Crowfeather's Trial

Chapter 30

Crowfeather stood at the tunnel entrance where — moons ago, it seemed — Hootpaw had first glimpsed the white stoat. The sky was scarlet over the moor, the cats’ long shadows stretching out behind them as the sun went down. It was the day after the meeting with Bramblestar and the ThunderClan warriors at the stream, and everything was ready for the final attack on the stoats.

The creatures seemed to be more active at night, and so during the day, while they slept, the cats had filled in as many unblocked tunnels as they could find. Now only this one entrance remained. Crowfeather raised one paw to lick his pad where it still stung from maneuvering stones and brush. His fur itched with dust, but he felt warm with satisfaction from ears to tail-tip.

The stoats should be waking up by now. I hope they’re ready to be lured out.

Breezepelt padded up while Crowfeather was still licking his sore pads. “Ready?” he asked.

Crowfeather nodded, glancing up at his son. He was surprised to see that Breezepelt wore an expression of determination and held his head high. I know he’s afraid of the tunnels, Crowfeather thought, but he’s not showing the slightest sign of fear now.

Breezepelt returned Crowfeather’s nod, his gaze softening a little.

“We can do this,” Crowfeather mewed. “For WindClan.”

“We can,” Breezepelt agreed. “I’m ready.”

His voice was steady and resolute. Crowfeather couldn’t help thinking of the danger ahead. It didn’t matter so much for him, but Breezepelt had his whole future to lose if he was killed or injured: his place in the Clan; the opportunity to take a mate, have kits, and raise them as warriors. He’s willing to risk all that to prove his loyalty, Crowfeather reflected, even more impressed by his son’s courage. I may have been lacking as a father, but Breezepelt still turned out to be a worthy warrior.

Crowfeather glanced around at the moorland landscape that surrounded him. He knew that behind the rocks and underneath the gorse bushes, warriors of ThunderClan and WindClan were hiding, waiting to leap out into battle. There was a strong scent of cat, but he couldn’t see any of them, not even a single whisker or the tip of a tail.

The stoats will get the shock of their lives!

But with that realization Crowfeather accepted that he had to contain himself. He couldn’t let his longing for revenge get the better of him. Excitement and confidence were bubbling up inside him like a spring of fresh water, but he knew that he needed intelligence, too, and a cool head.

Then Heathertail emerged from behind a boulder halfway up the slope and padded down to join Crowfeather and Breezepelt. “You’re sure you know what to do?” she asked.

Like we haven’t gone over it so many times! Crowfeather thought, but he didn’t speak the thought aloud. He was well aware that Heathertail wasn’t really asking that question; what she wanted to know was whether Breezepelt was sure he wanted to go through with this.

She knows he’s a capable warrior, but she wants to be his mate. Of course she’s worried.

“Yes, we’ll be fine,” Breezepelt replied.

“You’ve been in there before, so you should remember what it’s like,” Heathertail continued. “There’s a clear path in a huge circle to take you deep into the tunnels and back out here. For StarClan’s sake, don’t head off down any side passages.”

“We’ll be careful,” Breezepelt promised her.

Crowfeather wasn’t sure that “careful” was the word he would have chosen. He and Breezepelt would be running the path as fast as they could, swiping and yowling at stoats to attract their attention and make them give chase.

I hope we don’t get caught and find ourselves surrounded by stoats. It would be easy enough to get the creatures’ attention, and easier still to get trapped in the tunnels, outnumbered in the dark. I know how that feels, and I don’t want to feel it again — but that’s in the paws of StarClan.

Breezepelt and Heathertail had leaned closer together, speaking softly to each other, when Onestar padded up. Crowfeather suppressed a mrrow of amusement when he saw the two young cats guiltily jump apart.

“It’s time,” Onestar declared; if he had noticed anything, he made no comment. “Are you ready?”

Crowfeather nodded; Breezepelt stood up a little straighter.

“Then may StarClan light your path,” the Clan leader meowed. “Go!”

