Brokenstar twisted around in midair to land on his feet and looked into Firepaw’s eyes, spitting viciously. “Don’t waste your time, apprentice! I’ve shared dreams with StarClan. You will have to kill me nine times over before I join them. Do you really think you’re strong enough for that?” His eyes glowed with confidence and defiance.
Firepaw stared back at him. His belly tightened. Brokenstar was a Clan leader! How on earth could he expect to defeat him? But the watching ShadowClan cats had begun to pad slowly toward their defeated leader, snarling and hissing with hatred. They were battered and half-starved, but Brokenstar was outnumbered, and he seemed to realize this with a nervous flick of his tail. He crouched and backed away through the bushes. His eyes glittered menacingly from the shadows, his gaze finding Firepaw through the crowd.
“This isn’t over, apprentice,” he hissed before he turned and vanished into the forest after his broken warriors.
Firepaw looked to Whitestorm. “Should we go after them?” he meowed.
The warrior shook his head. “I think they got the message that they are not welcome here.”
Nightpelt, the ShadowClan warrior, nodded in agreement. “Leave them. If they dare to show their faces here again, ShadowClan will be strong enough by then to tackle them alone.”
The rest of ShadowClan was huddled together in the ruins of their camp, as if numbed by the realization that their leader had gone. It will take time to rebuild this Clan, Firepaw thought.
“The kits!”
Firepaw heard Graypaw’s meow from a far corner of the clearing. He rushed over to his friend, Mousefur and Whitestorm bounding at his heels. As they approached, they could hear the pitiful mewling of kits coming from beneath a pile of leaves and twigs. Quickly Graypaw and Mousefur dug down through the foliage until they had uncovered the missing ThunderClan kits at the bottom of a small pit.
“Are they okay?” demanded Whitestorm, his tail twitching with anxiety.
“They’re fine,” replied Graypaw. “Most have only a few scratches. But that little tabby has a pretty nasty wound on his ear. Can you take a look, Yellowfang?”
The old she-cat was licking her own wounds, but at Graypaw’s call she raced to the side of the pit, where Graypaw had carefully deposited the tabby kit.
Firepaw helped Graypaw to lift out the rest of the kits. The last one was gray, like the embers of an old fire. She mewled and squirmed as Firepaw placed her on the ground. Mousefur gathered all the kits to her and comforted them with licks and caresses.
Yellowfang looked closely at the torn ear. “We need to stop this bleeding,” she meowed.
Runningnose stepped out of the shadows. His forepaw was coated in a layer of cobwebs, which he silently passed to Yellowfang. She nodded her thanks and began to treat the kit’s wound.
Nightpelt approached the group of ThunderClan cats. “You helped ShadowClan rid itself of a brutal and dangerous leader, and we are grateful. But it is time you left our camp and returned to your own. I promise your hunting grounds will be free of ShadowClan warriors as long as we can find enough food in our own territory.”
Whitestorm nodded. “Hunt in peace for one moon, Nightpelt. ThunderClan knows you need time to rebuild your Clan.” He turned to Yellowfang. “And you, Yellowfang?” he asked. “Do you wish to return with us, or stay here with your old comrades?”
Yellowfang looked up at him. “I will make the journey back with you.” She glanced at a deep gash on Whitestorm’s hind leg. “You will need a medicine cat, for yourself as well as your kits.”
“Thank you,” purred Whitestorm. He signaled to the ThunderClan cats with a sweep of his tail and led them out of the clearing. Mousefur and Willowpelt helped the kits, who stumbled along, exhausted and bewildered. Yellowfang walked close to the wounded tabby kit, lifting him by the scruff of his neck every time he slipped. Firepaw and Graypaw followed them through the brambles, past the camp scent-line and out into the forest.
The moon was still rising in the quiet sky as the ThunderClan party began the long trudge home, while around them showers of brown leaves fluttered to the forest floor.
Chapter 25
Buoyed up with relief at being home again, Firepaw and Graypaw sprinted ahead of the patrol into the ThunderClan camp. Frostfur was lying in the middle of the clearing, her head resting sadly on her paws. As the two apprentices bounded in she lifted her nose and sniffed the air. “My kits!” she cried. She leaped up and raced past Firepaw and Graypaw to meet the rest of the party as they emerged from the tunnel.
The kits rushed over to Frostfur and nuzzled into her side. She curled her soft body around them and licked them each in turn, purring loudly.
Yellowfang hung back at the camp entrance and looked on silently.
Bluestar strode up to the returning patrol. She glanced fondly at Frostfur and her kits and then turned her eyes to Whitestorm. “Are they all right?” she asked.
“They’re fine,” meowed Whitestorm.
“Well done, Whitestorm. ThunderClan honors you.”
Whitestorm bent his head to accept her praise, and added, “But it was thanks to this apprentice that we found them.”
Firepaw lifted his head and tail proudly, about to speak, but Tigerclaw’s accusing snarl sounded from across the clearing.
“Why did you bring back the traitor?” The dark warrior stalked up to the patrol and stood beside his leader.
“She is no traitor,” Firepaw insisted. He looked around the camp. The rest of the cats had quickly gathered in the clearing to see the kits and congratulate the hunting party. Some of them had spotted Yellowfang and were eyeing her with looks of pure hatred.
“She killed Spottedleaf,” spat Longtail.
“Look between Spottedleaf’s claws,” Graypaw suggested. “You will find the brown fur of Clawface, not Yellowfang’s gray fur!”
Bluestar nodded at Mousefur, who darted away from the crowd, toward the spot where Spottedleaf’s body lay, waiting for its dawn burial. The Clan waited in tense silence till she returned.
“Graypaw is right,” Mousefur panted, rushing back to the clearing. “Spottedleaf was not attacked by a gray cat.”
A murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd.
“But that doesn’t mean she didn’t help to take the kits!” hissed Tigerclaw.
“Without Yellowfang we never would have recovered the kits!” Firepaw spat, his exhaustion making him impatient. “She knew that a ShadowClan warrior had taken them. She was hunting for them when I found her. She risked her life returning to the ShadowClan camp. It was Yellowfang who thought up the battle plan that got us into the ShadowClan camp and gave us a chance to defeat Brokenstar!”
The cats listened to Firepaw’s words, astonished.
“He’s right,” Whitestorm meowed. “Yellowfang is a friend.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” murmured Bluestar, catching Firepaw’s eye.
Frostfur’s anxious meow sounded from the crowd. “Is Brokenstar dead?” she asked.
“No, he escaped,” Whitestorm told her. “But he will never lead ShadowClan again.”
Frostfur sighed in relief and returned to nuzzling her kits.
Whitestorm looked at Bluestar. “I promised ShadowClan we would leave them in peace until next fullmoon,” he explained. “Brokenstar’s leadership has left their Clan in chaos.”
Bluestar nodded. “That was a wise and generous offer,” she meowed approvingly. The ThunderClan leader walked past Whitestorm and the rest of the patrol and approached Yellowfang. Yellowfang lowered her eyes as Bluestar touched the gray cat’s rough coat with her nose.