“I’m too old for kits’ games.”
Tallkit prickled with frustration. “Then why don’t you go hunting with Redclaw?” He leaned closer. “Oh, I forgot! You’re too young to leave camp.”
The gorse trembled as Barkkit pushed his way out. “Stop acting like a ’paw, Shrewkit. You’ve got three moons left before you get your apprentice name.”
Shrewkit puffed out his fur. “I don’t see why I have to wait. I’m nearly as big as Doepaw.”
“No kit can be apprenticed before six moons,” Tallkit reminded him. “Don’t you know the warrior code?”
Shrewkit flicked his tail. “Do tunnelers have a code?”
Tallkit flexed his claws. “We’re warriors too!” he snapped. “We train to hunt and fight like moor runners. We just have extra skills.”
“Do you mean digging?” Shrewkit sneered. “Rabbits can dig. It’s not such a great skill.”
“Yes, it is!” Tallkit felt a rush of fury. “Sandgorse is helping to build a tunnel right down to the bottom of the gorge. No rabbit could do that. No rabbit would even think of it.” He fluffed out his pelt, hoping his anger would hide the fear that was pricking through his fur at the thought of squeezing down such a long, long tunnel.
“Tunnels are a waste of time,” Shrewkit scoffed. “They’re only good for hiding in.”
“No, they’re not!” How dare Shrewkit suggest that tunnelers were cowards? Being underground was far scarier than running around the moor. “The new tunnel means an extra prey run and a secret route in and out of our territory if we ever need it.”
“Real warriors don’t need secret routes. They stay in the open and fight.”
Tallkit lashed his tail. “Tunnelers can fight underground!”
“I’m just saying I’m glad I don’t have to be a tunneler’s apprentice. Don’t tell me you’re looking forward to spending your life in the dark.”
“I’m proud to follow in Sandgorse’s paw steps.” Tallkit shifted his paws guiltily. I just wish I wasn’t dreading it.
Barkkit nosed his way between them. “I don’t know why you’re arguing,” he mewed. “It’s okay to want different things. If we all wanted to be moor runners we’d be just the same as ThunderClan or ShadowClan or RiverClan. But we’re not; we’re WindClan, and we can fight and hunt and tunnel.”
Tallkit swallowed his frustration. Barkkit was right. WindClan cats were special and it was mouse-brained to stand around arguing about it. Whipping his tail, he turned and stomped away. Sharp pain stabbed his paw. “Ow!” He lifted it, hopping. His pad stung like fury.
Barkkit bounded over. “What’s wrong?”
“I stepped on something sharp.” Tallkit held out his paw.
Barkkit crouched and peered at the pad. Gently he tipped it up to get a better look. “It’s a gorse thorn,” he mewed.
Tallkit glanced nervously toward the medicine den. “Should I ask Hawkheart to get it out?” If Hawkheart was busy, he wouldn’t want to be disturbed—especially by buzzard prey.
“No need.” Leaning close, Barkkit pressed his muzzle to Tallkit’s pad. Tallkit felt his denmate’s breath warm on his paw; then there was a sharp tug and the pain melted away. Barkkit sat up. A long thorn stuck from between his teeth. Blood glistened on the tip. He spat it out. “Lick your paw really hard,” he ordered. “That’ll stop it from going bad.”
Tallkit lifted his paw and examined the pad. A spot of blood was welling where Barkkit had removed the thorn. He lapped it, amazed at how quickly the pain had disappeared. The blood tasted salty on his tongue. “Thanks, Barkkit.” He looked at his friend. “How did you know what to do?”
Barkkit shrugged. “It was obvious.”
Shrewkit rolled his eyes. “Brilliant,” he snorted. “That’s really going to help catch rabbits or fight invaders.”
Barkkit tipped his head on one side. “There’s more to life than hunting and fighting.”
“Is there?” Shrewkit blinked in surprise. “Don’t tell me you want to be a tunneler?”
“That’s not what I said,” Barkkit mewed.
“Another digger!” Shrewkit turned his tail on his brother. He clearly wasn’t listening. “That’s just what WindClan needs.”
Barkkit watched his brother march away.
Tallkit narrowed his eyes, confused. “Don’t you want to be a moor runner, Barkkit?”
“No. I want to train as a medicine cat,” Barkkit confessed.
Tallkit stared at him. “Really?”
“I’m going to ask Heatherstar if I can be apprenticed to Hawkheart.”
“Hawkheart?” Tallkit echoed in astonishment. I’d rather train as a tunneler. “Are you sure?”
“Yes!” Barkkit’s eyes shone. “I can’t wait to learn about all the herbs, and how to treat different injuries.”
“I can’t imagine Hawkheart with an apprentice.”
“Do you think he’ll refuse to train me?” Worry clouded Barkkit’s gaze. “Maybe that’s why he’s never had an apprentice before.”
“No one’s been brave enough to volunteer,” Tallkit muttered. He purred. “He’ll probably be impressed by your courage.”
“Hawkheart’s okay.” Barkkit’s anxious gaze slid toward the medicine den. “He just doesn’t like being asked rabbit-brained questions, that’s all.”
“Then how will you learn anything?” Tallkit pointed out.
“I’ll watch what he does and only ask questions when I’m sure I don’t understand.”
Tallkit blinked, surprised by how determined Barkkit sounded. He must have been planning this for ages. Sadness pricked his chest. “We’ll never train together.”
“You’re training as a tunneler anyway,” Barkkit reminded him.
“I’ll have to learn to hunt and fight, and you would have learned basic tunnel skills.” Tallkit glanced at Shrewkit, who was following Stagpaw from the prey heap. “Now I’m stuck with him.”
“Ignore his teasing,” Barkkit urged. “If you don’t react, he’ll get bored and back off.”
“I guess.” Tallkit wasn’t convinced. “Let’s go see if Lilywhisker needs help hunting fleas.” He turned toward the elders’ den.
“I’ll catch up,” Barkkit mewed. “I want to ask Heatherstar about becoming Hawkheart’s apprentice.”
As Barkkit headed for Heatherstar’s den, Tallkit padded toward the thick gorse at the far end of the clearing. Flamepelt was outside the den, propped against a low hummock while Lilywhisker sat beside him, carefully grooming her lifeless leg.
Doepaw and Ryepaw were crouching in the grass beside them, eyes fixed on Flamepelt. The elder was midstory. “I took a right fork in the tunnel,” he rasped. “It was darker than the inside of a rock but I could hear the rabbit a few tail-lengths ahead. It was running fast, leaving a trail of fear-scent so strong even a moor runner could follow it.”
“Isn’t tunnel hunting easy?” Doepaw interrupted. “There’s only one way for the prey to run.”
Flamepelt met her gaze. “You think it’s easy to run full pelt in stone-black darkness?”
As Doepaw’s eyes widened, Whiteberry padded from the gorse den. His snowy pelt glowed in the sunshine. “You’ve only got your ears, nose, and whiskers to guide you,” he explained. “One wrong paw step and you could hit a wall.”
Flamepelt leaned forward. “A dead end gives a different echo from a passage. An experienced tunneler can hear whether an underpath will open out or get narrower just by the way the air ruffles his ear-fur.”
Lilywhisker lifted her muzzle. “I used to be able to hear a cavern halfway across the moor, just by the echo of my paw steps,” she boasted.