Crowfeather let Breezepelt take the lead as the two toms raced into the tunnels. Light from the entrance quickly died away behind them, though the passage was dimly lit through chinks in the roof.

At first the only sign of the stoats was the smell. Crowfeather’s nose wrinkled at their scent and the reek of their rotting prey. Then a stronger, fresher scent flooded over him, and he realized that the passage opened up at one side into a den. He could make out several white bodies crowded together.

Without hesitation Breezepelt darted in among them and slashed his claws across the nearest stoat’s face before darting out again and running on. “Take that, mange-pelt!” he yowled. The injured stoat let out a screech of pain, and a furious chittering rose from its denmates.

As Crowfeather ran past the den, hard on Breezepelt’s paws, he heard the stoats scrambling after him, their tiny claws scratching on the floor of the passage, their scent like a foggy cloud around him. Alarmed by how close they were, he bunched and stretched his muscles in an effort to run even faster.

We must have had bees in our brains to volunteer for this!

As he and Breezepelt raced onward, attacking stoats in every den they passed, Crowfeather realized that more and more of the stoats were following them. A hasty glance over his shoulder showed them pouring down the passage like a vast white wave ready to engulf them.

How much farther? he asked himself desperately. We must be close to the way out by now!

Reaching what Crowfeather thought must be the last den, Breezepelt once more leaped into the attack. But this time the stoats in the den seemed more alert, maybe warned by the sound and scent of their approaching denmates. The leading stoat sprang forward beneath Breezepelt’s outstretched paws and fastened its fangs into his throat.

Breezepelt let out a yowl of shock and fear. A heartbeat later the white creatures were swarming around him; he almost looked as if he were sinking into a snowdrift, except this wasn’t snow: It was a heap of squirming bodies, with claws and teeth bared to tear and bite.

Crowfeather didn’t take time to think. He waded into the swarm of stoats, lashing out with his claws to thrust the creatures aside on his way to his son. When he reached Breezepelt, he swiped with all his strength at the stoat that still clung to him, breaking its grip and knocking it back against the den wall.

“Run—now!” he screeched to Breezepelt.

Breezepelt turned and fled down the passage; Crowfeather barreled after him, hearing the whole crowd of stoats on his hind paws. Moments later the dim light of the tunnel grew brighter, and Crowfeather spotted the ragged circle of the tunnel entrance a few fox-lengths ahead.

Breezepelt broke out into the open, his voice raised in a triumphant yowl, and Crowfeather followed him. The stoats poured out behind them, an unstoppable wave.

Ahead of them, cats rose up from the seemingly empty hillside. WindClan and ThunderClan together charged down the slope into the attack. Their eyes gleamed in the last of the daylight, and their voices were raised as one in a challenging caterwaul.

Crowfeather kept on running until he and Breezepelt were well away from the tunnel, then gave his son a hard shove with one shoulder into the shelter of a jutting rock.

“Catch your breath,” he panted.

Breezepelt nodded, his breath coming in harsh gasps as if he couldn’t manage to speak. “Thanks, Crowfeather,” he rasped eventually. “I can’t believe how strong you were, attacking that last stoat!”

Crowfeather let out a snort. “Nor can I. I have no idea where that came from. Maybe it was just seeing my kit attacked!”

Breezepelt’s tail curled up with amusement, but there was unexpected warmth in his gaze. “If you hadn’t been there,” he mewed, “I’m not sure what would have happened. But I doubt I’d be here to tell the story.”

“Are you okay?” Crowfeather asked. Breezepelt’s throat was bleeding, but not too badly; it looked as if the stoat’s fangs hadn’t sunk in very deep.

“Fine,” Breezepelt replied. “You?”

Crowfeather nodded. “Let’s go and kill some stoats!”

Breezepelt instantly leaped into the battle, but Crowfeather paused a moment to take in what was happening. The open ground between the gorse-covered hillside and the tunnel entrances in the steep bank was covered by writhing bodies: cats and stoats locked together in combat. Harespring and Thornclaw had taken up their position in front of the only open entrance to make sure that the stoats couldn’t flee back into safety. Yowls and shrieks split the air, and the scents of cats and stoats were already mingling with the tang of blood.

