Tigerclaw’s Fury

It wasn’t long before he spotted Blackfoot’s white pelt slinking between the trunks. Tangleburr was a few steps behind, better hidden among the foliage. Tigerclaw stayed where he was, just within scenting distance of the ShadowClan border marks, and waited. They seemed to be following the line of the border, not crossing over, but close enough to be seen by any passing cats. They were talking to each other in low, anxious voices.

“Did you forget about battle training?” Tigerclaw meowed when they were within earshot.

Both cats stared at him, guilt shining in their eyes. “We… we were just on our way,” Blackfoot stammered.

“Don’t lie,” mewed Tigerclaw, padding up to them and sniffing their fur. “You smell of ShadowClan—more than you did already, I mean. Who have you been talking to?”

Tangleburr flattened her ears. “We didn’t cross the border, I promise. We just wanted to see how they were.”

Tigerclaw flicked his tail. “How who were?” He wanted to force them to admit that their loyalties still lay with their former Clan, that he would never be able to trust them, that all his training had been for nothing. You should kill them where they stand, encouraged the voice.

Blackfoot stepped forward, and Tigerclaw almost flinched as he realized the white tom was as tall and broad-chested as he was. “We have done nothing wrong,” Blackfoot insisted. “We just wanted to know why there were so few border patrols. We met Dawncloud and Rowanberry hunting on their own. There is a terrible sickness in ShadowClan, and almost every warrior has been affected. Without hunting patrols, the whole Clan is starving.”

“The sickness came from the rats at the Carrionplace,” Tangleburr put in. “Runningnose is doing everything he can, but there are too many infected cats.”

“Why do you think this is your problem?” Tigerclaw asked mildly. “Your Clanmates will want nothing to do with you because of your connection to Brokenstar.”

Blackfoot’s eyes flashed. “I was loyal to Brokenstar because he was the leader of my Clan, just as every ShadowClan warrior should have been. I am still a ShadowClan cat, whatever happens.”

Tangleburr nodded. “These cats that are sick and starving, they are my kin, my friends. I may have left the territory, but I can’t forget them.”

For a moment, Tigerclaw felt a stab of envy. He didn’t miss a single one of his Clanmates, not treacherous Darkstripe or Longtail, nor the weak and fawning kittypet-lovers among the other warriors. Was he going to lose control of Blackfoot and Tangleburr because of their sentimental attachment to cats who no longer cared about them?

You can’t challenge their loyalty, warned the voice. So use it for your own ends. If ShadowClan is as weak as they say, it poses no threat to your destiny. Remember, mercy is a sign of great power.

Tigerclaw blinked. “For your own safety, I forbid you to enter ShadowClan’s territory,” he meowed. “But I want to hear for myself what is happening in their camp. We will wait for the next patrol, and I will speak to them.”

They didn’t have to wait long. A slow, stumbling crunch of twigs and dried leaves announced the approach of a patrol. Regular pauses told Tigerclaw they were renewing border marks—as if scent alone would keep the ravaged Clan safe. Three cats stumbled into view between the tree trunks. Tigerclaw narrowed his eyes, recognizing Fernshade, Deerfoot, and Boulder. The big gray tom who had been born in Twolegplace spotted the waiting cats first and bounded forward.

“Tangleburr! Blackfoot! Rowanberry told me she had seen you! What are you doing here?” Boulder’s eyes were bright, but his ribs showed beneath his pelt and his flanks were tucked up with hunger.

“We live here now,” Tangleburr meowed, gesturing with her tail in the direction of the fallen oak. “Stumpytail and Clawface are with us… and Tigerclaw.”

Boulder’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve heard rumors of an attack on ThunderClan,” he meowed. “Was that you?”

Blackfoot flicked his tail. “That’s not what we want to talk to you about. What is happening in ShadowClan? Are you really dying from this sickness?”

Fernshade padded forward. She looked older than Tigerclaw remembered, her tortoiseshell fur patched and clumpy, and one eye stuck shut with weeping yellow ooze. “We have been sick from the rats before, but never this bad,” she rasped. “Runningnose hasn’t slept for a quarter moon, trying to find enough herbs for us all.”