The Darkest Hour (Warriors 2)

The accusation stung Firestar, all the more so because he recognized that there was a core of truth in it. He would take Graystripe’s word over Darkstripe’s any day, but he had to be absolutely certain that his friend wasn’t making a mistake.

“I don’t have to decide now,” Firestar meowed. “As soon as Sorrelkit wakes up, she’ll be able to tell us what happened.”

As he spoke he thought he saw a flicker of unease in Darkstripe’s eyes, but it was gone so quickly he could not be sure. The dark warrior twitched his ears contemptuously. “Fine,” he meowed. “Then you’ll see which of us is telling the truth.” He stalked off toward the camp entrance with tail held high.

“I did see it, Firestar,” Graystripe assured him, his sides heaving from the fight. “I can’t understand why he’d want to hurt Sorrelkit, but I’m quite sure that’s what he was doing.”

Firestar sighed. “I believe you, but we have to let every cat see that justice is done. I can’t punish Darkstripe until Sorrelkit tells us what happened.”

If she ever does, he added silently to himself. He watched Cinderpelt and Willowpelt gently picking up the kit and carrying her toward the gorse tunnel. Sorrelkit’s head lolled limply and her tail brushed the ground. Firestar’s belly clenched as he remembered the kit bouncing around the camp. If Darkstripe had really tried to kill her, he would pay.

“Graystripe,” he murmured, “go with Cinderpelt. I want you or another warrior on guard in her den until Sorrelkit wakes up. Ask Sandstorm and Goldenflower if they’ll help. I don’t want anything else to happen to Sorrelkit before she’s fit to talk.”

Graystripe’s eyes gleamed with understanding. “Okay, Firestar,” he meowed. “I’m on my way.” He bounded down the slope and caught up with the other cats as they disappeared into the tunnel.

Firestar was left in the ravine with Bramblepaw. “I’ve left a squirrel up there,” he meowed to his apprentice, jerking his head toward the top of the ravine. “Could you collect it for me, p l ease? And then you can rest and eat. You’ve had a long day.”

“Thanks,” Bramblepaw mewed. He took a few steps up the ravine and glanced back. “Sorrelkit will be okay, won’t she?”

Firestar let out a long breath. “I don’t know, Bramblepaw,” he admitted. “I just don’t know.”

CHAPTER 9

Firestar made his way thoughtfully back into the camp. Glancing around, he caught sight of Darkstripe gulping down a piece of fresh-kill beside the nettle patch. Mousefur, Goldenflower, and Frostfur were eating close by, but Firestar noticed that they had all turned their backs on Darkstripe and were not looking at him.

Graystripe must have already begun to spread the news of what had happened in the ravine. Frostfur and Goldenflower in particular, who had both raised kits of their own, would be horrified by the very suspicion that a Clan warrior would murder a kit. It was a good sign, Firestar realized, if they seemed to believe Graystripe’s version of events. It showed that his friend was becoming accepted by the Clan again, beginning to recover the popularity he had once had.

Firestar was heading toward Graystripe when movement by the warriors’ den caught his eye. Brackenfur was just emerging from between the branches, gazing wildly around. He spotted Darkstripe, took a step toward him, and then veered away to join Firestar.

“I’ve just heard!” he gasped. “Firestar, I’m sorry. He got away from me. This is all my fault!”

“Steady.” Firestar let his tail rest a moment on the agitated young warrior’s shoulder, gesturing for calm. “Tell me what happened.”

Brackenfur took a couple of gulping breaths, struggling for self-control. “Darkstripe said he was going out to hunt,” he began. “I went with him, but when we got into the forest he said he had to make dirt. He went behind a bush and I waited for him. He was taking a long time, so I went to look—and he’d gone!” His eyes stretched wide with dismay. “If Sorrelkit dies, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Sorrelkit won’t die,” Firestar reassured him, though he was not certain that it was the truth. The kit was still very ill.

And now there was something else to worry about. Brackenfur’s story showed that Darkstripe had realized he was being watched. He had gotten rid of his guard very neatly. He must have had a reason, Firestar reflected. What had the dark tabby meant to do, and why had he tried to kill Sorrelkit?

“What do you want me to do now?” Brackenfur asked miserably.

“Stop blaming yourself, to begin with,” Firestar replied. “Darkstripe was bound to let us know where his loyalties lie sooner or later.”

