Forest of Secrets (Warriors 6)

“Thanks, Fireheart,” murmured Graystripe as they left the tunnel. “I won’t forget this.”

Side by side, the two warriors scrambled up the steep, rocky slope. As they headed into the forest, retracing the steps of their earlier patrol, Fireheart noticed how muddy the ground was underpaw. The melted snow had soaked the earth like the heaviest rainfall, even without the deadly spread of floodwater from the river.

When they reached the edge of the trees Fireheart realized that the water had risen even farther. The Sunningrocks were almost submerged now, and the current swirled around them in tight circles. “We’ll never make it across there,” he meowed.

“Let’s head downstream,” Graystripe suggested. “We might be able to use the stepping stones.”

“We can try,” Fireheart mewed uncertainly. He was about to follow his friend when he thought he heard something—a thin, wailing sound, above the wind and the rushing of the torrent. “Wait,” he called. “Did you hear that?”

Graystripe looked back, and both cats stood, ears pricked, straining to catch the sound. Then Fireheart heard it again—the panic-stricken mewing of kits in distress.

“Where are they?” he meowed, looking all around and up into the trees. “I can’t see them!”

“There.” Graystripe flicked his tail in the direction of the Sunningrocks. “Fireheart, they’ll drown!”

Fireheart saw that the current had driven a mat of twigs and debris up against the Sunningrocks. Two kits balanced precariously on it, their tiny mouths stretched wide as they wailed for help. Even as Fireheart watched, the current tugged at the mat, threatening to sweep it away. “Come on,” he yowled to Graystripe. “We’ve got to reach them somehow.”

Taking a deep breath, he waded into the flood. The water soaked into his fur at once, and a paralyzing, icy chill crept up his legs. The tug of the current made it harder to stay on his paws with every step he took.

Graystripe splashed in behind him, but when the water reached his belly fur he stopped. “Fireheart…” he choked out.

Fireheart twisted around to give him a comforting nod. He could understand how the river might terrify Graystripe, after his near-drowning a few moons ago. “Stay there,” he meowed. “I’ll try to push the mat over to you.”

Graystripe nodded, trembling too violently to speak. Fireheart waded forward a few more paces, then launched himself into the current and began to swim, thrashing his legs instinctively to push himself through the black water. They were upstream of the Sunningrocks; if StarClan was kind, he should be carried down toward the kits.

For a moment he lost sight of them in the wind-ruffled waves, though he could still hear their terrified cries. Then the smooth gray bulk of a Sunningrock loomed up beside him. He kicked out strongly, fearing for one panic-stricken heartbeat that he would be swept right past.

The current swirled; Fireheart’s paws worked furiously, and the river tossed him against the rock, driving the breath out of his body. He scrabbled at the rough surface, bracing himself against the rushing water, and found himself face-to-face with the two kits.

They were both very small—still suckling from their mother, Fireheart guessed. One was black and one gray, their fur plastered against their tiny bodies, and their brilliant blue eyes wide with terror. They were crouched on a tangled mat of twigs, leaves, and Twoleg rubbish, but when they saw Fireheart they started to scramble toward him. The mat lurched and their wails grew louder as river water sloshed over them.

“Keep still!” Fireheart gasped, paddling madly against the current. Briefly he wondered if he could climb onto the rock and haul the kits up with him, but he was not sure how long it would be before the Sunningrocks were completely submerged. His best plan was still to push the mat over to Graystripe. Looking back, he saw that his friend had already moved downstream, into a good position to catch the mat as it was swept toward him.

“Here we go,” Fireheart muttered. “StarClan help us!” He pushed himself off from the rock, thrusting at the mat with his muzzle to guide it into the current. The two kits whimpered and flattened themselves against the twigs.

Fireheart put every last scrap of energy into pushing the mat ahead of him with his nose and paws. He could feel exhaustion draining the strength from his limbs. His fur was soaked, and he was so cold he could hardly breathe. Raising his head and blinking water out of his eyes, he realized with horror that he had lost sight of Graystripe and the bank. It seemed as if there was nothing in the world but the churning water, the fragile mat of twigs, and the two terrified kits.

Then he heard Graystripe’s voice, sounding close by. “Fireheart! Fireheart, here!”

