The Darkest Hour (9 page)

The snow had stopped by the
time Firestar and Bramblepaw returned to camp. The clouds had cleared away and the setting sun cast long blue shadows over the thin coating of white that powdered the ground. Both cats were carrying fresh-kill; Firestar had watched his apprentice's hunting skills and been impressed by the young cat's concentration and skillful stalking.

They had just reached the top of the ravine when they heard a yowl behind them. Firestar turned to see Graystripe bounding through the undergrowth.

“Hi,” panted the gray warrior as he caught up with them. His eyes widened when he saw their catch. “You've had better luck than me. I couldn't find so much as a mouse.”

Firestar grunted sympathetically as he led the way toward the gorse tunnel. He noticed that Sorrelkit, the most adventurous of Willowpelt's three kits, had left the camp and climbed halfway up the steep slope farther along the ravine. To Firestar's surprise, she was with Darkstripe; the warrior was bending over her, saying something to her.

“Odd,” Firestar muttered through a mouthful of squirrel fur, half to himself. “Darkstripe has never shown much
interest in kits before. And what's he doing out here on his own?”

Suddenly Firestar heard a sharp exclamation from Graystripe and his friend flashed past him, hurtling along the side of the ravine, his paws scrabbling against the loose snow-covered stones. At the same moment Sorrelkit's legs crumpled underneath her sturdy tortoiseshell body and she started writhing in the snow. Firestar dropped his fresh-kill in amazement as Graystripe yowled, “No!” and flung himself on the dark warrior. Darkstripe clawed and flailed at him with his hind legs, but Graystripe's teeth were sunk in his throat and would not let go.

“What—?” Firestar dashed down the slope with Bramblepaw right behind him. He dodged the fighting cats, still locked together in a whirlwind of teeth and claws, and reached Sorrelkit's side.

The little kit twisted and turned on the ground, her eyes wide and glazed. She was letting out high-pitched moans of pain, and there was foam on her lips.

“Get Cinderpelt!” Firestar ordered Bramblepaw.

His apprentice shot off, his paws sending up puffs of snow. Firestar bent over the young kit and placed a paw gently on her belly. “It's all right,” he murmured. “Cinderpelt is coming.”

Sorrelkit's jaws gaped wide and Firestar caught a glimpse of half-chewed berries in her mouth, scarlet against her white teeth.

“Deathberries!” He gasped.

There was a dark-leaved shrub growing from a crack in the rock just above his head, with more of the lethal scarlet berries clustered among the leaves. He remembered a time many moons ago when Cinderpelt had appeared just in time to stop Cloudtail from eating the deathberries, and warned him of how poisonous they were. Later, Yellowfang had used them to kill her son, Brokentail; Firestar had seen for himself how quickly and fatally they worked.

Crouching over Sorrelkit, Firestar did his best to scoop the crushed berries out of her mouth, but the kit was in too much terror and pain to keep still and make his task easier. Her head thrashed from side to side, and her body was convulsing in regular spasms that to Fireheart's horror seemed to be growing weaker. He could still hear Graystripe and Darkstripe screeching in the throes of their fight, but they seemed oddly far away. All his attention was concentrated on the kit.

Then to his relief he felt Cinderpelt arrive beside him. “Deathberries!” he told her quickly. “I've tried to get them out, but…”

Cinderpelt took his place by the kit's side. She had a bundle of leaves in her mouth; setting them down, she mewed, “Good. Keep holding her, Firestar, while I take a look.”

With two of them to help, and the kit's struggles definitely growing weaker, Cinderpelt was soon able to paw out the remains of the deathberries. Then she rapidly chewed up one of her leaves and stuffed the pulp into Sorrelkit's mouth. “Swallow it,” she ordered. To Firestar she added, “It's yarrow. It'll make her sick.”

The kit's throat convulsed. A moment later she vomited; Firestar could see more scarlet specks among the pulp of leaves.

“Good,” Cinderpelt mewed soothingly. “That's very good. You're going to be fine, Sorrelkit.”

The little kit lay gasping and trembling; then Firestar watched in dismay as she went limp and her eyes closed.

“Is she dead?” he whispered.

Before Cinderpelt could reply, a yowl came from the entrance to the camp. “My kit! Where's my kit?” It was Willowpelt, racing up the ravine with Bramblepaw. She crouched beside Sorrelkit, her blue eyes wide and distraught. “What happened?”

“She ate deathberries,” Cinderpelt explained. “But I think I've gotten rid of them all. We'll carry her back to my den and I'll keep an eye on her.”

Willowpelt began licking Sorrelkit's tortoiseshell fur. By now Firestar had seen the faint rise and fall of the kit's flank as she breathed. She was not dead, but he could see from Cinderpelt's anxious look that she was still in danger from the effects of the poison.

For the first time Firestar had a chance to draw breath and look for Graystripe. The gray warrior had pinned Darkstripe down a few tail-lengths away with one paw on his neck and another on his belly. Darkstripe was bleeding from one ear, and he spat in fury as he fought vainly to free himself.

“What's going on?” Firestar demanded.

“Don't ask me,” snarled Graystripe. Firestar could hardly
remember seeing his friend look so savage. “Ask this…this piece of fox dung why he tried to murder a kit!”

“Murder?” Firestar echoed. The accusation was so unexpected that for a heartbeat he could do nothing but stare stupidly.

“Murder,” repeated Graystripe. “Go on, ask him why he was feeding deathberries to Sorrelkit.”

“You mouse-brained fool.” Darkstripe's voice was cold as he gazed up at his attacker. “I wasn't feeding her the berries. I was trying to stop her from eating them.”

“I know what I saw,” Graystripe insisted through gritted teeth.

Firestar tried to recall the image of the warrior and the kit that he had seen when he paused at the top of the ravine. “Let him get up,” he meowed reluctantly to his friend. “Darkstripe, tell me what happened.”

The warrior rose and shook himself. Firestar could see bare patches on his flank where Graystripe had clawed out lumps of fur.

“I was coming back to camp,” he began. “I found the stupid kit stuffing herself with death berries, and I was trying to stop her when this idiot jumped on me.” He stared resentfully at Graystripe. “Why would I want to murder a kit?”

“That's what I want to know!” spat Graystripe.

“Of course, we know who the noble Firestar will believe!” Darkstripe sneered. “There's no use expecting justice in ThunderClan these days.”

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, please? 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.”

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.”

When 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
hers
?” 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?”

“
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 Half 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 mentor.”

“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 enough 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.”

When 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.”