Back and forth, shedding blood on one side of the border or the other, until the stars grow old.”
“We have to defend our boundaries!” Smoketalon hissed.
“The warrior code says so.”
Mossheart sighed. The border skirmishes between
ShadowClan and its neighbor WindClan had grown more and more violent in recent moons, with warriors from both sides darting across the Thunderpath on raids. Neither Clan was short of food, and it wasn’t as if WindClan had developed a taste for frogs or ShadowClan had gained the swiftness needed to catch rabbits. It was nothing but mouse-brained pride that made each
Clan refuse to be the first to stop. A WindClan warrior had died last moon, and a ShadowClan she-cat had been lamed and would never be able to hunt or fight for her Clan again.
Mossheart finished packing the wound with juicy green pulp and laid cobwebs on top in an attempt to hold the edges of the cut together and keep the poultice in place. “Don’t move until I tell you,” she warned Smoketalon. She pushed some dry moss under his head to make him more comfortable, then padded out of her den to clear her head of the bitter marigold scent.
Several of her Clanmates were standing on the far side of the clearing, staring into the trees with their ears pricked. A white she-cat, her belly round with kits, turned to look at Mossheart.
“They’re fighting again,” she meowed. “Listen.”
Oh, StarClan, no!
Mossheart padded forward to stand beside Lilyfur. Mossheart’s pelt felt strangely hot and sticky, and there was a sour scent in her nose. She looked down. Her dark tortoiseshell fur was drenched in scarlet blood that ran down her legs and dripped onto the ground. Mossheart opened her mouth to cry out and choked on a thick, salty clot. Retching, she spat it out.
“Mossheart? Are you all right?”
Mossheart opened her eyes. Lilyfur was bending over her, and Mossheart’s fur was healthy and clean.
“Have you got a furball stuck in your throat?”
“No. I…” Mossheart straightened up. The only taste in her mouth was marigold juice. Faint sounds of battle drifted on the breeze: yowls and thuds as cats hit the ground, the rip of claws through fur. So much blood…
Mossheart bolted toward the noise.
“Wait!” Lilyfur called. “Where are you going?”
“We have to stop the battle!” Mossheart screeched without slowing down. Her vision must have been a message from StarClan that the cats in the forest were in danger of drowning in bloodshed.
Paws thudded behind her, and she realized Lilyfur was following. “Go back!” she panted. “Your kits…”
“My kits will be fine,” Lilyfur wheezed. “I’ve watched you enough times to be useful.” She risked a glance sideways at Mossheart. “It’s going to be bad, isn’t it? I mean, worse than before.”
Mossheart nodded.
The two cats burst out of the trees into a clear patch of ground not far from the Thunderpath. The air tasted of monsters and the bushes at the edge were black and shriveled from the creatures’ foul breath. A tangle of bleeding, screeching cats wrestled in the center of the clearing. Mossheart narrowed her eyes. Two large patrols, from the look of it, each containing several apprentices as well as warriors.
“Stop!” came a screech from the far side of the clearing, and a
small gray face appeared from the blackened bushes. “Stop right now!” he yowled again.
“It’s Swiftfoot!” Mossheart mewed, recognizing the WindClan medicine cat from Gatherings.
The gray tom stepped around the motionless body of one of his Clanmates with a rueful glance and marched up to the nearest tussle. “Enough!” he ordered. “There is nothing to be won here!”
The two cats paused and stared at him. They stepped back and Swiftfoot gave the WindClan warrior a shove with his nose.
“Go home!” he hissed. To Mossheart’s astonishment, the cat spun around and ran into the bushes that separated the clearing from the Thunderpath. The ShadowClan warrior, a dark brown tabby called Logfur, bunched his haunches, ready to leap back into battle, but Mossheart hurtled up to him and planted herself in her way.
“You heard what Swiftfoot said! Go home!”
“There’s a battle to be fought,” Logfur growled.
“Not anymore,” Mossheart replied.
Logfur glared at her, then slunk away, leaving a thin trail of blood from a cut on his tail.
“What in the name of StarClan are you doing?” demanded a voice.
Mossheart spun around. Silvermask stood behind her, the gray stripe on his face stained with blood. “Do you want us to lose?” he growled.
“No. I want you to live,” Mossheart spat. “Are you going to keep fighting until there are no warriors left at all?” She flicked her tail at the bodies that lay slumped on the ground. “Three more cats dead? How is this going to help?”
“Because two of them are WindClan, which means two fewer enemies for us.” Silvermask curled his lip in triumph.
Mossheart shook her head. “You are more mouse-brained than I thought,” she mewed sadly.
Behind them, the warriors were staggering apart, stumbling into the undergrowth in the direction of their own territories.
Silvermask eyed them in disgust. “Are you happy now, Mossheart?
We could have won that battle.”
“No, you couldn’t. Every battle is a loss.”
With a hiss, the deputy limped away. Mossheart decided she’d wait a while before telling him his wounds needed to be treated with goldenrod. Lilyfur padded up. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she offered.
Mossheart gazed around the clearing. Two WindClan cats wouldn’t be making their own way back to their camp, and neither would a ShadowClan apprentice, Spottedpaw. Mossheart gulped as she looked at his little brown body. A warm breeze stirred the fur on his flank, making it look as if he were breathing. But the scent of death hung over him, and his bright blue eyes were glazed and milky.
Swiftfoot glanced up at Mossheart. “I am sorry for your loss,” he meowed.
“And I for yours,” Mossheart replied dully.
“This has to stop!” Swiftfoot hissed, startling Mossheart. “If we lose any more warriors, our Clans will starve when leaf-bare comes. How can StarClan let this happen?”
“Have you been to the Moonstone to speak with them about it?” Mossheart asked.
“No. Have you?”
Mossheart shook her head.
“Then we should go. You and me, and all the other medicine cats. If we all show up, perhaps StarClan will be forced to listen.”
Mossheart stared at him. She’d met the other medicine cats at Gatherings but never alone, without other Clanmates around them. “How can we tell them what we want to do?”
“I’ll visit them. I’ll go on my own so it’s obvious I’m not a threat, and I’ll bring them all to the moor. Meet us by the pointed stone next sunrise.”
Mossheart knew that Swiftfoot was right. The medicine cats needed to unite. They had the power to heal their Clans—perhaps this meant they could stop battles before they started.
“I’ll be there,” she promised.
Swiftfoot popped his head around the corner of the gorse as Mossheart approached the pointed stone the next morning. “I thought you’d decided not to come,” he greeted her.
Kinktail, the RiverClan medicine cat whose tail had been crushed by a monster when she was a tiny kit, appeared behind
Swiftfoot. Her eyes were shining. “I can’t believe we’re doing this!” she breathed. “All five of us, going to share tongues with StarClan at the same time.”
“Maybe we should have done it before,” muttered Swiftfoot.