Crowfeather's Trial

Hootpaw ducked his head in embarrassment. “I had a great mentor,” he reminded Crowfeather. “Nightcloud was smart and strong, and she taught me a lot about strategy.”

Crowfeather hadn’t expected to hear such praise of his former mate, though of course Hootpaw, as her apprentice, would have been closer to her than almost any other cat, except for Breezepelt. Crowfeather had always known that Nightcloud was a capable warrior, but he wondered whether he had ever given her the due she deserved. There was probably a lot about her that I never knew. He stifled a sigh. And now I never will.

“You’re doing well too, Featherpaw,” Crowfeather continued to his own apprentice. “Just remember that—”

He broke off at the sound of distressed yowling from the edge of the camp, and recognized Heathertail’s voice. Turning swiftly, he saw Heathertail and Weaselfur at the top of the slope, carrying the limp, black-furred body of a cat between them.

Breezepelt! No!

Why wasn’t Breezepelt moving? Crowfeather’s belly lurched in terror.

Why would he be hurt? Onestar made clear they weren’t supposed to engage the stoats… But seeing Breezepelt’s limp form, Crowfeather knew that there would be plenty of time for explanations later. Great StarClan, he begged, please tell me he isn’t dead… I don’t think I could bear it. His mind flashed back to seeing Hollyleaf’s bloodstained body in his dream. Is that why I had the dream? Was something trying to prepare me for this?

Crowfeather raced up the slope toward the returning warriors, spotting as he did that Weaselfur’s white paws were stained red with blood.

Shock pulsed through Crowfeather’s body from his ears to his claws. Where did that come from? Did Weaselfur kill my son?

Crowfeather stormed to a halt in front of the group of cats, his pelt bristling all along his spine. Breezepelt hung motionless between them, supported on their shoulders, a wound gaping open all along his side.

“What happened?” Crowfeather demanded. Turning on Weaselfur, he added, “Did you do this to him?”

For the first time Crowfeather noticed that Weaselfur was carrying something limp and bloody in his jaws. As he dropped it, Crowfeather could see that it was the body of a stoat, its white fur completely covered in drying blood.

“Of course I didn’t!” Weaselfur snapped, his eyes narrowed in fury. “I don’t think I could cause this much damage if I tried.”

“Please, Crowfeather,” Heathertail meowed, “leave Weaselfur alone and help us get Breezepelt to Kestrelflight’s den.”

He’s not dead!

Relief flooded so strongly through Crowfeather that he had nothing more to say. He rushed to support Breezepelt’s hindquarters, and he and the others struggled across the camp to the medicine-cat den.

“We were doing as Onestar said and watching the tunnels from outside,” Weaselfur explained on the way, “but when we saw so many of them leave to go hunting, we thought it would be a good chance to explore. We found the stoats’ dens and their prey-piles, and the entrances and exits they’re using. Everything was quiet in there, and we were on our way out before we scented stoats. We worked out they were in a den off the main tunnel.”

“We wanted to sneak past, avoiding danger like Onestar told us to,” Heathertail continued. “But Breezepelt…” Her voice choked.

“Breezepelt dived in there and attacked them,” Weaselfur meowed, taking up the story again. “He killed one easily.” He jerked his head back to the edge of the camp, where he had left the body of the stoat. “But the other was fiercer, and fought back. It slashed Breezepelt’s side. He would have gone on fighting, but Heathertail and I forced him to retreat. He was losing blood, and finally he lost consciousness. So we carried him out and headed back to camp.”

Crowfeather glanced at Heathertail, who nodded in confirmation of what Weaselfur had told him. “We both tried to stop Breezepelt,” she mewed. “But he was too intent on killing the stoats.”

As she spoke, Crowfeather could see the worry in her eyes. Shivers were passing through her pelt, and she kept turning her head to lick Breezepelt’s wounded side. She must really care about him.