MISTPELT
There had always been four Clans, but it had been over three moons since HillClan had last attended a Gathering. Some said they were gone, diminished, died out and never to return. Maybe they had left their bones in old warrens somewhere, or journeyed back over the mountains, to the hunting grounds of their ancestors.
Or perhaps they're just hiding beneath all this snow, Mistpelt thought with a flick of her ears. The wind whistled over the rocky hillock, crags encrusted with frost, which had once been HillClan's camp. Their scents were all but gone, a distant memory from battles in the border hills, but generations upon generations were not so easy to erase.
Her breath clouded around her whiskers as she poked her head through alcoves and niches in the camp's stony wall, finding nothing but telltale mementos. She found trunks scratched bare from excited claws, and old plucked stems and bitter tasting leaves in the shade of a warped, stunted oak—signs of a medicine cat's tedious chores.
But no signs of life. She remembered being here once before, Mistpaw then, the warm night air fragrant with rosemary. Chasing HillClan cats from their nest, the taste of blood in her mouth.
They would have made another camp after that night, somewhere else in their territory, but where that could be was any cat's guess. She'd never appreciated how the moors seemed to stretch on and on, to the distant shadow of mountains or the black waters of the sun-drown-place.
"HillClan lived here?" Hazelpaw asked, blinking frost blue eyes, with quick, high steps to keep her paws off the biting cold snow. "Where did they sleep?"
"Beneath the stars, is what I always heard," Mistpelt answered her apprentice. She was ever full of questions, as she had been at her age.
That didn't satisfy Hazelpaw. "What about when it rains?"
A good question. She looked down the length of the wall, stony overhangs dripping with icicles, scoops in the earth where a cat might make themselves comfortable… But not too comfortable. If sleeping under the open sky made her closer to StarClan, then she decided she was okay with just a little bit of distance.
Kestrelstrike walked the top of the rocky crag, fur buffeting in the wind as he surveyed the uplands. "You can see for forever and a day from up here!" he shouted. "And all this territory is ours now?"
"You can see a whole bunch of nothing," Asterstripe yawned from the edge of the clearing, not even bothering to make himself look busy. "And own a whole bunch of nothing. We'd need twice our numbers to patrol this wasteland."
This wasteland had once been one of the four territories, with enough prey to support an entire Clan. Occasionally, she saw birds circling high ahead, and once she thought she saw a snow white coat moving over a distant ridge, what her imagination promised might be a hare.
Some part of her knew the senior warrior was right. The prey was too quick, the moors too broad, with no cover to hide behind. How was any cat supposed to survive in this place, unless they could pounce a tree-length in a single leap?
Kestrelstrike's apprentice Sootpaw was down below, a dark gray dappled she-cat sitting with her littermates, Smokepaw and Mistlepaw. "There used to be dens along the camp wall, old warrens where the elders slept," Smokepaw said quietly. "Duskstar lived in what looked like a little hole in the grass, in the middle of camp. But they're all filled in now."
It was not their first visit to HillClan camp either. She remembered that night well, the evening of the raid, finding the LeafClan queens. Dovefeather, head high, defiant. Her litter had spent their early kitten days here in the HillClan nursery, born only days after their father's death in the poppies. Now, living in the LeafClan apprentice's den, they had lost their mother as well.
Leaf-bare had struck them as lethal and sudden as lightning. A cold snap shook the surviving leaves from the trees, battering them with ice and sleet storms, howling winds that felled trees and nearly buried them in their dens with snow.
Deadnose had passed silently in her nest one night; Threefoot had tried shaking her awake the next morning, only to find her frozen stiff. Old Threefoot was soon gone too, delirious with fever, asking for long dead clanmates and calling himself by his former, four-footed warrior name.
The prey had fled into their holes by then, dormant for the season. A bout of whitecough had Murkpool so concerned for Close-eye that they'd practically prepared for her burial, but she had lingered on, although her voice remained a hoarse whisper forever after. It was the diseased rats from Twolegplace, when their hunting patrols could not find enough prey in the forest, that had taken their two queens.
