The Darkest Hour (Warriors 2)

“Can you change a warrior’s name?” Firestar asked. “It’s given in the sight of StarClan.”

Cloudtail let out a sigh of exasperation. “I never thought I’d call my Clan leader a mouse-brain, but honestly! Do you think One-eye or Ha l f tail started off with those names? They had other warrior names first, you can be sure of that. There must be a ceremony of some sort. And I know the rest of the Clan won’t accept a new name until you’ve said the right words.”

“Please, Firestar.” Lostface was looking at him with a hopeful expression. “I’m sure the other cats wouldn’t feel so awkward talking to me if I didn’t have this awful name.”

“Of course.” Firestar felt a stir of distress that he hadn’t noticed the burden the young cat was carrying. “I’ll talk to the elders right away. One-eye is bound to know what to do.”

He rose to his paws and suddenly remembered what else he had meant to say. “Ashpaw, Fernpaw, don’t think that you’ve been forgotten. You were brilliant in the race with the dog pack, but you’re still a bit young to be made warriors.” That was true, but at the same time Firestar wanted Thornpaw to keep his seniority by being made warrior first. “I promise it won’t be long,” he told them.

“We understand,” Ashpaw mewed. “There’s still stuff we need to learn.”

“Firestar,” Fernpaw asked nervously, “what’s going to happen about…about Darkstripe? If he did that to Sorrelkit, I don’t want him for my men t o r.”

“If he did that to Sorrelkit, he won’t be your mentor,” Firestar promised.

“Sorrelkit?” Cloudtail demanded. “What’s all this about Sorrelkit? Did something happen while we were out hunting?”

Immediately Thornpaw and Ashpaw shifted position to crouch beside him and Lostface, and began passing on the news in hushed voices.

“So who’s going to mentor Fernpaw then?” Dustpelt asked Firestar, taking it for granted that Darkstripe was guilty. “I could manage her as well as Ashpaw,” he suggested hopefully.

Fernpaw brightened but Firestar shook his head. “Not a chance, Dustpelt. You wouldn’t be nearly tough en o u g h with her.”

Dustpelt’s eyes sparked with annoyance; then he nodded sheepishly. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Don’t worry,” Firestar promised as he headed for the elders’ den. “I’ll make sure she gets a good mentor.”

Inside their den beside the fallen tree trunk, the elders were settling down for the night.

“What’s the matter now?” Smallear grumbled, raising his head from his mossy nest. “Can’t a cat get a wink of sleep around here?”

Dappletail let out a drowsy purr. “Don’t listen to him, Firestar. You’re always welcome.”

“Thanks, Dappletail,” Firestar meowed. “But it’s One-eye I want to talk to.”

One-eye was curled up in a clump of ferns in the shelter of the trunk. She blinked her single eye and opened her jaws in a huge yawn. “I’m listening, Firestar. But make it quick.”

“I need to ask you about names,” Firestar began, and he explained how Cloudtail wanted a new name for Lostface.

At the sound of the young cat’s name, Speckletail padded over and sat listening. She had cared for Lostface when she was newly injured, and a strong bond had developed between them.

“I can’t say I blame Cloudtail,” she commented when Firestar had finished. “No cat wants a name like that.”

One-eye yawned. “I was already old when they changed my name to One-eye,” she mewed, “and to be honest I don’t care what they call me so long as they bring the fresh-kill on time. But it’s different for a young cat.”

“So can you tell me what to do?” Firestar prompted.

“Of course I can.” One-eye raised her tail and beckoned him closer. “Come here, and listen carefully….”

Heavy rain fell during the night. When Firestar led Mousefur and Thornpaw out of the camp at dawn, he saw that the light snowfall had vanished. Every fern and clump of grass was loaded with drops of water that shone as daylight seeped into the sky. Shivering, Firestar set a brisk pace.

He could see from the gleam in Thornpaw’s eyes that the young cat was wildly excited, but he kept calm, determined to show his leader that he was fit to be a warrior. The three cats paused at the top of the ravine, where the breeze was carrying a strong scent of mouse. Thornpaw flashed an inquiring look at Firestar, who nodded.

“We’re not hunting,” he mewed quietly, “but we won’t say no to a bit of prey. Let’s see your action.”

Thornpaw froze for a moment, pinpointing the mouse scuffling among the leaves under a bush. Stealthily he crept up on it, his body falling smoothly into the hunter’s crouch. Firestar noticed approvingly that he remembered how sensitive the mouse would be to the vibration of his pawsteps; he almost seemed to float over the ground. Then he sprang, and turned back to Firestar and his mentor with triumph in his eyes and the limp body of the mouse in his jaws.

“Well done!” meowed Mousefur.

“That was great,” Firestar agreed. “Bury it now, and we’ll pick it up on the way back.”

W h en Thornpaw had scraped earth over his catch, Firestar led the patrol toward Snakerocks. He had not been this way since that dreadful morning when he had discovered the trail of dead rabbits laid by Tigerstar to lead the dog pack to the ThunderClan camp. He swallowed bile in his throat as he remembered the reek of blood, but this morning he could detect nothing but the ordinary forest scents. When they reached Snakerocks everything was silent. The howls and barking that he had heard coming from the cave were now no more than a memory.

“Right, Thornpaw,” Firestar meowed, trying not to reveal the clinging horror that he still felt about this place. “What can you smell?”

The apprentice lifted his head and opened his jaws to draw air past his scent glands. Firestar could see that he was concentrating fiercely.

“Fox,” he announced at last. “It’s stale, though…two days old, I’d guess. Squirrel. And…and just a trace of dog.” He shot a glance at Firestar, who could see that the young cat shared his own misgivings. Thornpaw knew as well as any of them that this was where Swiftpaw had died and Lostface had been attacked.

“Anything else?”

“The Thunderpath,” Thornpaw replied. “And there’s something…” He tasted the air again. “Firestar, I don’t understand. I think I can smell cats, but it’s not the scent of any of the Clans. Coming from over there.” He flicked his tail. “What do you think?”

Firestar took a deep breath and realized that Thornpaw was right. The breeze was blowing a faint trace of unfamiliar cat scent toward them.

“Let’s take a look,” Firestar murmured. “And be careful. It might only be a lost kittypet, but you can never tell.”

As the three cats padded warily through the undergrowth, the scent grew stronger. Firestar felt more certain now about the scent. “Rogues or loners,” he meowed. “Three of them, I’d guess. And the scent is fresh. We must have just missed them.”

“But what are they doing on our territory?” Thornpaw asked. “Are they Tigerstar’s rogues, do you think?” He was r e f erring to the band of Clanless cats who had helped Tigerstar to attack ThunderClan during his exile, before he had joined ShadowClan.

“No,” replied Mousefur. “Tigerstar’s rogues took on ShadowClan scent long ago. This must be a new lot.”

“As for what they’re doing,” Firestar added, “I’d like to know that, too. Let’s follow them. Thornpaw, you lead.”

Thornpaw was serious now, his excitement at his upcoming warrior ceremony lost in the possible threat from the group of rogues. He did his best to follow the scent but lost it in a marshy stretch of ground, where not even Firestar could pick it up again.

“I’m sorry, Firestar,” mewed Thornpaw, crestfallen.

“It’s not your fault,” Firestar reassured him. “If the scent’s gone, it’s gone.” He raised his head, staring in the direction the trail had led them. It looked as if the