Rising Storm (Warriors 5)

“Okay, okay,” Fireheart agreed, surprised by the strength of her refusal. “At least let me carry these herbs for you.”

> Cinderpelt blinked gratefully at him. “May StarClan banish all the fleas from your nest,” she purred, her eyes twinkling. “I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just that Yellowfang is very busy. Willowpelt began her kitting this afternoon.”

Fireheart felt a flicker of anxiety. The last kitting he had seen had been Silverstream’s. “Is she okay?”

Cinderpelt glanced away. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I offered to collect herbs instead of helping.” A shadow crossed her face. “I…I didn’t want to be there….”

Fireheart guessed that she too was thinking of Silverstream. “Come on then,” he meowed. “The sooner we find out how she’s doing, the sooner we can stop worrying.” He quickened his pace.

“Hold on!” winced Cinderpelt, limping after him. “You’ll be the first to know if I make a miraculous recovery. But for now you’ll have to slow down!”

As they entered the camp Fireheart knew instantly that Willowpelt’s kitting had been a success. One-Eye and Dappletail were padding away from the nursery, their eyes soft with affection and their purrs audible even from this side of the clearing.

Sandstorm came dashing over to greet them with the good news. “Willowpelt had two she-cats and a tom!” she announced.

“How’s Willowpelt?” asked Cinderpelt anxiously.

“She’s fine,” Sandstorm assured her. “She’s feeding them already.”

Cinderpelt broke into a loud purr. “I must go and see,” she mewed, and hobbled toward the nursery.

Fireheart spat out his mouthful of herbs and looked around. “Where’s Cloudpaw?”

Sandstorm narrowed her eyes mischievously. “When Darkstripe saw what a measly catch he’d brought back, he sent him off to clean out the elders’ bedding.”

“Good,” Fireheart meowed, pleased for once with Darkstripe’s interference.

“Did you speak to Cloudpaw?” asked Sandstorm, her tone turning more serious.

“Yes.” Fireheart’s happiness at Willowpelt’s kitting disappeared like dew under the midday sun as he thought of his apprentice’s indifference.

“Well?” prompted Sandstorm. “What did he say?”

“I don’t think he even realizes he’s done anything wrong,” Fireheart meowed bleakly.

To his surprise, Sandstorm didn’t seem troubled. “He’s young,” she reminded Fireheart. “Don’t be too upset. Keep remembering his first catch, and that you share the same blood.” She gave him a gentle lick on the cheek. “With any luck it’ll show in Cloudpaw one day.”

Dustpelt trotted up and interrupted them, his eyes glinting with barely disguised scorn. “You must be proud of your apprentice,” he jeered. “Darkstripe tells me he made the smallest catch of the day.” Fireheart flinched as the warrior added, “You’re obviously a great mentor.”

“Go away, Dustpelt,” spat Sandstorm. “There’s no need to be spiteful. It doesn’t impress anyone, you know.”

Fireheart was surprised to see Dustpelt recoil as if Sandstorm had taken a swipe at him. The warrior turned and hurried away, flashing a resentful look at Fireheart over his shoulder.

“That’s a neat trick,” Fireheart meowed, impressed by Sandstorm’s ferocity. “You’ll have to teach me how you do it!”

“I’m afraid it wouldn’t work for you.” Sandstorm sighed, staring ruefully after Dustpelt. She had shared her apprenticeship with the tabby tom, but their friendship had faltered since Sandstorm had grown closer to Fireheart. “Never mind. I’ll apologize later. Why don’t we go and see the new kits?”

She led the way to the nursery, where Bluestar was just squeezing out of the entrance. The old leader’s face was relaxed and her eyes were shining. As Sandstorm slipped inside, she declared triumphantly, “More warriors for ThunderClan!”

Fireheart purred. “We’ll have more warriors than any Clan soon!” he meowed.

The leader’s eyes clouded, and Fireheart felt a chill of unease spread across his fur. “Let’s just hope we can trust our new warriors better than our old,” Bluestar growled darkly.

“Are you coming?” Sandstorm called to him from the warm shadows of the nursery. Fireheart shrugged off his fears about Bluestar and pushed his way inside.

Willowpelt lay in a nest made of soft moss. Three kits squirmed in the curl of her body, still damp and blind as they kneaded their mother’s belly.

Fireheart saw a new softness enter Sandstorm’s expression. She leaned forward and breathed in the warm, milky scent of each kit in turn while Willowpelt looked on, her eyes sleepy but content.

“They’re great,” Fireheart whispered. It was good to see kits again, but he couldn’t help feeling a thorn-sharp stab of sorrow. The last newborn kits he’d seen had been Silverstream’s, and Fireheart’s mind flew instantly to Graystripe. He wondered how his old friend was—whether he was still grieving, or whether his new life in RiverClan with his kits had helped to ease his sadness.