Dovefeather lived just long enough to see her kits gain mentors and leave the nursery. But for Mousespots—not her true mother, but in every way her true mother—Mistpelt had sat vigil the entire frost-bitten night, and when sunup came she thought the fallen tears might freeze to her cheeks.
Of Dovefeather's litter, Kestrelstrike had received Sootpaw, to Swiftstorm went Smokepaw, and Bluenose was given dusky gray Mistlepaw. Young Mistlepaw was doing her best to stand on any patch of ground not wet with snow, wrinkling her nose as if she was trudging around in badger-muck, while Sootpaw was practically rolling in the stuff, thick white clumps in her tabby fur.
Another kit had graduated from the nursery just after them, although she hardly spent two moons there. A kit without a mother, like herself. They found Hazelkit abandoned on the MireClan border, lost and stumbling around, crying for a MireClan queen named Lichenface.
But even with that MireClan stench clinging to her fur, her resemblance to Thrushear was undeniable. A kit of pure LeafClan blood. The tom's legs had folded underneath him the moment the border patrol had brought her back through the bramble tunnel.
And though he wasn't a substitute for a queen, to his credit, Thrushear did more than most LeafClan toms, for an orphaned kit he hadn't realized he'd fathered.
Bluenose's mate occupied their old nest now, with Ryebreeze's young Frostkit finally old enough to scamper through camp and fly through snow banks. Cloverfern, her own sister, made a nest beside her before the first snows hit, and now she had six little bundles of her own.
It was still hard to wrap her head around, when she'd met little Puddlekit, Railkit, Mothkit, Hickorykit, Hollykit, and extra little Wrenkit. Her sister, a mother. Herself and her brother, mentors.
"I never thought of our sister as much of a queen," Kestrelstrike had joked to her then. "You were always the naive, demure one. No one has your eye?"
"No," Mistpelt said with a twitch of her whiskers. "But I know you can't keep yours off Tansyslip lately. When she's not looking, anyway." He'd stopped trying to tease her after that.
Really, it all sounded so overrated. Romance.
It was normal for a LeafClan queen to not name the father of their litter, and Cloverfern certainly hadn't, but she had her guesses about the tom responsible. Let her keep Quailtail to herself, all muscle and no brains. Sorreltail… Too serious. And the entire Clan knew Thrushear was spending half his nights in the Hollow Ash instead of the warrior's den, sharing his nest with who else? He'd been subtle enough about it at first, but all subtlety had fled when the nights grew colder.
Mistpelt shivered where she stood now, skirting the edge of the crags, watching the shadows lengthen across the clearing. "Nothing but old prey-bones and claw marks here," she sighed through chattering teeth. "We're not going to find anything more."
"More than agreed," Asterstripe said flatly, beckoning Kestrelstrike down with a flick of his tail. "Let's try to bring back some fresh-kill so this wasn't a complete waste of daylight."
The warriors moved to gather at the patrol leader's side, Asterstripe moving impatiently to the lip of the hill to begin the winding hike back down. But Smokepaw continued to stare stiffly in the direction of the nursery, her hackles raised, tail twitching in agitation.
"Are you okay?" Mistpelt asked gently, gaze switching from the apprentice to the old den. Perhaps there were unpleasant ghosts here, for these three who'd made their first memories in this camp. The nursery was a nook in the stone, the entrance concealed with snow-laden overgrowth, undisturbed for some time. "Come, we'll be heading back to camp soon."
"There's someone in there," Smokepaw mewed tremblingly, not averting her stare for a second.
"Nonsense," Mistpelt said. "One of us would have noticed something. Look…"
Despite the annoyance clear on Asterstripe's face, she took her time to lead the apprentice to the mouth of the abandoned nursery, sticking her head through the foliage to peer into the darkness. And of course, instantly, thorn-sharp claws swiped across her face.
She clenched her eyes shut as a sudden weight hurtled out from the brush, flinging her on her back as she screeched in pain, and the other LeafClan cats yowled in alarm. Mistpelt rolled through the snow, blind with agony, as her attacker rolled with her.
Blow after blow rained on her head, and she opened her eyes again just in time to feel the weight lift off her as Kestrelstrike and Hazelpaw drove the cat to the ground. The shape was a pale gray blur to her, the tom's ribs clearly protruding from beneath his matted coat, green eyes wild.
