Crowfeather's Trial

I hope we don’t get caught and find ourselves surrounded by stoats. It would be easy enough to get the creatures’ attention, and easier still to get trapped in the tunnels, outnumbered in the dark. I know how that feels, and I don’t want to feel it again — but that’s in the paws of StarClan.

Breezepelt and Heathertail had leaned closer together, speaking softly to each other, when Onestar padded up. Crowfeather suppressed a mrrow of amusement when he saw the two young cats guiltily jump apart.

“It’s time,” Onestar declared; if he had noticed anything, he made no comment. “Are you ready?”

Crowfeather nodded; Breezepelt stood up a little straighter.

“Then may StarClan light your path,” the Clan leader meowed. “Go!”

Crowfeather let Breezepelt take the lead as the two toms raced into the tunnels. Light from the entrance quickly died away behind them, though the passage was dimly lit through chinks in the roof.

At first the only sign of the stoats was the smell. Crowfeather’s nose wrinkled at their scent and the reek of their rotting prey. Then a stronger, fresher scent flooded over him, and he realized that the passage opened up at one side into a den. He could make out several white bodies crowded together.

Without hesitation Breezepelt darted in among them and slashed his claws across the nearest stoat’s face before darting out again and running on. “Take that, mange-pelt!” he yowled. The injured stoat let out a screech of pain, and a furious chittering rose from its denmates.

As Crowfeather ran past the den, hard on Breezepelt’s paws, he heard the stoats scrambling after him, their tiny claws scratching on the floor of the passage, their scent like a foggy cloud around him. Alarmed by how close they were, he bunched and stretched his muscles in an effort to run even faster.

We must have had bees in our brains to volunteer for this!

As he and Breezepelt raced onward, attacking stoats in every den they passed, Crowfeather realized that more and more of the stoats were following them. A hasty glance over his shoulder showed them pouring down the passage like a vast white wave ready to engulf them.

How much farther? he asked himself desperately. We must be close to the way out by now!

Reaching what Crowfeather thought must be the last den, Breezepelt once more leaped into the attack. But this time the stoats in the den seemed more alert, maybe warned by the sound and scent of their approaching denmates. The leading stoat sprang forward beneath Breezepelt’s outstretched paws and fastened its fangs into his throat.

Breezepelt let out a yowl of shock and fear. A heartbeat later the white creatures were swarming around him; he almost looked as if he were sinking into a snowdrift, except this wasn’t snow: It was a heap of squirming bodies, with claws and teeth bared to tear and bite.

Crowfeather didn’t take time to think. He waded into the swarm of stoats, lashing out with his claws to thrust the creatures aside on his way to his son. When he reached Breezepelt, he swiped with all his strength at the stoat that still clung to him, breaking its grip and knocking it back against the den wall.

“Run—now!” he screeched to Breezepelt.

Breezepelt turned and fled down the passage; Crowfeather barreled after him, hearing the whole crowd of stoats on his hind paws. Moments later the dim light of the tunnel grew brighter, and Crowfeather spotted the ragged circle of the tunnel entrance a few fox-lengths ahead.

Breezepelt broke out into the open, his voice raised in a triumphant yowl, and Crowfeather followed him. The stoats poured out behind them, an unstoppable wave.

Ahead of them, cats rose up from the seemingly empty hillside. WindClan and ThunderClan together charged down the slope into the attack. Their eyes gleamed in the last of the daylight, and their voices were raised as one in a challenging caterwaul.

Crowfeather kept on running until he and Breezepelt were well away from the tunnel, then gave his son a hard shove with one shoulder into the shelter of a jutting rock.

“Catch your breath,” he panted.

Breezepelt nodded, his breath coming in harsh gasps as if he couldn’t manage to speak. “Thanks, Crowfeather,” he rasped eventually. “I can’t believe how strong you were, attacking that last stoat!”

Crowfeather let out a snort. “Nor can I. I have no idea where that came from. Maybe it was just seeing my kit attacked!”

Breezepelt’s tail curled up with amusement, but there was unexpected warmth in his gaze. “If you hadn’t been there,” he mewed, “I’m not sure what would have happened. But I doubt I’d be here to tell the story.”

“Are you okay?” Crowfeather asked. Breezepelt’s throat was bleeding, but not too badly; it looked as if the stoat’s fangs hadn’t sunk in very deep.