Rising Storm

Cloudpaw’s loss disturbed him more and more. He had been half hoping the young cat would turn up at the camp, having found his way back on his own, but there had been no sign of him since the monster had taken him away. As Fireheart began to give up hope of ever seeing his apprentice again, his awareness that he’d lost two apprentices—Cinderpelt as well as Cloudpaw—wreathed his mind in thorns. How could he take on the responsibilities of deputy when he couldn’t handle his duties as a mentor? By giving himself more patrols and hunting missions than any other cat, Fireheart knew that he was trying to prove himself to the rest of the Clan, and to push away his own private doubts about his abilities as a warrior.

Sandstorm seemed to sense Fireheart’s anxiety. “I know there’s a lot to do. Perhaps I can help more.” She glanced up at him, and Fireheart thought he detected a tiny hint of bitterness in her mew as she added, “After all, I don’t have an apprentice either.”

Seeing Dustpelt with Ashpaw must have pricked at her pride, and Fireheart felt a twinge of guilt. “I’m sorry…” he began. But tiredness had clouded his brain, and he realized too late that Sandstorm would have no idea that he had chosen the mentors. She would have assumed, along with the rest of the Clan, that Bluestar had made the decision.

Sandstorm stared at him, bewildered. “Sorry about what?”

“Bluestar asked me to choose the mentors for Fernpaw and Ashpaw,” Fireheart confessed. “And I chose Dustpelt instead of you.” He anxiously searched Sandstorm’s face for a trace of irritation, but she gazed steadily back at him.

“You’ll make a great mentor one day,” he went on, desperate to explain. “But I had to choose Dust—”

“It’s okay.” She shrugged. “I’m sure you had your reasons.” Her tone was casual, but Fireheart couldn’t help noticing the fur prickling along her spine. An awkward silence stretched between them until Brightpaw pushed her way out of the undergrowth behind them.

“Did you get it?” She panted.

Suddenly Fireheart realized how tired the apprentice looked, and remembered how hard it had been to keep up with the bigger, stronger warriors when he was training. He nudged the dead rabbit toward Brightpaw with his nose. “Here, you have first bite,” he offered. “I should have given you time to eat before we left camp.”

As Brightpaw gratefully began to eat, Sandstorm caught his eye. “Perhaps you could order fewer patrols?” she suggested doubtfully. “Everyone’s so tired, and we haven’t seen Tigerclaw since Runningwind died.”

Fireheart felt a twinge of regret. He knew she couldn’t really believe her hopeful words. The whole of ThunderClan knew that Tigerclaw would not give up so easily. Fireheart had seen the tension in the warriors’ lean bodies as they patrolled with him, their ears always pricked, their mouths always open, tasting the air for danger. He had also sensed their growing frustration with their leader, who was needed more than ever to unite her Clan against this invisible threat. But Bluestar had hardly left her den since the vigil for Runningwind.

“We can’t cut down our patrols,” Fireheart told Sandstorm. “We need to be on our guard.”

“Do you really think Tigerclaw will kill us?” Brightpaw mewed, looking up from her meal.

“I think he’ll try.”

“What does Bluestar think?” Sandstorm asked the question tentatively.

“She’s worried, of course.” Fireheart knew he was being evasive. Only he and Whitestorm understood how completely Tigerclaw’s return had swept Bluestar back into the dark and tortured place she had been in after the treacherous warrior had tried to murder her.

“She’s lucky she has such a good deputy,” Sandstorm meowed. “Every cat in the Clan trusts you to lead us through this.”

Fireheart couldn’t help glancing away. He had been well aware of the way the other cats had been looking at him lately, with a mixture of hope and expectancy. He felt honored to have their respect, but he knew he was young and inexperienced, and he longed for Whitestorm’s unshakable faith in his StarClan-led destiny. He hoped he was worthy of the Clan’s trust. “I’ll do my best,” he promised.

“The Clan couldn’t ask for more than that,” Sandstorm murmured.

Fireheart looked down at the rabbit. “Let’s finish this and find something else to take home.”

When the three cats had eaten, they moved on, heading toward Fourtrees. They traveled without speaking, wary of betraying their presence in the forest to any watching eyes. With Tigerclaw around, Fireheart felt as if the ThunderClan cats were the hunted as well as the hunters.

An unfamiliar cat-scent hit his nostrils as they neared the slope that led down to Fourtrees, and his fur bristled. Sandstorm had clearly smelled it too, for she froze, arching her back, her muscles tense.

“Quick,” Fireheart hissed. “Up here!” He clawed his way up a sycamore tree. Sandstorm and Brightpaw followed, and the three cats crouched on the lowest branch and peered down at the forest floor.