But he moved with snake-like fluidity, dodging a wide swipe from Hazelpaw as he danced behind Kestrelstrike, tripping him up over his own paws. Bluenose pounced at him now, but the gray tom pressed himself flat to the snow, letting the young warrior roll harmlessly over him.
And now, eye to eye, he leapt at her again, claws outstretched. This time she was ready for him, digging her hind legs into the snow as she rose up to grapple him. They pulled together in a wild collision, stars popping in her vision, the cold numbing her legs as they tumbled together across the ground.
Again, a blanket of gray clouds spinning above her, again, as weak and starving as the tom was, he managed to get over the top of her. He snarled in her whiskers, hot breath steaming in the icy air, but Asterstripe lunged in before the next vicious slash could connect. His teeth grabbed the skinny cat's scruff and dragged him to earth, now surrounded by Swiftstorm, Bluenose, Kestrelstrike, and Mistpelt as she staggered to her paws.
Smokepaw squeaked, "I told you!"
"A rogue!" Hazelpaw hissed. Mistlepaw's fur was bushed up to twice her size behind them, while Sootpaw tried to fight her way to the front for a better look. "That's a rogue, isn't it?"
The cat struggled in Asterstripe's sure grip, clawing the air, but panting and gasping with exhaustion. As hungry as they all were, even without a medicine cat's training, Mistpelt could tell this cat was days from death. And with the last of his strength depleted, the tom sank into the snow as Asterstripe released him, defeated and at their mercy.
Mistpelt's hackles rose as she glared down at him, feeling the blood trickle down the bridge of her nose where she'd been cut. This is no rogue.
"Who are you?" Asterstripe demanded. "What are you doing here?"
"My name is Leekroot," the HillClan warrior rasped between labored breaths. "I was trying to die in peace, before you came along and spoiled it. Well, just get it over with already."
They had hardly enough fresh-kill for their kits and elders, every cat lean and hollow-eyed as they led the HillClan cat step after stumbling step through the bramble tunnel. But the old medicine cat insisted, pleading the warrior code when Asterstripe tried to argue, with Murkpool giving up his own half-eaten pigeon.
Leekroot scarfed it down in two bites, and almost choked himself on the wing, spitting out a bloodied splinter of bone that had lodged in the roof of his mouth. But the measly scrap of fresh-kill seemed to revive him as he glanced around with quick, furtive glances, encircled by LeafClan cats.
"Fattening me up before you pick my bones, squirrel-chasers?" he finally said with a twitch of his tail.
"Or we could've left you to starve," Mistpelt hissed back. The poultice stung her face, and Cloverfern had cackled with laughter after seeing her with it on. "You're welcome, for saving your ungrateful hide."
"Why has Duskstar not attended the Gatherings?" Boulderstep demanded in iron tones, the deputy standing head and shoulders over the other warriors. "Where is the rest of your Clan?"
"Dust in the wind," Leekroot uttered, his tone converting to grief. "Some, to Twolegplace to become loners. Some, into the mountains, but I'd rather try my chances in a badger's den. It's nothing but death in the heights; the wind will blow you straight off the cliffs, there's no prey, there's no growth. Lions still live there, and eagles big and bold enough to snatch up grown warriors. Robinstar leads the others now."
"And you're not with them?"
His gaze was far off. "There was not enough prey for us all, even before leaf-bare," the HillClan cat muttered. "When the snows came, our elders wandered off into the night, so they wouldn't burden the hunters. Then the senior warriors. Duskstar was trying to find new hunting grounds, away from the other Clans, but his prophecies didn't help him in the end. He died in the foothills, old and broken-hearted. When the fresh-kill pile went bare, it was my time to leave too. I thought I might as well die in the same place I was born."
Mistpelt felt a shiver run through her. She had no love for HillClan, but the thought of an entire Clan diminished to nothing… It twisted her bowels into knots, glancing at their own meager fresh-kill pile, one black crow and two mice as emaciated as their clanmates.
"But it seems you won't die today," she growled down at him.
"Do I have your word on that?" Leekroot laughed bitterly back at her, his expression caught somewhere between a defiant grin and a snarl. "You LeafClan are quite deadly."