Fire And Ice

“He’ll never know we’re out there,” Graystripe assured him.

“As I would expect,” meowed Tigerclaw. “Now, go!” Without another word, he turned and bounded away.

“He might have wished us good luck,” Graystripe complained.

“He probably thinks we don’t need it,” joked Fireheart as they crossed the clearing toward Yellowfang’s den. But at the same time, he reflected, Tigerclaw seemed to be treating them with as much respect as he would any warrior—was it possible that he wasn’t the traitor that Ravenpaw thought? It was still cold, despite the rising sun, but neither cat shivered—Fireheart could feel his fur beginning to thicken as the days grew shorter.

Yellowfang’s den lay at the end of a tunnel under ferns. A large split rock stood in a corner of a small shaded glade. Spottedleaf had lived here before Yellowfang. The memory of the gentle tortoiseshell medicine cat tugged at Fireheart’s heart. Spottedleaf had been killed by a ShadowClan warrior. He missed her desperately.

“Yellowfang!” Graystripe called. “We’ve come for traveling herbs!”

The two cats heard a hoarse mew from the shadow in the center of the rock, and Yellowfang squeezed out of the crack. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“We’ve got to find WindClan and bring them home,” Fireheart told her, unable to hide the pride in his voice.

“Your first warrior mission!” rasped Yellowfang. “Congratulations! I’ll fetch the herbs you will need.” She returned a few moments later carrying a small bundle of dried leaves in her mouth. “Enjoy!” she purred, laying them on the ground.

Fireheart and Graystripe chewed obediently on the unappetizing leaves. “Yuck!” spat Graystripe. “Just as bad as last time.” Fireheart nodded, screwing up his face. Spottedleaf had given them the same herbs when they’d journeyed with Bluestar to the Moonstone.

Graystripe swallowed the last mouthful and nudged Fireheart’s shoulder with his nose. “Come on, slow slug! Let’s get going! ’Bye,” he called to Yellowfang over his shoulder, as he sprinted out of the glade.

“Wait for me,” meowed Fireheart, chasing after his friend.

“Good-bye! Good luck, youngsters!” Yellowfang meowed after them.

As he raced through the tunnel, Fireheart heard the ferns rustling in the morning breeze. They seemed to be whispering, “Good luck! Travel safely!”

Chapter 4

As they headed out of the camp, the two young warriors nearly crashed into Whitestorm, who was leading Sandpaw and Runningwind into the forest for the dawn patrol.

“Sorry!” panted Fireheart. He stopped, and Graystripe skidded to a halt beside him.

Whitestorm dipped his head. “I hear you two are going on a mission,” he meowed.

“Yes,” Fireheart replied.

“Then may you have StarClan’s protection,” meowed Whitestorm gravely.

“What for?” Sandpaw sneered. “You off to catch voles?”

Runningwind, a lean tabby, turned and whispered something into Sandpaw’s ear. Her expression changed and the contempt in her green eyes switched to guarded curiosity.

The patrol stepped aside to let Fireheart and Graystripe pass. The pair raced on and scrambled up the side of the ravine.

Fireheart and Graystripe shared few words as they followed the route through the forest to Fourtrees, saving their breath for the long journey ahead. They paused at the top of the steep slope on the far side of the oak-shaded clearing, their sides heaving from the climb.

“Is it always windy up here?” grumbled Graystripe, fluffing out his thick fur against the blast of cold air that swept across the uplands.

“I suppose there aren’t any trees to block it,” Fireheart pointed out, screwing up his eyes. This was WindClan’s territory. As Fireheart sniffed the air, he detected a scent that all of his senses told him should not be there. “Do you smell RiverClan warriors?” he murmured uneasily.

Graystripe lifted his nose. “No. Do you think there might be some here?”

“Maybe. They might want to make the most of WindClan’s absence, especially since they know WindClan will be back soon,” Fireheart warned.

“Well, I can’t smell anything now,” whispered Graystripe.

The two friends padded watchfully along a frozen turf trail sheltered by heather.

A fresh scent stopped Fireheart in his tracks. “Can you smell that?” he hissed to Graystripe.

“Yes,” whispered Graystripe, flattening himself against the ground. “RiverClan!”

Fireheart dropped into a crouch, keeping his ears below the heather. Beside him, Graystripe lifted his dark gray head to peer over the bushes. “I can see them,” he murmured. “They’re hunting.”

Fireheart stretched up cautiously to look.

Four RiverClan warriors were chasing a rabbit through a patch of gorse. Fireheart recognized Blackclaw from the Gathering. The smoky-black warrior pounced, his claws unsheathed, but sat up again with nothing to show for the chase. The rabbit must have made it to the safety of her warren.

Fireheart and Graystripe dropped down again and pressed their bellies against the cold turf.

“They’re not good rabbit hunters,” Graystripe hissed scornfully.