Night Whispers

Blackstar padded to Russetfur’s side. “She died fighting. She died bravely.” He addressed his Clanmates. “We ask no more than that of our warriors.”

Cedarheart’s eyes shone. “She was my mentor and taught me well.”

Rowanclaw dipped his head. “She came to ShadowClan a rogue and died a warrior.”

Blackstar gazed at the sun as it struggled above the pine-tops. “StarClan will welcome her. What we have lost, they will gain. May her memories become our memories, and her skills become our skills.” He nodded to Rowanclaw, and the orange warrior gripped Russetfur’s scruff in his teeth. Silently, he hauled her body over the grave’s edge and let it fall.

Blackstar turned, eyes glittering darkly, and led his Clanmates away. Flametail caught up to his father at the camp entrance. “Where’s Littlecloud?”

“He’s exhausted after a night treating battle wounds. Blackstar ordered him to rest. He’ll share tongues with Russetfur at the Moonpool. He can say his good-byes then.” Rowanclaw glanced at his son. “You must be tired, too. You were at his side till dawn.”

Flametail was weary to his paws but not ready to admit it. “I can rest later,” he insisted. “I just wanted to see the battlefield.”

“Good.” Rowanclaw nodded. “The land we lost should burn in your mind until it is regained.” He touched his muzzle to Flametail’s head before squeezing through the entrance tunnel. Flametail emerged from the bramble thicket in time to see his father disappear with Blackstar into the leader’s den.

“Sorry to bother you.” Shrewfoot was blinking at him. The gray she-cat thrust a black paw under his muzzle. “Will you check this?” she mewed. “Littlecloud’s sleeping.”

Flametail inspected the paw. It was swollen at the lowest joint, and her fur was warm to the touch, but she only winced when he touched it with his nose.

“Just a sprain,” he assured her. “I’ll give you a poppy seed for the pain.” He led her through the prickly entrance to the medicine den. It opened into a space deep within the bush. Inside, the sandy floor had been hollowed to make the den roomier, and dried-out pine needles scattered to make it soft.

At the back of the den, Littlecloud stretched and sat up in his nest. The neat tabby tom looked smaller than usual, his eyes wide and his pelt ruffled with sleep.

Flametail frowned. “Are you okay?” He crossed the den and sniffed his mentor’s pelt. There was more heat in Littlecloud’s fur than he’d expected.

“I’m fine,” Littlecloud insisted. “Just tired.”

“Stay in your nest,” Flametail told him.

Littlecloud didn’t argue, but instead glanced at Shrewfoot waiting by the entrance. “Is she all right?”

“A sprained paw,” Flametail reported. “I’m going to give her poppy.”

Littlecloud shook his head. “Just wrap it with comfrey and nettle.” He nodded toward a pile of shredded leaves. “Shrewfoot has always slept a little too heavily on poppy.”

“Can you manage the pain if I just ease the swelling?” Flametail asked the she-cat.

She nodded, lifting her paw. Flametail chewed the shredded leaves into a poultice and wrapped up the paw, tying a dock leaf around it to hold the balm in place.

Shrewfoot sighed as he finished. “It feels better already.”

“Rest it for a day, then exercise it gently,” Flametail advised.

Shrewfoot nodded and slid out through the bramble tunnel. Flametail turned to tell Littlecloud he was leaving, but the ShadowClan medicine cat was already asleep. Flametail’s paws felt heavy, and he fought back an urge to curl up in his nest. There were wounds to check.

Nosing his way out of the den, he squinted at the light that bounced around the wide, flat clearing in the forest of pines. Several of his Clanmates were sprawled at the edge, soaking up the meager warmth from the leaf-bare sun. Snowbird rolled and stretched. Her white belly was laced with crimson wounds that made Flametail wince, even though he knew they were all clean now and soaked with marigold juice. Beside her, Scorchfur rested his nose on his paws, ignoring the half-eaten thrush lying by his muzzle. Redwillow lay at the entrance to the warriors’ den, clumps of mottled brown fur sticking out on his pelt. He twisted to give his flank a lick, but flinched and lay back again, panting. Olivenose and Owlclaw stretched side by side, pelts ruffled, muzzles scratched.

The bramble wall shuddered as Tigerheart bounded through the entrance. A squirrel dangled from his jaws, and he tossed it toward the fresh-kill pile. Dawnpelt raced in after him, a pigeon in her jaws.

Flametail hurried toward his littermates, sniffing for blood. “I hope you haven’t opened any wounds.”

“We’ve been careful.” Dawnpelt ducked down to show him that the gash between her shoulder blades was still sealed with sticky cobwebs, no sign of fresh blood.

Tawnypelt squeezed out of the warriors’ den. The tortoiseshell’s green eyes lit up as she saw her three kits together, and she greeted each with a lick on the cheek.

Dawnpelt shook her off. “Yuck! We’re too old for that!”

Tawnypelt purred and gazed around the clearing. “Where’s your father?”