The names of the dead are called loudly to the rising stars. "Harestar, Grasswhisker, Foxtail, Hazelnose, Shortpelt, and Swiftfeather," recites Brackenheart, coughing between syllables. The smoke has left his eyes red-rimmed and his voice cracked as if with age even though he is a young cat. Between the fire and the bout of sickness that swept through BreezeClan's camp, the medicine cat is feeble, a poor last bastion of the shattered Clan's hierarchy. Beside him sits Mothmoon, lending her shoulder as a support for his tired head to rest on when he finishes. On the ginger-and-white she-cat's other side stands Featherstar with her whiskers drooping but her tail standing high in the air to construct a weak façade of strength.
"Crookedfoot and Bouncefoot," she adds to the list. Brackenheart bursts into another hacking fit, and the WillowClan's leader continues. "You were all honorable cats, worthy of no less than long lives. Those taken from you, we offer you memory. We offer legacy. In the moons to come, you will not be forgotten."
It's a wonderful speech, built like a faint bubble rising from the streambed. One faulty touch, and its pearlescent surface will break, sending forth a burst of barely contained emotion. But where is this speech for Thrushpaw and Thornwing? Stonetail turns her back on the ceremony the moment cats begin to congregate around the bodies once more to offer their last condolences. Camp is crowded, filled well beyond capacity with cats from all three Clans crowded into too-small dens and under pine trees whose boughs just don't stretch wide enough. There is not enough room to support so many cats, nor is there enough prey on ShadeClan lands to provide for all.
"We need to make sure their camp is safe to return to," Stonetail growls to Coal and Streamheart, who both sit facing her. Coal shifts uncomfortably in the wet pine needles, unsticking a few from his pads, but Streamheart holds still as stone.
"You want to go to BreezeClan without permission?" she asks, head cocked to the side. Her squint is slight, calculated. "Last time I suggested something like that, you nearly had a fit."
"Last time, there was only one fire and we didn't have to support all three Clans," Stonetail replies. She casts a short glance over her shoulder and continues. "And this time someone is killing cats. WillowClan caught fire, BreezeClan got sick, we lost cats, and then another fire happens? I don't know how this is happening, not exactly, but I don't like the pattern. What happens when ShadeClan is next? Where do we all go if the pines burn?"
"Don't say that," Coal says softly, but Stonetail narrows her eyes at him. He knows what she wants out of this. Reclaiming the camp for ShadeClan alone is just a bonus if the rest of the territories can be deemed safe. The real goal, the only real goal, is to tear Torch apart as painfully as possible. Surely the skinny loner can understand that. Hasn't he ever wrestled with revenge? Surely he must have, if only because Clay is too benign to harbor a petty grudge, let alone a death sentence.
But Streamheart reclaims Stonetail's attention. The grey tabby has forgotten to account for her best friend's shrewdness, and in her haste, has no story to explain away her fervor. "You said 'not exactly,'" the silver tabby points out. "That's more than nothing, and you wouldn't be doing this unless it were really more than nothing. Tell me the rest."
There is a decision to be made here. Stonetail hesitates. Verity is a virtue worth a thousand stars in the sky, but is it worth the judgment from her best friend? There is no telling how Streamheart will take to confessions of soiled blood and leaders with cracks in their hearts as wide across as a river. She was raised to scorn mixed blood just as much as Stonetail was, and the grey warrior cannot possibly trust stigma to retract its razor-sharp claws from the friendship she has with Streamheart. There is so much damage that could be done.
She tells the truth, but only part of it.
"It's the cat who killed their parents," she says, dropping her voice as Stormfoot passes behind them on his way to pay his respects to the dead. She nods at Coal, then takes a heartbeat to search for Clay. To her surprise, he is at the edge of the mourners, sitting quietly with Redpaw and an unfamiliar WillowClan apprentice at his side. When Mistpaw lopes up to slump against the ruddy tabby's back, it becomes clear that he is acting as a pillar of support for the younger cats, who are no doubt shaken by the recent events. Where his infinite kindness stems from, Stonetail is not sure, and she turns her back once more. "He's here, and he killed Thrushpaw."
Ears pinned back, she feeds Streamheart a half-truth, a lie of omission. She reveals Coal's revelation, how he recognized the wound on Thrushpaw's belly, along with anything else she can recall regarding the loners' parents. But she leaves out anything to do with Torch, Windfur, or Greystar. Pretending they're worth less than a mouse tail makes it easier to channel her focus into vengeance without losing some of her drive to runoffs of fear and shame and guilt. "That's three cats he's killed, Thrushpaw and their parents," she finishes. "And he's out there."
