance of winning. What is the point of training kits so young that they’ll be lost in their first conflict?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Specklepaw duck behind
Adderpaw. Embarrassment prickled from every hair on his pelt, and he refused to meet her gaze. Inwardly Daisytail gave an amused purr. One day, he’d understand—he’d still be alive to know why his mother did this.
Oakleaf trotted across the grass and stood side by side with Daisytail and Hawkfoot. “We are united, Blizzardstar,” she told him. She nodded toward the line, and several other she-cats padded out. Daisytail dipped her head to greet them; some of these queens were too old to have kits as young as hers, but they all felt the same: The youngest cats should not be expected to fight.
The grass whispered softly as WindClan she-cats joined them, falling in beside their ShadowClan rivals.
Daisytail held her breath and looked from Hazelstar to Blizzardstar and back again. The leaders could still order their warriors into battle. All that would happen would be that she would be forced to watch her kit fall beneath the paws of a giant
ShadowClan warrior, never to get up again.
“Hazelstar? Our queens have spoken.” Blizzardstar stepped out from his battle line, looking hard at his rival leader. “Should we ignore them and fight?”
The ginger tom paused, letting his gaze rest on the group of she-cats before glancing at his tiny warriors. Then he faced Blizzardstar again. “What sense is there in losing the future of our Clans, when if we let them grow stronger, battles will be more easily won?”
Daisytail almost purred out loud. Hazelstar had managed to make this sound like a threat to ShadowClan rather than a decision to decrease his battle line.
Blizzardstar nodded. “If you are going to remove your youngest cats, then so must I. ShadowClan cannot be accused of being unfair in battle.”
“I would never suggest such a thing,” Hazelstar murmured. He turned to Daisytail. “How do you propose that we make sure all Clans keep their youngest cats from battle?” he asked.
Daisytail gulped. Was she really being consulted by the leader of her Clan? She thought rapidly. “I think there should be an addition to the warrior code. That kits must be”—she looked up and down the battle line, judging which cats looked big enough to take on a fully trained warrior—“six moons old before they are allowed to train as apprentices.”
Oakleaf brushed the tip of her tail against Daisytail’s shoulder.
“Until then, they must live within the camp, where the queens can be responsible for their safety.”
Hazelstar nodded. “That makes sense to me. Thank you, Daisytail. And thank you, Oakleaf.” He dipped his head to the ShadowClan queen. “Blizzardstar, are we agreed?”
The ShadowClan leader bowed his head. “We are. We will take this to the Gathering at the next full moon.”
Daisytail gazed at Specklepaw, who looked ready to burst with frustration. There will be other battles, my little warrior. But not yet. Not until you are ready.
53
The Smallest Warrior
Only a leader that walks the blackest of paths would break the code that protects kits. Brokenstar of ShadowClan was such a leader.
The WindClan warrior sprang with his claws unsheathed, and the little black-and-white cat fell to the ground without making a sound. A trickle of blood crept from his ear, which was crumpled in the dust. Flintfang shook off the warrior trying to sink her teeth into his tail and bounded over to his unmoving Clanmate.
“Get off him, you mangy worm!” Flintfang snarled. Then he bent down to grasp Badgerpaw’s scruff between his teeth. The apprentice’s fur was still soft and fluffy, and it tickled Flintfang’s nose. Blinking to stop the sneeze, Flintfang lifted the tiny limp body into the air and carried it to the edge of the WindClan camp.
Behind him, screeches and thuds echoed around the shallow dip in the ground where WindClan had once made its home. Now all the dens were trampled and ruined, and the ground was sticky with blood. Brokenstar was right: This battle would force WindClan to leave the moor, and ShadowClan hunters would be able to take over the territory to feed their growing Clan.
But not Badgerpaw. His breathing was quick and shallow and a strange smell came from him, sour like blood and crow-food.
There was nothing any cat could do to help him. Flintfang shook his head angrily. He had trained his apprentice in every battle skill he knew and made sure he could duck and roll and slash as well as any of the other apprentices. But Badgerpaw was only three moons
old; he was too small to take on a full-grown WindClan warrior, his legs too short to reach the easily wounded parts of belly, eyes, and ears. What could a mentor do when he was expected to train a kit?
The warrior code said that a warrior must be at least six moons old, but that didn’t worry Flintfang as much as he feared Brokenstar.
Flintfang had failed his leader—and Brokenstar would make sure every cat in the Clan knew. He turned away, ready to abandon his apprentice and teach that fox-faced WindClan warrior a lesson he wouldn’t forget.
Badgerpaw’s eyes flickered. “Flintfang? Is that you?”
Flintfang’s heart sank. “Yes, it’s me.”
“Was… was I good enough?” Badgerpaw rasped in a tiny voice.
His paws shifted in the dust and a bead of blood appeared at the corner of his lip. “I tried to remember everything you taught me.”
Flintfang stared at the battered little body. Badgerpaw hadn’t stood a chance from the moment the first battle yowl split the air.
“I hope Brokenstar is proud of me,” Badgerpaw went on. His eyes were clouding over and starting to close. “And my mom.”
Flintfang felt something stir inside him. What was he going to tell Fernshade?
That her kit was always going to die in this battle because he was too small, too weak?
“Fernshade will be very proud of you,” he meowed.
Badgerpaw opened his eyes with an effort and looked straight at Flintfang. “Are you proud of me?”
Flintfang crouched beside Badgerpaw and stroked the apprentice’s eyelids with the tip of his tail to close them again.
“You fought brilliantly,” he murmured.
“Will you be all right without me?” Badgerpaw asked fretfully.
He moved his head and the trickle of blood coming from his ear thickened, spilling out faster.
“We’ll do our best,” Flintfang replied gravely. “And we’ll always remember you and how brave you were.”
Was it his imagination, or did the tiny black-and-white chest swell with pride?
“Do… do you think StarClan will make me a warrior now?”
Flintfang swallowed hard; there seemed to be a stone wedged in his throat. “I’m sure they will.”
“What will my name be?” Badgerpaw wondered, his voice growing even fainter.
“I expect they’ll let you choose your own name,” Flintfang replied. The lump in his throat was growing, making it hard to speak.
“I’d like to be called Badgerfang. Like you, because you were such a great mentor.”
Flintfang leaned forward and rested his muzzle on top of his apprentice’s head. “That is a great honor. Badgerfang is a very good name for a warrior.” He could feel Badgerpaw’s breaths coming quicker now, his flank hardly rising at all as he fought for air. “You will watch over us from StarClan for all the moons to come.” Badgerpaw let out a tiny sigh, and his flank stilled.