Our blood as well as the stoats’, he realized, fury welling up inside him.

For a heartbeat his anger blinded him, so he didn’t notice that one stoat had broken away from the main battle and charged at him, until it was almost on top of him. As it sprang, he lashed out at it, scoring his claws down its side. The stoat scrabbled away, whimpering. Then fighting surged all around him, and it was all he could do to stay on his paws.

The cats were much larger than the stoats, but even the two Clans together were still vastly outnumbered. The stoats were sharp-toothed, and very fast-moving; Crowfeather saw many of them leap into the air unexpectedly, to land on their enemies’ backs and tear at their spines and shoulders. He spotted Furzepelt with a stoat clinging to her shoulders; she rolled over in a desperate attempt to get rid of it, smothering it under her weight. Next to her Mousewhisker slashed his claws down the side of a stoat that had pushed Emberfoot down; the gray tom scrambled to his paws, and the two cats together drove the stoat back into the press of its denmates.

Heading for where the fighting was thickest, Crowfeather raked his claws across the faces of stoats that got in his way. Already it was hard to move because of the bodies of stoats lying underpaw, yet he could see that many of the cats had serious injuries. He spotted Birchfall, who had blood running down his muzzle from a wounded ear, and Larkwing had a long gash down one side. Even though they were so badly injured, they were still standing, still moving forward, not letting their wounds slow them down.

It’s the cats who trained with the Dark Forest who are fighting hardest, Crowfeather realized. They’re throwing themselves into the worst of the battle.

As he looked around, Crowfeather’s heart swelled with pride as he saw his Clanmates, who had suffered so much suspicion after the mistake they’d made, showing their loyalty by risking their lives for their Clan. At the same time, rage against the stoats gave him new strength and energy.

A stoat rushed at him, rearing up to attack him with both forepaws. Crowfeather ducked underneath its forelegs, and as the stoat landed, he spun around to fasten his teeth in its throat. He pinned it to the ground, his paws gripping it determinedly until he felt a warm rush of blood; the stoat went limp and he tossed it aside. Looking up, he found himself staring into the face of Nightcloud.

“Neat kill,” she commented. “Leave some for the rest of us, won’t you?”

As she spoke, a stoat dived for her, leaping up to land on her back. But before it could get a firm grip on her, Crowfeather lashed out with one forepaw, knocking it to the ground. Nightcloud sank her claws into its throat; the stoat twitched and lay still. She gave Crowfeather a nod of gratitude before turning back to the battle.

Crowfeather and Nightcloud fought together, standing tail to tail as they turned in a circle, paws striking out at the endless surge of stoats. As soon as they killed or injured one, another would take its place. The white bodies, the small, malignant eyes and snarling fangs, seemed to Crowfeather like something out of a nightmare. He could only go on struggling, grateful for Nightcloud’s steady presence beside him.

Then pain exploded in Crowfeather’s shoulder. He turned his head to see a stoat gripping him with its claws, while a splash of drool on his muzzle warned him it was going for his throat. Crowfeather couldn’t shake it off; he dropped to the ground, buying time, but the pressing weight of the frenzied creature made him feel there was no escape. The angle of their bodies meant that he couldn’t batter at it with his hind legs. StarClan, help me! he prayed.

The stoat abruptly vanished. Crowfeather looked up to see Nightcloud holding it by the scruff, shaking it vigorously, then tossing it away into the crowd.

“Thanks,” Crowfeather gasped, scrambling to his paws.

“Anytime,” Nightcloud responded.

They turned as one to attack two other stoats that dived in from opposite directions. Even while his body remembered his battle moves, Crowfeather could reflect on how well he and Nightcloud fought together, how well they knew each other.

We may not be in love, but we make a fierce team on the battlefield. I know she’ll fight ferociously for me, and for all her Clanmates.

