A Dangerous Path (Warriors 4)

“Come and look at this!”

Skirting a bramble thicket, Fireheart joined the brown warrior and looked down into a small, steep-sided clearing. There was a stagnant pool of greenish water at the bottom, choked with fallen leaves. The sharp scent of crushed ferns reached Fireheart’s scent glands, but it was barely noticeable under the overpowering stench of dog. Pigeon feathers were scattered all around, and scraps of fur that might have been squirrel or rabbit. A little way down the slope, Thornpaw sniffed at a pile of dog dung, and recoiled with a snort of disgust.

Fireheart forced himself to take in every detail of the scene. Twoleg dogs didn’t usually stay in the forest long enough to leave this many traces, trampling the undergrowth and scattering the remains of prey until the forest reeked like a fox’s hole. Seeing it with his own eyes made him realize that something was definitely wrong.

“What do you think?” asked Mousefur.

“I don’t know.” Fireheart was reluctant to voice his worries. “It looks as if there might be a dog loose in the forest, free from the Twolegs.”

Was that what those Twolegs had been looking for? he wondered, suddenly remembering the three who had come in the monster when he was hunting in Tallpines with Sandstorm. But that had been a long way from here, on the other side of ThunderClan territory.

“What are we going to do?” Thornpaw piped up, looking unusually serious.

“I’ll report it to Bluestar,” Fireheart decided. “If there is a dog wandering around in our territory, we’ll need to do something about it. Maybe we can lead it away somehow.”

The dog was clearly taking prey that ThunderClan couldn’t spare, and Fireheart didn’t like to think of what might happen if it met one of the Clan warriors face-to-face.

As he turned away from the clearing and led the way back toward the camp, Fireheart could not help feeling that the forest around him had become strangely hostile. He knew every tree and stone, yet there was something in its depths—not quite a scent, nor a sound, more like an echo on the edge of hearing—that he did not understand. Was it just a dog? Or were Bluestar’s fears about to come true after all? Did StarClan have some other disaster in mind for ThunderClan?

The patrol had almost reached the camp when Fireheart scented ThunderClan cats behind him. Turning, he saw Whitestorm, Brightpaw, and Cloudpaw picking their way through the blackened debris on the forest floor. All of them were carrying fresh-kill.

“Good hunting?” Fireheart asked as they caught up with him.

Whitestorm dropped the rabbit he was carrying. “Not bad,” he replied. “But we had to go all the way to Fourtrees to find it.”

“Still, it looks good and fat,” Fireheart meowed approvingly. “Well done,” he added to Brightpaw and Cloudpaw, who were both dragging squirrels.

“We saw something I think you ought to know about,” mewed Whitestorm. “Let’s get back to camp.”

The white warrior picked up his rabbit again and fell in behind Fireheart as he led the way down the ravine. Once they had deposited the fresh-kill on the pile and Fireheart had sent the apprentices off to feed the elders, he took a piece for himself and crouched beside Whitestorm to eat it. Mousefur picked out a blackbird from the heap and came to join them.

“So what did you see?” Fireheart asked, when a few mouthfuls of vole had taken the edge off the hunger in his belly.

He saw Whitestorm’s expression darken and guessed the answer before the white warrior spoke. “More scattered prey,” Whitestorm meowed. “Scraps of rabbit fur. And more dog scent. Not far from Fourtrees this time, near the border with RiverClan.”

“Fresh scent?”

“Yesterday’s, I’d guess.”

Fireheart nodded, anxiety prickling in his paws. Clearly the dog had ranged much farther than he had first thought. Gulping down the last of his vole, he told Whitestorm what his dawn patrol had found that morning.

“The whole place stank,” Mousefur contributed, looking up from her meal. “There’s a dog in our territory, isn’t there, killing our prey?”

“Yes, I think so.” Fireheart turned to Whitestorm. “When you told me about the first lot of scent you found, I hoped that the dog would have gone home by now with its Twolegs. But it obviously hasn’t.”

“We’ll have to get rid of it somehow,” Whitestorm meowed grimly.