Fireheart felt his tail bristle as he picked up the scent of Tigerclaw’s kit. He turned to see where it was, swallowing the distrust that rose like bile in his throat. Behind him, Goldenflower was curled in her nest, her eyes closed and the kits sleeping soundly at her side. The dark tabby kit looked as innocent as any of its nursery Clanmates, and Fireheart felt a pang of guilt at the resentment that ruffled his fur.

Fireheart awoke early the next day. Thoughts of Graystripe lay heavy at the edge of his mind like rain clouds. He missed his old friend even more now that he was so worried about Cloudpaw. Talking to Sandstorm had helped, but he longed to know what Graystripe would say. Fireheart lay in his nest for a few moments before he made up his mind: He would go to the river today to see if he could find his old friend.

He slipped out of the den and gave himself a long, satisfying stretch. The sun was only just showing on the horizon, and there was a powdery softness in the early morning sky. Dustpelt was sitting in the middle of the clearing talking with Fernpaw. Fireheart wondered grimly what the brown warrior wanted to share with Darkstripe’s gentle apprentice. Was Dustpelt poisoning her mind with malicious gossip? But Dustpelt’s fur lay smoothly on his broad shoulders, and Fireheart detected none of the usual arrogance in his tone, even though he couldn’t hear what he was saying. In fact the warrior was talking to Fernpaw in a voice as soft as a wood pigeon.

Fireheart approached the pair. When Dustpelt saw him coming, his eyes hardened.

“Dustpelt,” Fireheart greeted him, “will you take the sunhigh patrol?”

Fernpaw’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Can I go too?”

“I don’t know,” Fireheart admitted. “I haven’t spoken with Darkstripe about your progress yet.”

“Darkstripe says she’s doing well,” meowed Dustpelt.

“Then perhaps you could speak to him about it,” Fireheart suggested. He didn’t want to provoke a scornful response, but this could be a chance to smooth out some of the hostility Dustpelt usually showed toward him. “But take Ashpaw and another warrior too.”

“Don’t worry,” Dustpelt assured him. His eyes were filled with uncharacteristic concern. “I’ll make sure Fernpaw’s safe.”

“Er…good,” meowed Fireheart, padding away. He couldn’t believe that he’d had a whole conversation with Dustpelt without the warrior uttering a single barbed jibe.

Once he was out of the ravine, Fireheart raced toward Sunningrocks. The ground was so dry that his paws threw up small clouds of dust where they pounded over the forest floor. When he reached the great stone slabs, he noticed that the plants growing between the cracks had shriveled and died, and it dawned on him with a shock that it had been almost two moons since it had rained.

He skirted the bottom edge of the rocks and headed for the scent markers at the edge of RiverClan territory. The forest thinned out and sloped down to the river here. The air was filled with birdsong and the whispering of wind-stirred leaves, and in the background Fireheart could hear the steady lap of water. He stopped and sniffed the air. There was no scent of Graystripe. If he wa

s going to see his friend, Fireheart would have to venture into RiverClan territory. Determination made him more willing than usual to take the risk. Their dawn patrol would be out, but with any luck they would be patrolling the other borders now.

Fireheart crept cautiously across the scentline and pushed his way through the ferns to the edge of the water, feeling exposed and vulnerable. There was still no sign of Graystripe. Did he dare cross the river and try his luck deeper in RiverClan territory? It would be easy enough—the water was shallow now, so he could wade most of the way, apart from the deep channel in the middle, where the current was slow enough to swim without too much difficulty. After all, he’d grown more used to water than most ThunderClan cats during the terrible floods of newleaf.

An unexpected scent drifting into his half-open mouth made Fireheart stiffen in surprise. It was the stench of ShadowClan! What were ShadowClan cats doing so far from home? The whole of ThunderClan’s territory lay between their land and the river.

Alarmed, Fireheart backed into the ferns. He inhaled deeply, trying to pinpoint where the smell came from. With a sickening feeling, he recognized more than the scent of ShadowClan. There was a rancid tang of illness to it that he had smelled recently, and it was coming from farther upriver.

Fireheart began to creep slowly through the ferns, their browning tips whispering against his fur. He could see the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak tree ahead of him, just inside the ThunderClan border. Its twisted roots stuck out of the forest floor, the earth under which they had once been buried long since eroded by wind and rain. Now there was a space underneath, a small cave walled by roots. Fireheart sniffed again. The smell was definitely coming from there, tainted by the unmistakeable stench of sickness.

Fear and the desire to protect his Clan made Fireheart instinctively unsheathe his claws. Whatever foulness was in that cave must be driven out of ThunderClan territory. Swallowing the bile that rose in his throat, Fireheart raced from the ferns. He arched his back and stood threateningly in the mouth of the root cave, ready for a fight. But he was met by a heavy silence, broken with shallow, rasping breaths.