Crowfeather’s reflections were interrupted by a screech of pain. Glancing over his shoulder he saw Lionblaze fall, the golden tabby warrior overwhelmed beneath a swarm of stoats. Crowfeather leaped toward him, only to run into what felt like a solid wall of wiry white bodies. He tried to fight his way through, but too many of them surrounded him. A throb of terror for his ThunderClan son pulsed through Crowfeather; he couldn’t reach Lionblaze to help.

He was thrusting vainly against the tide, knowing he would be too late, when Breezepelt leaped into the battle, seeming to come from nowhere. Crowfeather could see that he was bleeding from several wounds, but they hadn’t sapped his energy. He grabbed two of the stoats on top of Lionblaze, shaking them and ripping out their throats.

Lionblaze managed to stumble to his paws. He and Breezepelt stared at each other uncomfortably for a moment, then turned away, back to the battle.

Crowfeather couldn’t believe what had just happened. “Did you see our son?” he breathed out.

Nightcloud’s response was a rough shove. “Don’t stand there gaping, mouse-brain!” But Crowfeather could see that her eyes were warm with pride.

Looking around for his next opponent, Crowfeather realized that the war was all but over by now. The stretch of ground between the gorse bushes and the tunnels was strewn with the bodies of stoats. The last few were fleeing, bleeding and whimpering with fear.

In the middle of the devastation, Onestar and Bramblestar padded up to each other, each of them dipping his head in gratitude and respect to the other.

“Cats of ThunderClan and WindClan!” Onestar called out. “You have fought well today. The battle is won.”

“And the stoats are gone for good, I hope,” Bramblestar added.

Meanwhile Kestrelflight, Leafpool, and Jayfeather, who had waited out the battle among the gorse bushes, began to move among the injured cats, examining their wounds and applying treatment with the herbs they had brought.

Crowfeather looked around for Breezepelt and spotted him standing a couple of fox-lengths away, licking a wound on his shoulder. Before Crowfeather could join him, he saw Lionblaze limping toward him. Crowfeather held back while his two sons confronted each other.

“Thank you for helping me,” Lionblaze began, halting a pace or two in front of Breezepelt. His gaze and his tone were wary. “But why did you? You said I should never have been born. You wanted me dead.”

Breezepelt looked up at him, equally awkward. His eyes were guilty as he replied. “I should never have listened to the Dark Forest cats,” he mewed stiffly. “You’re a Clan cat, and my loyalty should be to the Clans.”

Crowfeather realized that this was as close as Breezepelt was ever going to get to an apology for attacking Lionblaze during the Great Battle. He felt his muscles tense as he waited for Lionblaze’s response, aware for the first time of how much he wanted his two sons to get along. Come on, he urged Lionblaze silently. Accept his apology!

Clearly, Lionblaze knew how hard it was for Breezepelt to say even so much. “You fought well,” he meowed reluctantly. “I’m glad we were on the same side this time.”

The two toms stared at each other and exchanged an awkward, jerky nod before each of them quickly turned back to his own Clan.

Crowfeather felt an unexpected surge of affection for Breezepelt. He was such a surly, difficult furball sometimes, but he was trying so hard to redeem himself. If Breezepelt could do it, so could he. I can tell my son how I feel about him.

Crowfeather headed toward his son, who turned to gaze at him. Breezepelt opened his jaws, clearly about to speak, but before he could utter a word, his legs folded under him and he collapsed limply to the ground.

Crowfeather darted to Breezepelt’s side. He saw blood pooling beneath him, and, gently turning him over, saw a nasty bite on his belly, as if the stoat had torn his flesh away. The wound had been concealed when Breezepelt was standing upright. Blood trickled through his matted fur. Crowfeather lost his breath as he realized how serious this could be.

“Help!” Crowfeather forced air into his lungs again and yowled. “Kestrelflight, over here!”

But it was Nightcloud who arrived first, crouching beside her son’s body and calling his name while she frantically licked his ears. Breezepelt didn’t respond.

Crowfeather stared down at his son, digging his claws into the ground. You can’t die now, he thought helplessly. Oh, StarClan, no — not when we’re starting to understand each other at last!