"This is just you gunning for blood, isn't it?" Streamheart wrinkles her nose. "It isn't about putting the Clans back in their homes again at all."
"If we catch this cat, all the Clans will be safe. It's just one way of doing it. But I need your help. I can't go alone."
"It's selfish," says Streamheart, "and reckless."
"Giving and cautious didn't save Thrushpaw, and I don't see anyone else here who will take a break from mourning and actually do something." The grey warrior stamps her foot against the ground, scattering pine needles. "We can't sit! Not unless we want someone else to die." With this, she looks pointedly at Coal as he opens his mouth, perhaps to reveal the full extent of Torch's goals. It is meant to caution him from exposing a truth that deserves no more attention than it has already had. However, Streamheart seems to read it as a grim prediction, and her gaze flickers over Stonetail's shoulder, presumably to Clay and his tired band of apprentices.
"We should go now," the silver tabby says, "before anyone knows we're missing."
Together, they trickle into the dirtplace. Together, they disappear into the wood.
»»««
The scent of smoke and death is pungent, lifting from the earth and into the air by the dampness of the storm, now past. The trail by which BreezeClan and its guests traveled is marked clearly by the acrid stench, a definite path to follow straight into the belly of the beast. Though it wreaks havoc on her nose, bringing her close to retching, Stonetail resolutely follows it. Any cat who opts to follow her small hunting party will first have to distinguish their scent from the other, stronger smells that fill the air.
And does she not lead a hunting party? Her claws are keen for a taste of blood. Streamheart's are less enthusiastic, but twice as steady, if not more so. If fury goes to Stonetail's head, she can trust the silver tabby to intervene with a cool conscience.
But then there is the question of Coal, who lacks the zeal that propels Stonetail's every step. She can't comprehend it. After so many moons of running, this is his chance to confront the cat who stole a loving life out from under his feet. Where is the desire for revenge? Where is the bloodlust and adrenaline? Maybe time has tempered it, weathered down to a flat little pebble worth nothing but a heavy heart. She will not wait that long, though, for her rage to subside. Killing Torch must happen now, or it will never happen. Greystar is proof enough of that.
The three cats lope along in silence, using tail signals to convey anything of interest to one another, though there is little worth sharing on the trail of ash-drenched death. It's almost as if the fire followed BreezeClan into the heart of ShadeClan, leaving an air of scorched stillness in its wake. The grass may be green and sparkling with raindrops not yet reclaimed by the sun, but everything still feels lifeless.
The silence gets to Coal first. "They listed more cats than bodies," he suddenly says, padding along just behind Streamheart and Stonetail, who stride ahead in tandem.
"Grasswhisker died trying to get Swiftfeather out of the camp," answers Streamheart. Clearly she has paid more attention to the mourners.
Coal huffs a short assent, pauses, and then observes, "BreezeClan had more casualties."
This may be due to the geography of the camp, Stonetail reasons. If she recalls correctly from their herb-bearing visit, WillowClan was situated close to the camp exit, whereas the other dens were spread around a wide ring. The hills on most sides of the camp are steep, too, the grey warrior remembers. Climbing a hill in rising smoke is enough to fell even the heartiest of cats, so most would have taken the lowest path out. Brusquely, she voices this thought, and receives another of Coal's short grunts for the trouble.
They reach the border without further conversation, though Streamheart's sideways looks speak for themselves quite well. "Are you sure about this?" one glance says. Another is brimming with accusation, something along the lines of, "I know you left something out." But the silver tabby lends no voice to these looks, and Stonetail absently worries that she's imagining it out of guilt. She has lied, and to her best friend. And for what? Stubbornly she tries to tell herself that it was for the best. It's protection. Keeping her parentage quiet is safer than trying to control the spread of a secret.
But Coal knows. He knows everything now. Stonetail looks back at him and grimaces. If he tells Clay, there will be no secrets at all, but doesn't he have the sense to keep his brother out of the loop? Yet Clay comes first in Coal's life, that there is no contest over. Maybe he'll tell. Maybe not. It's impossible to be certain. The grey warrior can't make heads or tails out of Coal's guarded demeanor, and with a sigh, she pushes it out of her mind for another time. At this point, the border is more important.
Leaping across the stream that divides the two territories, Stonetail notices first that the grass underfoot is still springy and damp. "The fire didn't get this far," she says.