Fireheart thrust again at the mat, trying to propel it toward the voice. It spun away from him, and his head went under. Coughing and choking, he clawed his way back to the surface, to see Graystripe pacing on dry land just a few tail-lengths away.

For a heartbeat Fireheart felt relief that he was nearly there. Then he focused his blurred eyes on the kits again, and fear pulsed through him. The mat was beginning to break up.

Fireheart watched helplessly as the twigs underneath the gray kit gave way and the tiny creature was plunged into the torrent.

CHAPTER 12

“No!” Graystripe yowled, launching himself after the drowning kit.

Fireheart lost sight of them. The kit left on the mat squealed desperately, trying to cling to the twigs as they were split apart by the current. With the last of his strength Fireheart drove himself forward, sank his teeth into the little creature’s scruff, and kicked out for dry ground.

Within moments he felt stones under his paws and managed to stand. Stone-limbed with weariness, he staggered out and dropped the black kit on the grass at the edge of the flood. Its eyes were closed; he was not sure if it was still alive.

Glancing downstream, he saw Graystripe splashing out of the shallows, with the gray kit gripped firmly in his teeth. He padded up to Fireheart and set it gently on the ground.

Fireheart nosed both kits. They were lying very still, but when Fireheart looked closer he could see the faint rise and fall of their flanks as they breathed. “Thank StarClan,” he muttered. He began to lick the black kit as he had seen the queens in the nursery do to their little ones, rasping his tongue against the lie of the fur to rouse the kit and warm it. Graystripe crouched beside him and did the same for the gray kit.

Soon the black kit twitched and coughed up a mouthful of river water. It took longer for the gray kit to respond, but at last it too coughed up water and opened its eyes.

“They’re alive!” exclaimed Graystripe, his voice filled with relief.

“Yes, but they won’t live long without their mother,” Fireheart pointed out. He sniffed the black kit carefully. The river water had washed off much of the Clan scent, but he could still detect a faint trace. “RiverClan,” he mewed, unsurprised. “We’ll have to take them home.”

Fireheart’s courage almost deserted him for good at the thought of crossing the swollen river. He had almost drowned rescuing the kits, and he felt exhausted. His limbs were cold and stiff, and his fur was soaked. He wanted nothing more than to creep into his own den and sleep for a moon.

Graystripe, still crouched over the gray kit, looked as if he felt the same. His thick gray fur was flattened against his body, and his amber eyes were wide with anxiety. “D

o you think we can get across?” he meowed.

“We’ve got to, or the kits will die.” Forcing himself to his paws, Fireheart picked up the black kit again by its scruff and headed downstream. “Let’s see if we can cross by the stepping-stones, like you said.” Graystripe padded after him, carrying the gray kit through the wet grass at the edge of the floodwater.

When the river was at its usual level, the stepping-stones were an easy route across for RiverClan cats. The longest leap from rock to rock was no more than a tail-length, and RiverClan controlled the territory here on both sides of the river.

Now floodwater completely covered the stones. But where they had once broken the surface, a dead tree, its bark stripped away, lay across the river. Fireheart guessed that some of its branches had been caught on the submerged stepping-stones. “Thank StarClan!” he exclaimed. “We can use the tree to cross.” He adjusted his grip on the kit and waded out into the flood toward the splintered end of the tree trunk. The kit, seeing the churning water barely a mouse-length below its nose, began to mewl and struggle feebly.

“Keep still, both of you,” growled Graystripe gently, as he set down the gray kit for a moment to adjust his grip. “We’re going to find your mother.”

Fireheart wasn’t sure if his terrified kit was even old enough to understand, but at least it went limp again so it was easier to carry. He had to lift his head high to keep the tiny creature clear of the water as he floundered toward the tree. He reached it without needing to swim and sprang upward, clawing for a grip on the soft, rotting wood. Once he had pulled himself up, his main concern was keeping a pawhold on the smooth, slippery trunk. Gingerly placing each of his paws in a straight line, Fireheart padded toward the opposite bank with the river churning beneath him, sucking at the tree as if it wanted to sweep it, and its burden of cats, away downstream. Fireheart glanced back to see Graystripe following with the gray kit, his face creased with determination.