“I had to say that in front of Hawkfrost,” Mothwing explained urgently. “Don’t you see? He’d never have let your friend go otherwise.”
Leafpaw felt relief flood over her. She hadn’t wanted to think badly of Mothwing, not when they shared the bond of all medicine cats.
She could see her own relief reflected in the RiverClan cat’s eyes as Mothwing added, “You do believe me, don’t you?
We are still friends?”
“Of course we are.” Leafpaw stepped forward to touch noses with Mothwing. She ignored a skeptical snort from Sorreltail just behind her. “Thank you.”
Behind Mothwing, at the foot of the slope, she saw Hawkfrost emerge from the shelter of a bush and lope easily across the Twoleg bridge. She shivered when she remembered the cruel ambition in his eyes. Surely no other cat but Tigerstar had been so greedy for power?
“Mothwing,” she murmured, unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, “who was your father? Was it Tigerstar?”
Shock flared in Mothwing’s amber eyes. For a moment she hesitated, and then replied, “Yes.”
Chapter 22
This was madness, sheer madness. The words echoed to the thud of Stormfur’s paws as he allowed Crag and another cave-guard to escort him back into the cave behind the waterfall. The other forest cats were ushered in close behind him, with more guards on either side, while Talon and his fellow outlaws brought up the rear. A patrol had spotted them as soon as they reached the river; Stormfur was pretty sure they were prisoners now rather than guests, and he did not know what the Tribe cats would do to them. They had fought their way out two nights before, so it was reasonable to expect hostility.
Talon and his friends were taking an even bigger risk, because they had been ordered not to come back until Sharptooth was dead.
The first rays of glimmering moonlight were creeping through the sheet of water at the cave entrance, and soon Sharptooth would be on the prowl. Stormfur was not even sure that he could make the Tribe listen to Squirrelpaw’s plan. As he sought inside himself for courage, Silverstream’s scent drifted faintly around him. Stormfur glanced back, wondering if Feathertail could sense it, too. His sister was just behind him, her blue eyes troubled. But none of them had flinched when the cave-guards swarmed out from behind the rocks, as well hidden as ever by their mud-streaked fur.
Stormfur felt humbled by his friends’ bravery, by their loyalty to him and to the warrior code even this far away from the forest. He knew they would do whatever it took to help the Tribe, or die trying.
Stoneteller had clearly been warned of their arrival, and was waiting for them in the middle of the main cave. Under his coating of mud, Stormfur could see that a slice of his fur had been torn away in the fight against Sharptooth, and he had a raw wound across one ear.
Stormfur strode over to him and laid at his feet the piece of prey he had carried all the way through the mountains: a mountain hare, its pelt just beginning to turn white for leaf-bare.
“What’s this?” Stoneteller’s voice was cold, and his eyes were hostile. “Why have you come back?”
“To help you defeat Sharptooth,” Stormfur replied.
His heart began to pound even faster when he saw neither welcome nor relief in the Healer’s expression. “And just what do you think you can do?”
His gaze swept around the cavern; following it, Stormfur saw the Tribe creeping out of the shadows. They looked curious but wary. The friendship they had begun to show toward the cats had been scorched by the shock of Sharptooth’s attack, and Stormfur’s failure to save them in spite of their warrior ancestors’ promise. Like Stoneteller, many of them bore raw scars or limped heavily from fresh wounds. Stormfur searched for Brook, but could not see her.
“Sharptooth took Star yesterday,” Stoneteller growled.
“Many cats were injured as we tried to drive him out. One has already died, and two others lie on the border of the Tribe of Endless Hunting. You didn’t help us then. You ran away.”
His contempt struck Stormfur like a claw. Even worse was the murmur of agreement from the gathering Tribe, as if they had felt betrayed by his flight, just as he had felt betrayed when they made him a prisoner. He heard a hostile hiss from one of the Clan cats—he guessed it was Crowpaw—and hoped that the apprentice would keep quiet.
“I didn’t believe I was the promised cat,” he meowed honestly. “And I didn’t like being trapped in the Cave of Pointed Stones. But since I escaped, I’ve been thinking… and I’ve come back freely. Even if I’m not the cat who was named in the prophecy, I’ll do all I can to help.”
“We all will,” Brambleclaw added, coming to stand at Stormfur’s shoulder.
The Tribe’s Healer began to relax. There were more murmurs from the cats around him, and some at least sounded approving.
Then he heard Brook’s voice behind him. “Stormfur! I knew you would come back.”
Stormfur turned to see her slipping through the crowd. A shiver ran through his pelt as he looked at her shining eyes and heard the welcome in her voice.
“We should listen to him,” she urged Stoneteller. “The Tribe of Endless Hunting has sent him to help us. Why else would he come back, after seeing what Sharptooth can do?”
Stoneteller looked as if he lacked energy to believe anything anymore, but he bowed his head. “Very well,” he said.
“But what are you going to do that we haven’t tried before?
Sharptooth has killed the best fighters in my Tribe as if they were puny kits.”
Stormfur flicked his ears to beckon Squirrelpaw forward.
She carried a wad of leaves in her jaws. “Show Stoneteller what you have,” he mewed, and added into her ear, “I hope you haven’t swallowed any.”
Squirrelpaw dropped the leaves. “I’m not mouse-brained!” she muttered indignantly.
Turning back to Stoneteller, Stormfur prodded the hare with one paw. “This prey is for Sharptooth,” he meowed.
“And inside it, we’ll put these.” Delicately he unwrapped the leaves to reveal a small heap of glossy red berries.
A kit who was crouched with its mother at the front of the tribe took a step forward to sniff them curiously; Squirrelpaw thrust her tail in its way and guided it back to its mother.
“Don’t touch,” she mewed. “Even one of those would give you the worst bellyache you’ve ever had—if you survived.”
The kit stared at her with huge eyes and said nothing.
Gazing at the berries, the Tribe’s healer let out a faint hiss and took a step back. “Night-seeds?”
“You know them?” Stormfur asked. “In our Clans, we call them deathberries.”
“I know all the herbs and berries that grow in these mountains,” Stoneteller responded. For a moment a gleam of interest showed in his eyes; then he bent his head again and when he spoke his voice was defeated. “And none of that knowledge is any use to protect my Tribe. Sharptooth is too strong. Not even your deathberries will defeat him.”
“Three will kill the strongest warrior.” Squirrelpaw spoke up boldly. “I think what we have here would be enough even for Sharptooth.”
Stoneteller looked surprised. “Are you sure?”
“Even if they don’t,” Stormfur added, “they’ll weaken him so we can finish him off.”
Stoneteller still looked undecided. His shoulders were bowed as if the whole weight of the mountains rested on them.
Then Stormfur heard a stir among the Tribe cats, hostile muttering that swelled to furious yowling. Talon was thrusting his way forward to stand before the Healer; thanks to the shadows that darkened the cave most of the Tribe had only just noticed that the outlaws had returned.