The Darkest Hour

“Of course.” As Firestar wondered which apprentice to choose, his gaze rested on Fernpaw, and he remembered her gentleness and sensitivity to other cats’ injuries. “You can have Fernpaw,” he announced, and saw Dustpelt flash him a relieved look. “Fernpaw, if that’s okay with you?”

The gray she-cat dipped her head in assent. For a moment Firestar wondered if he had forgotten anything, but he couldn’t think what else they could do to prep are for what lay ahead.

Gazing down at his Clan, their shapes beginning to melt into the twilight, he took a deep breath. “Now eat well, and get a good sleep tonight,” he ordered. “Tomorrow we’ll begin—and in three days we’ll be ready to show Scourge and his Clan that our forest will never be theirs for the taking.”

Chapter 24

When Firestar emerged from his den the following morning, the camp was already full of activity. Mousefur was leaving at the head of a patrol. Sandstorm was rounding up Willowpelt’s three kits, who bounced around her in wild excitement as she herded them toward the gorse tunnel on their way to the training hollow. Mistyfoot and the two RiverClan apprentices followed them. Brackenfur passed them at the entrance to the camp, a piece of fresh-kill in his jaws.

Firestar spotted Whitestorm with Bramblepaw and Ashpaw beside the thorn wall that surrounded the camp, and padded across to join them. The white warrior came to meet him.

“I’m getting these two to inspect the defenses and patch any gaps,” he meowed. “If BloodClan get this far…” He stopped, his blue eyes worried.

“Good idea.” Firestar suppressed a shiver at the thought of BloodClan breaking into the camp. He turned sharply at the sight of movement in the gorse tunnel, and flashed a glance of astonishment at Whitestorm as Ravenpaw appeared, followed by Barley. The black-and-white loner had never been to the ThunderClan camp before.

Leaving his deputy to finish instructing the apprentices, Firestar padded toward them. Ravenpaw hurried forward confidently, but Barley lagged behind, glancing warily around, as if he wasn’t sure of a welcome.

“We have to talk to you,” Ravenpaw blurted out. “Last night we met Onewhisker on the border of his territory and he told us about Scourge and BloodClan.” The raven-colored fur on his shoulders bristled. “We want to help, but more important, Barley has some information for you.”

Firestar dipped his head in greeting. “It’s good to see you both,” he meowed. “And we’re grateful for any help we can get. Perhaps you’d better come to my den.”

Barley relaxed at Firestar’s friendly greeting, and the two loners followed Firestar to the hollow beneath the Highrock. Early-morning sunshine slanted through the entrance and into the peaceful den. Firestar could almost forget the threat from Scourge and his bloodthirsty followers. But the serious expressions of his visitors reminded him all too clearly of the shadow over the future of the forest.

“What is it?” he prompted, once the two loners were settled.

Ravenpaw was gazing around him with an almost awestruck look—Firestar guessed he was remembering Bluestar, and maybe wondering at how the apprentice who had trained with him had come to take the former leader’s place. Barley, however, looked uneasy, crouching with his paws tucked under him as he began to speak.

“I was born in Twolegplace,” he began quietly. “I know too much about Scourge and his warriors. I…I suppose you could say I was once a member of BloodClan.”

Firestar’s interest quickened. “Go on.”

“The first thing I remember is playing with my littermates on a patch of waste ground,” Barley explained. “Our mother taught us to hunt and find food among Twoleg rubbish. Later on she showed us how to defend ourselves.”

“Your mother mentored you?” Firestar asked, surprised. “All of you?”

Barley nodded. “BloodClan doesn’t have a proper system of mentors and apprentices. It’s not a Clan at all in the way you forest cats understand it. Most cats listen to Scourge because he’s the strongest and the most vicious, and Bone is a kind of deputy, insofar as he carries out Scourge’s dirty work.”

“Bone?” Fireheart asked. “Is that a big black-and-white cat? He was there at Fourtrees.”

“That sounds like him, yes.” The loner’s voice was filled with disgust. “He’s almost as bad as Scourge. Any cats who don’t do as they’re told are chased off, if they’re lucky, or more likely killed.”

Firestar stared at him. “But what about caring for kits and elders?”

Barley shrugged. “A she-cat’s mate will probably hunt for her while she’s nursing her kits,” he mewed. “Even Scourge realizes that if there are no kits, sooner or later there’s no Clan. But elders, or cats who are sick or injured—well, they’re left to fend for themselves. It’s kill or be killed, hunt or starve. There’s no room for weakness.”