"Maybe the storm put it out quickly," suggests Streamheart, sniffing at the tamped down path that marks BreezeClan and WillowClan's flight. The trio spends half a moment more at the stream's edge before beginning the walk through the long grasses that are bent with the weight of raindrops. It provides dense cover, but every shaken blade showers the small party with droplets of chilly water that sink deep into their pelts. Even Streamheart, whose fur is thickest, grumbles her discomfort from time to time.
There are worse things to happen, though, and witnessing the fire's devastation certainly qualifies. As they trek down the hillside, the grassy cover begins to thin, morphing into greater quantities of damp ash as they go. The gold and green hills are blanketed in grey and black, and atop the far ridge, smoke trickles upward from the charred remains of a tree, toppled by the flames or perhaps struck by lightning.
BreezeClan's camp lies in ruins at the foot of the burnt tree's hill. At least, what's left of it. A few faint tendrils of smoke rise from the wreckage, but everything is gone. A blackened pile of bones has replaced the freshkill stores. The tightly woven nursery wall is a few strands of bracken at best. StarClan only knows for certain what lies in the old badger set that served as the elders' den. On Streamheart's advice, they avoid it; only the remains of Grasswhisker and Swiftfeather are likely to lie inside.
Coal gives up exploring the camp, instead standing transfixed in its center, staring up at the hill toward the burning tree. "There's a trail," he says softly, and there is. A blackened path crawls up the slope, scored just a little darker than the ravaged camp itself.
Before Stonetail can follow it, though, Streamheart says, "Let's leave it alone. We did what we came to do, and there's no way any cat could live here, let alone a whole Clan. We have to go back and tell them."
"That doesn't make this a very secret trip, then," Stonetail argues, glancing back up at the tree. What if Torch is up there? What if she misses her chance? She can't let that happen, and yet Streamheart will be suspicious.
"Fine," the grey warrior grunts before a reprimand can come. "There's nothing else here to look at unless you want to tell fortunes in rabbit bones." And no one wants to do that, so with a last look at the smoldering tree, Stonetail slinks away from the camp with her tail low.
Nothing. No resolution to this mess. Silently she scolds herself for thinking one night and cold fury would yield results, but the grey warrior cannot deny that she had been expecting answers steeped in blood. All the way back to the border, through the wet grass and falling sun, she says nothing, wallowing in disappointment, stewing in rage. What was the point of this expedition, then? No one had really been expecting the meadow and hills to be ultimately unscathed.
But then Coal lets out a short cry of alarm, freezing into place at the edge of the border stream, just before they cross. Stonetail reflexively unsheathes her claws, but finds nothing to be concerned about. Nothing moves besides the burbling stream.
"What was that about?" she asks, giving him a gentle nudge with her shoulder. He nearly launches himself over the water at the contact.
"I thought…" He shakes his head. "Nothing. Never mind."
Streamheart is less than convinced. "You don't look like it was nothing."
"It was. My bad." The black tom swipes his tongue over his chest, flattening the rising fur, and hops over the stream. Instead of landing solidly, he stumbles forward and pretends not to notice, walking briskly onward without checking to see if Streamheart and Stonetail are following, which they are.
And in doing so, they save his life.
Streamheart sees the shadow first, cast around the stout trunk of a pine. She flicks her tail, catching Stonetail on the ear, and jerks her chin in its direction. Together they stare at it with brows furrowed, but then the shadow shifts, revealing the blurred outline of ears and strong shoulders pressed low to the ground to leap. To pounce. And Coal sees nothing, nothing at all.
Stonetail is racing towards Coal before she knows it. The shadow has become a cat, grey and banded with stripes. Both are in midair, both sailing squarely towards Coal's back, paws outstretched. But Stonetail gets there first, tackling Coal to the ground with a yowl, and the other cat flies overhead, nicking the tip of the grey warrior's ear with sharpened claws, tearing through flesh. Muzzle close to Coal's ear, she bites down a cry so as not to deafen him, and rolls to her feet, bristling to nearly twice her size as the other cat whirls to face her. To the left, Streamheart assumes a similar stance, fangs bared as she advances on the intruder from the other side.
"It's him," Coal croaks. From the corner of her eye, Stonetail can see the loner tremble, try as he might to hide it. His amber eyes flicker about, searching for an escape, and so she provides him with one. Hissing at their attacker, at Torch, she places herself between the murderer and the loner. Behind her, there is a brief moment of silence before the leaf litter stirs and Coal turns tail and runs.
"Should have known finding him wandering while I was working on something else would be too good to be true," Torch drawls. "Couldn't you have been somewhere else? I would have cleaned up after myself."
