Larkpaw's paws pounded the earth, striking again and again in a rhythmic motion that even she had lost track of. "Pound, pound, pound, pound." With her tail flying straight out behind her, Larkpaw sprinted away through the forest, away from her father, away from the lake, away from the eagle and his catch, away from FireClan, Gustpaw, Huntingpaw, and her mother, Mistclaw, who was nursing her second litter. She ran as fast as her thin gray legs could carry her, first through trees, then moorland, then the rough gravel that marked the beginning of the long climb to the mountains.
Larkpaw never stopped running, no matter how tired she became. Always, for so long, that rhythmic pounding that kept her moving until the sun had dropped behind the mountains, and a blanket of cold had been draped over the forest. Larkpaw thought, shivering, of the warm apprentice den, snuggling up to Gustpaw on frosty nights when the chill wind blew through the camp. She remembered the warmth of her mother's care, before she recently became an apprentice, and she shivered harder. Larkpaw halted, breathless. But then a warmth seeped through her, when she thought of running from those things. A warmth that not only shielded her from cold, but lifted her spirit. For Larkpaw was not running from the comfort of the camp, but only from the pain and scorn of it. She was running from the memories, so fresh and unforgiving, lodged deep inside her. But now those memories were drifting slowly away, carried away on that icy wind.
Larkpaw crouched down behind a boulder, fluffed her fur, and braced herself against the harsh frost. She finally fell into a shallow sleep, though it did not last long. When a pale white sun rose just over the mountains, Larkpaw blinked away her sleep, and rose to meet the receding fog. She shook dew from her pale gray pelt, and stretched for a long time, pulling out the kinks and aches that came from sleeping in an unfamiliar place in the cold of night.
Larkpaw looked up at the mountain peaks, high, high above her, and sighed. How could she climb that? But Larkpaw was not to be daunted. Once again, she began the pounding trot that had carried her from the forests of FireClan to the base of the mountains, and she hoped would carry her to their tops. She knew about the mountain Tribes that hunted up in the snowy forests of stone. Many times their warriors had visited to report on wolf packs heading towards their valley, or a particularly vicious eagle that might just venture into the forests. They had come, too, to talk and exchange ideas or strategies. Larkpaw was not unfamiliar with their kind, an she was well acquainted with Reader of the Morning Rain, their healer. Larkpaw also had a friend, the young Evening Sun that Breaks on the Stones. The small golden she-cat was a good friend of Larkpaw's.
The apprentice began the uphill climb through the sharp stones with a vengeance, and she made excellent time all morning. But by sun-high, Larkpaw was weary, and her throat was parched and screaming for water. She rested in the shadow of a tall rock, licking her roughened paws, and washing her dust-matted fur. Larkpaw's blue eyes flashed over the surrounding area, checking for any signs of danger. She was cautious, always reminded of the now more distant memory of strange-scented cats.
Though Larkpaw had hardly been an apprentice at all, she was not completely unwise in the ways of the outside world. There were many times when she and her friends had gone sneaking out of camp as kits, and many times when they had been scolded for it. Though those reprimands may have seemed boring and overprotective at the time, they had no ill effect on the kits. Larkpaw knew all about hawks and eagles, badgers, mountain panthers, rogue cats, and in-edible plants. She had been on many a supervised romp, and these had prepared her for the toughness of stone under-paw and the misery of cold wind blowing through fur.
Larkpaw started off again, threading her way up the mountainside, trying to ignore the burning in her mouth. Finally, she spotted a stream a little ways ahead. Joyfully, Larkpaw bounded forward, and thrust her muzzle into the crisp, icy water. She gulped it down delightfully, relishing the sweet taste as the water coursed down her throat.
When Larkpaw had finally finished, she lifted her head and gulped the fresh air as well. But with a jolt, and a spike of fear in her heart, she caught a whiff of that strange scent, the one that the cats that had killed Snowfoot carried. Larkpaw leapt up, breathing hard, her ears straining and her eyes wild.
There, across from her, a huge black cat stood, his slitted yellow eyes locked on Larkpaw. The cat opened his mouth, hissed……... and Larkpaw screamed.