Except for his anxiety over Sorrelkit, Firestar wasn’t sorry that Darkstripe had shown his true self in a way that no cat could ignore. Although he had hoped to keep the dark warrior in the Clan, where he could watch him for signs of treachery, now he knew that Darkstripe would never be loyal, to him or to ThunderClan, and there could be no place for a cat who would poison a defenseless kit. Let him go to Tigerstar, where he belongs, Firestar thought.

“Carry on guarding Darkstripe,” he went on to Brackenfur. “You can let him know you’re doing it now. Tell him from me he’s not to leave camp until Sorrelkit can tell her story.”

Brackenfur gave a tense nod and hurried across to the nettle patch, where he crouched beside Darkstripe and spoke to him. The warrior snarled something in reply and went back to tearing apart his piece of fresh-kill.

As Firestar watched, a pawstep sounded behind him and he turned to see Sandstorm; the ginger she-cat pressed her muzzle against his, a purr deep in her throat. Firestar drew in her scent, comforted for a moment just by being close to her.

“Are you coming to eat?” she asked. “I waited for you. Graystripe told me what happened,” she continued as they padded together over to the nettle patch. “I said I’d relieve him later, to guard Cinderpelt’s den.”

“Thanks,” Firestar mewed.

He shot a glance at the black-striped warrior as they walked past him to the pile of fresh-kill. Darkstripe had finished his meal; he rose to his paws and stalked toward the warriors’ den without acknowledging Firestar’s presence. Brackenfur followed with a determined look on his face.

Dustpelt emerged from the den just as Darkstripe reached it; Firestar couldn’t help noticing that the brown tabby veered sharply away as he went to join Fernpaw outside the apprentices’ den. The cats of ThunderClan were making their feelings very clear. Dustpelt had been Darkstripe’s apprentice, and now he didn’t even want to speak to his former mentor.

Firestar picked out a magpie from the fresh-kill pile and took it over to the nettle patch.

“Hey, Firestar,” meowed Mousefur as he approached. “Thornpaw said you were going to have a word with me about his warrior ceremony. It’s about time.”

“It certainly is,” Firestar agreed. Bluestar’s refusal to make the three oldest apprentices into warriors had led to Swiftpaw’s death and Lostface’s injuries, and there wouldn’t be a cat in the Clan who didn’t remember that when Thornpaw finally received his warrior name. “Why don’t the three of us take the dawn patrol tomorrow? That should give me a chance to see

how he’s shaping up—not that I have any doubts,” he added hastily.

“I should think not!” Mousefur mewed. “Will you tell Thornpaw about the patrol or shall I?”

“I will,” Firestar replied, taking a quick bite of his magpie. “I want a word with Fernpaw and Ashpaw, too.”

W h en he and Sandstorm had finished eating, the ginger she-cat went off to Cinderpelt’s den, while Firestar padded over toward the tree stump where the apprentices ate. Dustpelt and Fernpaw were already there with Thornpaw and Ashpaw, and Cloudtail was just strolling over from the elders’ den, Lostface close beside him.

“Thornpaw.” Firestar gave the apprentice a nod as he settled down beside him. “Are your claws sharp? All your warrior skills ready?”

Thornpaw sat up straight, his eyes suddenly gleaming. “Yes, Firestar!”

“Dawn patrol tomorrow, then,” Firestar told him. “If it goes well, we’ll hold your ceremony at sunhigh.”

Thornpaw’s ears quivered with anticipation, but then the light in his eyes slowly died and he looked away.

“What’s the matter?” Firestar asked.

“Swiftpaw…and Lostface.” Thornpaw spoke in a low voice, with a flick of the tail toward the injured she-cat. “They should both be with me.”

“I know.” Firestar closed his eyes briefly at the memory of so much pain. “But you mustn’t let that spoil it for you. You’ve deserved this for moons.”

“I will be with you, Thornpaw.” Lostface spoke up from where she was sitting beside Cloudtail. “I’ll be the first cat to call you by your new name.”

“Thanks, Lostface,” Thornpaw mewed with a grateful dip of his head.

“And while we’re on the subject of names,” Cloudtail broke in, “what about h e r s?” He tilted his head toward Lostface; he always refused to use the cruel name Bluestar had bestowed on the injured cat. “What about getting it changed?”