"Murderer," Stonetail replies coldly.
"Loose ends are loose ends. I hate loose ends." Torch shrugs, though he casts a wary glance in Streamheart's direction before peering closely at Stonetail. He cocks his head to the side at first, but as he pieces together her identity, the makings of a snarl contort his face. His muzzle in particular is gruesome to look at, mangled as it is by cracked pink flesh, twisted upward from a long-past burn. Another burn scar graces his neck, jagged and wide, cutting a raw river through his fur.
"Greystar's kit," he hisses, muzzle twisting as he purrs. Like he knows something. "The foxheart's daughter. I wanted to wipe your line from the earth, you know, except I only finished part of the job. Your father was a slob, you know. He didn't just have you. He must have had others, because that little tabby looked just like him. Was she his granddaughter? Or was she yours? You don't look like a queen, but neither did your mother."
Thrushpaw might as well have been hers, Stonetail thinks. Except she doesn't really think, not hard enough, because she throws good sense to the wind and launches herself at Torch, raking her claws down his side. He's fast, though, and wiry. There's no doubt there is muscle packed under his short fur, but Stonetail sees a trace of her own long limbs and tail, along with a hint of white fur sprouting from burnt toes, so much like her own feet. But that's all she sees as Torch twists out of reach, maneuvering himself between Streamheart and Stonetail once again, unscathed.
"Whoever moves first, I attack the other," he announces, scoring deep lines in the dirt with his claws. "Don't be a mousebrain."
But Stonetail nods at Streamheart. Do it, she thinks. He already said he wants to kill me. I'm ready for him. Yet if there's one trait Streamheart embodies, it is good sense. She does not sheathe her claws, but gives no ground. "Leave ShadeClan on your own paws," she growls, "or we'll show you out. By dumping your body in the river."
"Empty threats. If you don't mean it, don't say it," Torch replies breezily. His tail lashes behind him, a whipping grey banner to betray his rising frustration. The scent of irritation rolls off him in waves; he's been caught, and he isn't pleased. But the glint in his eyes belies something totally different, something that makes Stonetail's blood roil. She hates it thoroughly.
"You think we can't haul your rotten carcass down to the water?" she snaps. "I'm happy to prove you wrong." She edges toward him, one poised step preceded by claws, but he makes the same move toward Streamheart, bringing them both to a stalemate. Stonetail may be prepared to risk her own life, but not her friend's. She curls her lip.
"I believe you, but you should believe me, too."
"Give me one good reason," Stonetail fires back. And when Torch takes a few backwards steps to kick a thrush out from beneath a scattering of pine needles, her eyes almost bulge out of her head. The bird is long dead, on the edge of rot, and one wing is torn so that it hangs by the merest ligament. Visions of the BreezeClan ravens flash before her eyes, black and deliberately broken. She has no doubts that Torch was there now, that the trail was his, that he planned to draw the fox out.
She has no doubts that he's done it again.
"Where does the trail go?" she demands.
"Where it needs to."
"Tell me!"
But Torch shakes his head and purrs; the simple action contorts his twisted features further. "I'm sure you know where it goes and what happens if you don't break it. Be sure to tell mother fox that I send my regards, will you?"
They could jump him now. It's two against one, and Stonetail's blood is singing. There is no better chance left in this encounter. If they wait any longer, Torch will get away. He'll vanish into the twilight as slim as the shadow as when he arrived, and they'll lose him, possibly for good.
But Streamheart says slowly, "Let him go," glancing sideways to her fellow warrior. "There's a trail. We can deal with him later."
"Oh, I'm sure you will." And before either she-cat can stop him, Torch launches himself away from them, streaking into the pines with astonishing speed. Stonetail hates watching his long stride disappear into the dark, yowls a wordless threat to his retreating form, and spares the dead thrush a nauseated look.
Before Streamheart can say another word, the grey tabby charges into the wood, kicking up dirt and needles as she goes in search of the track meant for foxes. They will not reach her camp, not tonight. Foxes will not root their greedy muzzles through her nest, nor tear down her thorny bracken walls, not this evening. It will be long after she is dead before that is allowed to happen, she decides. And even longer after Torch is dead.
Until the moon hangs at its zenith, Stonetail and Streamheart are out in the wood, carrying crowfood in their jaws to the corners of the territory, their fangs soaked in blood that is not Torch's. Neither is happier for it, but when they hear the baying of foxes in the distance, the howls stay in the distance. ShadeClan is safe.
For now.