“I know. I’m going to report it to Bluestar. She’ll probably want to hold a Clan meeting.”

Leaving Whitestorm and Mousefur, Fireheart padded across the camp toward the Highrock. As sunhigh approached, the life of the camp went on peacefully around him. Ashpaw and Swiftpaw were scuffling outside the apprentices’ den. Near the warriors’ den, Frostfur and Brindleface were sharing tongues, both of them looking half-asleep after taking the watch the previous night. In the center of the clearing Speckletail was signaling with paws and tail to her kit, while Brackenfur looked on. A pang of fear struck deep into Fireheart as he imagined the havoc that the stray dog could create if it found the camp.

He had almost reached Bluestar’s den when Brackenfur got up and bounded across to him. “Fireheart, may I have a word?”

Fireheart paused. “If it’s quick. I have to speak to Bluestar.”

“It’s Speckletail,” Brackenfur explained. “I’m worried about her. She thinks Snowkit should be an apprentice, and she’s trying to mentor him herself. She thinks that if Bluestar sees that he can learn, she’ll have to make him into a warrior.”

Now that Fireheart looked more closely at the mother and her kit, he could see that they weren’t just playing—at least, Speckletail wasn’t. She was showing Snowkit the hunting crouch. Snowkit seemed to be having fun, rolling over and batting at his mother with his paws, but he wasn’t copying her movements with any accuracy.

Fireheart watched them with growing sadness. “It might be for the best.” He sighed after a moment. “If Speckletail realizes for herself that Snowkit can’t learn, it might help her accept that he’ll never be a warrior.”

“Maybe.” Brackenfur didn’t sound convinced. “I’d like to watch them for a bit, anyway, and see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

Fireheart studied him approvingly. Though Brackenfur had not been a warrior for many moons, he had the serious air of a much older cat. He was ready for an apprentice, and Fireheart was sure he would make a fine mentor—patient and responsible. But not for Snowkit. Fireheart knew that the deaf kit could never have a mentor, would never travel to Gatherings, or know the fierce joy of being a warrior in the service of his Clan.

However, as long as there were no other kits in need of mentors, it wouldn’t hurt to let Brackenfur take an interest in Snowkit. “That’s fine, provided it doesn’t interfere with your warrior duties,” Fireheart mewed. “If you think of anything, let me know. I’ll talk to Cinderpelt again.”

“Thanks, Fireheart,” meowed Brackenfur. He settled himself on the ground, paws tucked neatly under his chest, and went on watching Speckletail and Snowkit.

Fireheart hesitated, feeling sad for the deaf kit and his mother, and for Brackenfur, whose hopes of becoming a mentor would be disappointed this time. Then he turned away to go and find Bluestar.

The Clan leader was lying on her bedding in the far corner of her den. The sunlight did not reach her there, and she looked like a gray shadow. But the remains of a squirrel showed that she had eaten, and as Fireheart paused on the threshold, she was twisting her head around to wash her back. Fireheart felt encouraged by these signs of a normal routine.

He scraped his claws on the ground to draw her attention, and when she turned to look at him he meowed, “Bluestar, may I come in? I’ve something to report.”

“Nothing good, I suppose,” Bluestar mewed sourly. Fireheart flinched at her tone, and the leader seemed to relent. “All right, Fireheart, come in and tell me what’s on your mind.”

“We think there’s a dog loose in the forest.” Fireheart described the first time Whitestorm had discovered the scattered prey ne

ar Snakerocks, what his patrol had seen that morning, and the rabbit remains that Whitestorm had found near Fourtrees.

Bluestar sat in silence, staring at the wall, until Fireheart finished. Then her head snapped around to face him. “Near Fourtrees? Where?”

“By the RiverClan border, Whitestorm said.”

Bluestar let out a snarl and dug her claws into the floor of her den. “Yes—I see it all!” she spat. “WindClan have been hunting on our territory.”

Fireheart stared at her. “I’m sorry, Bluestar. I don’t understand.”