Graywing pulled her head out. “They’re safe,” she breathed.
Smallstar looked surprised. “Of course. Did you think we’d hurt one hair on their pelts? Kits are the most special part of a
Clan. They are the warriors who will defend their Clanmates in moons to come, the hunters who will find food even in the coldest leaf-bare, the cats who will have kits of their own to pass on everything they have learned. A Clan that has no kits might as well be dead.”
“And if one Clan dies, the survival of all the Clans is threatened,” Runningstorm added. “We may be rivals, but we are linked by StarClan, stronger than rock, stronger than tree roots, stronger than the water in the river.”
“I’m sorry.” Graywing faced the shining warriors and bowed her head. “I should have let Brindleclaw try to save you.
WindClan’s loss is ours, too.”
There was no reply. She lifted her head to see the three cats fading away, returning to their home in the stars.
Graywing blinked. She was lying in her nest, the moss and feathers underneath her looking as if a battle had been fought there the night before. Graywing hauled herself up and stretched one hind leg at a time. Why did she feel as if she hadn’t slept at all?
The dream!
She raced out of the den and went straight to Ivystar. “I have to take a patrol out,” she panted.
Ivystar put her head to one side. “Do we need herbs so desperately? Has a cat fallen ill?”
“No, nothing like that. Please, let me take Brindleclaw and Foxwhisker. I’ll explain everything later.”
“Very well. But be careful. The river will still be flooded.”
Graywing shot out of Ivystar’s den and went to wake up
Brindleclaw and Foxwhisker. The she-cat was still icy cold toward her, but Graywing didn’t try to apologize or even tell the warriors what they were doing. They would understand soon enough…
Graywing led them along the shore heading downriver, toward Sunningrocks. She slowed as they drew near the looming gray shapes and started to sniff carefully along the river’s edge.
“Are you looking for something?” Foxwhisker asked.
Graywing looked up. “I want to find the kits who drowned yesterday,” she mewed. “They should have lived to become warriors for their Clan. We need to take them back home.”
Brindleclaw stared at her in shock. “But yesterday you said we couldn’t have anything to do with them because they weren’t RiverClan!”
Graywing nodded. “And I was wrong. Kits should be precious to all Clans. After we have taken these three back to WindClan, I will ask Ivystar to suggest an addition to the warrior code: that kits should be protected by every cat in the forest, regardless of which Clan they come from. All our futures depend on them.”
“Over there,” came a quiet meow. Foxwhisker was standing on the edge of the water, facing away from them. He jerked his muzzle toward the far bank, where a tangle of sodden fur had been washed up against a branch.
“Come on,” murmured Graywing. She and her Clanmates slipped into the water and paddled strongly through the current toward the branch. The swollen river tried to drag them away, and battered them with twigs and other debris washed down from the gorge, but they stretched their necks to keep their muzzles above the surface and churned with legs well used to swimming.
Graywing reached the kits first. Through the filthy, water-dark fur, she could just make out patches of black and white in the shape nearest to her. It was Smallkit, who would have been leader of his Clan had he survived. Graywing picked him up and carried him back to the RiverClan shore. Foxwhisker followed with Runningkit, and Brindleclaw brought Wolfkit.
They laid their tiny burdens on the shore to get their breath back. Graywing touched each body with her muzzle. “Your Clan will honor you with a burial for the warriors that you would have been,” she told them. “And you will live on in the law that makes every Clan responsible for the safety of kits, wherever they are born.
“Precious kits, walk safely among the stars.”
A Kit in Trouble
No cat doubts that cats of all Clans must protect kits. But we know from bitter experience that not all kits grow up to honor the warrior code that once protected them. Every full-grown tyrant or murderer was once a tiny bundle of fluff that swelled a mother’s heart with pride. If we could see into the future, would we protect each and every kit the same?
Brackenfoot curled his lip as he pushed through the broad, sticky plants that grew along the Thunderpath that bordered ShadowClan’s territory. He didn’t share his Clanmates’ taste for monster-kill, and the stench and the noise coming from the strip of black stone made him blind and deaf to everything else. He waited for the roar of the monsters to fade, then bounded onto the narrow strip of foul-smelling grass.
Archeye was sniffing at some crumpled gray and white feathers lying on the edge of the Thunderpath. “Looks like we might be able to take some pigeon home,” he commented.
It won’t taste of pigeon, thought Brackenfoot. It’ll taste burned and bitter, like licking a monster’s paw.
To his relief, Hollyflower wrinkled her nose. “There’s not enough meat left to bother with,” she told Archeye.
The still, hot air was ruffled by the sound of a growl; Brackenfoot spun around, expecting to see a curious dog that had broken away from its Twoleg. But nothing stirred on ShadowClan’s hunting grounds. Then Hollyflower yowled, “Fox!”
Brackenfoot stiffened. A red-brown creature with the familiar pointed snout was standing among the ferns on the far side of the Thunderpath, in ThunderClan’s territory. The fox’s fur bristled along its back, and it held its head low.
“Is it stalking us?” Archeye whispered.
“Foxes don’t hunt full-grown cats,” Crowclaw whispered back.
“Not unless they’re starving.”
Brackenfoot peered closer. There was something trembling on the very edge of the Thunderpath, directly across from them.
“It’s not interested in us,” he hissed. “It’s found some much easier prey.” The lump of fluff looked like a young rabbit or perhaps a very fat vole.
“ThunderClan won’t like having a fox stealing their fresh-kill,” Archeye commented gleefully.
“That’s not fresh-kill!” Hollyflower burst out. “That’s a kit!”
She sprang onto the Thunderpath before the other cats could stop her and raced across to stand over the tiny cat. “Get away!” she spat at the fox.
Archeye glanced sideways at Brackenfoot. “I suppose we’d better join in before she loses both her ears,” he muttered.
Brackenfoot sighed. Yes, all kits had to be protected whichever Clan they came from, but this kit was still on its own territory!
Couldn’t they wait for a ThunderClan patrol to come to the rescue?
Clearly not. Hollyflower was advancing on the fox, putting herself between it and the kit. Protecting another Clan’s kit was one thing; saving your denmate from being savaged was another.
Side by side, Brackenfoot and Archeye pelted across the hot black stone, screeching a battle cry. The fox jumped back and growled, baring long pointed fangs.
“You don’t scare us!” Hollyflower yowled. She lashed out with her claws unsheathed and drew her paw back clogged with reddish hair. The fox snapped at her, its breath foul as crow-food.
Brackenfoot reared up onto his hind legs and swiped with both front paws, catching the fox on its ears. At the same time, Archeye ducked low and ran at its snout, striking as he shot past. The fox shook its head, scattering scarlet drops from its muzzle.