Fire And Ice

It was Sandpaw, her pale orange coat fluffed up with hostility. Dustpaw was sitting beside her. With his dark tabby pelt, he looked like Sandpaw’s shadow. He puffed out his chest importantly and mocked, “I’m surprised such heroes even feel the cold!” Sandpaw purred with amusement.

Whitestorm shot them a stern look. “Go and find something to eat; then rest,” he ordered Fireheart and Graystripe. The older warrior turned away and padded toward the apprentices’ den. “Come on, you two,” he meowed to Sandpaw and Dustpaw. “It’s time for your training.”

“I hope he has them chasing blue squirrels all day!” Graystripe hissed to Fireheart as they headed toward the corner where a few pieces of fresh-kill remained from last night.

“But there aren’t any blue squirrels,” Fireheart mewed in confusion.

“Precisely!” Graystripe’s amber eyes gleamed.

“You can’t exactly blame them. They did begin their training before us,” Fireheart pointed out mildly. “If they’d fought in the battle yesterday, they’d probably have been made warriors too.”

“I suppose.” Graystripe shrugged. “Hey, look!” They’d reached the fresh-kill pile. “One mouse each and a chaffinch to share!”

The two friends picked up their meal and looked at each other. Graystripe’s eyes suddenly sparkled with delight. “I suppose we take it to the warriors’ side of the camp now,” he meowed.

“I suppose we do,” Fireheart purred, padding after his friend to the patch of nettles where they had often watched Whitestorm, Tigerclaw, and the other warriors share fresh-kill.

“Now what?” asked Graystripe, gulping down his last mouthful. “I don’t know about you, but I think I could sleep for half a moon.”

“Me too,” Fireheart agreed.

The two friends got to their paws and made their way toward the warriors’ den. Fireheart stuck his head through the low-hanging branches. Mousefur and Longtail were still asleep on the other side of the den.

He pushed his way inside and found a patch of moss at the edge. The smell told him it wasn’t a sleeping place already used by another warrior. Graystripe settled down beside him.

Fireheart listened as Graystripe’s steady breaths relaxed into long, muffled snores. Fireheart felt equally exhausted, but he was still desperate to talk to Bluestar. From where he lay, his head flat to the earth, he could just see the camp entrance. He stared at it, waiting for his leader’s return, but gradually his eyes began to close, and he gave in to his longing for sleep.

Fireheart could hear a roaring around him, like wind in tall trees. The acrid stench of the Thunderpath stung his nostrils, together with a new smell, sharper and more terrifying. Fire! Flames lapped at the black sky, throwing glowing cinders up into a starless night. To Fireheart’s amazement, silhouettes of cats flitted in front of the fire. Why hadn’t they run away?

One of them stopped and looked straight at Fireheart. The tom’s night-eyes glinted in the darkness and he lifted his long, straight tail, as if in greeting.

Fireheart trembled as a memory burst into his mind of the words that Spottedleaf, the former ThunderClan medicine cat, had said to him before her untimely death: “Fire will save the Clan!” Could it be something to do with the strange cats that showed no fear of fire?

“Wake up, Fireheart!”

Fireheart flicked up his head, startled out of his dream by Tigerclaw’s growl.

“You were mewing in your sleep!”

Still dazed, Fireheart sat up and shook his head. “Y-yes, Tigerclaw!” With a pang of alarm, he wondered if he had repeated Spottedleaf’s words out loud. He had dreamed like this before—dreams so vivid that he could taste them, and which had later come true. Fireheart certainly did not want Tigerclaw to suspect him of having powers that usually StarClan gave only to a medicine cat.

Moonlight shone through the leafy den wall. Fireheart realized he must have slept through the whole day.

“You and Graystripe will join the evening patrol,” Tigerclaw told him. “Hurry up!” The dark tabby turned and stalked out of the den.

Fireheart let the fur relax on his shoulders. Clearly Tigerclaw didn’t suspect anything unusual about his dream. But while Fireheart’s secret was safe, he was equally determined to expose the murderous truth about Tigerclaw’s role in Redtail’s death.

Fireheart licked his lips. Graystripe lay beside him washing his flank. They had just finished sharing a meal beside the camp clearing. The sun had set and Fireheart could see the moon, almost full now, gleaming in a cold, clear sky. The past few days had been busy. It seemed that every time they lay down for a rest, Tigerclaw sent them out on patrol or a hunting mission. Fireheart had stayed alert, looking for a chance to talk with Bluestar alone, but when he wasn’t on one of Tigerclaw’s missions, the ThunderClan leader always seemed to have her deputy at her side.

Fireheart began to wash his paw, his eyes flicking around the camp, searching hopefully for Bluestar.

“What are you looking for?” meowed Graystripe through a tongueful of fur.