Path Of A Warrior

Thrushpelt shook his head, but Patchpelt nodded. “I went onto WindClan territory a few moons ago with Featherwhisker when he needed to talk to Barkface about medicine-cat business, and the patrol escorted us into their camp.” Patchpelt wrinkled his nose a little. “It was weird. Except for the kits and the elders, they sleep right out in the open. They don’t have proper dens like we do.”

“Wow,” Redtail breathed. How much damage can we even do, if WindClan doesn’t have nests to destroy? The thought eased some of the anxious feeling of wrongness inside him.

On the other side of Fourtrees, Bluefur paused at the bottom of a slope covered with bushes. “At the top of this is WindClan’s territory,” she told them, looking mostly at Redtail. “When we reach the top, I’ll lead you all to the camp—it’s hard to see if you don’t already know where it is. If we’re quick enough, any WindClan warriors out patrolling won’t be able to make it back before we’re gone.”

The slope grew steeper and rockier as they climbed, until Redtail was leaping from boulder to boulder, clinging to the rocks, his claws out for any traction they could give him.

“You all right?” Patchpelt asked, sounding slightly breathless beside him. “This is a tough climb for smaller cats like us.” It was kind of him to lump himself and Redtail together, Redtail thought—he wasn’t even as big as the small black-and-white tom yet. “But this is the only way to get to WindClan territory without crossing the river, which is even harder.”

“I’m okay,” Redtail told him, trying not to wheeze. “But I’m surprised WindClan bothered to come down here to hunt.”

Patchpelt slipped on a mossy stone, then caught himself. “They need prey,” he mewed. “And it’s easier for them. Long-legged rabbit-chasers, they’re practically rabbits themselves.” He and Redtail shared a mrrow of laughter.

At the top of the slope, Redtail stared wide-eyed across an open grassy plain broken by occasional groups of thin trees and scraggly gorse bushes. Outcroppings of bare rock dotted the grasslands, and the wind swept across the plain, bending the grasses and trees. It seemed chilly and bleak to Redtail, and he shivered.

The edge of the plateau smelled strongly of WindClan’s earthy scent. The cats exchanged glances, and Bluefur led the way across the border markings.

“The camp’s over there,” Patchpelt told Redtail, pointing with his tail. “In that dip in the moorland.” Redtail peered toward the hollow but saw nothing but a tangle of gorse. Bluefur began to run across the open, scrubby land, and the other cats followed her. Redtail took deep breaths of the cool air, his paws pounding across the grasslands. It felt strange to have no trees above to shelter him, only the wide blue sky, but he tried to ignore that, instead focusing on the stretch of his muscles as he ran.

The patrol charged through the gorse, thorns scratching at their pelts. Redtail hissed as one caught painfully in his fur, but he didn’t slow his pace. Bursting through the last of the bushes, they found themselves in the WindClan camp, a clearing protected by the gorse bushes all around but open to the sky. There was a tall boulder in the center of the camp, and the cats lying below it in the sunshine looked up, startled.

A light brown she-cat—Doespring, Redtail thought—leaped to her feet, hissing in outrage. “What are you doing here?” she yowled. “Get out or we’ll rip you to shreds!” The lithe gray-and-white tom beside her, who Redtail remembered was called Aspenfall, growled at them, showing his teeth.

Despite Doespring’s threat, Redtail could see that ThunderClan had been right: There were few cats in the camp, and, except for Doespring and Aspenfall, who must have been left to guard the camp, almost none of them were warriors. Two thin old cats peered out from a den carved out of the gorse wall. That must be the elders’ den. One yowled loudly in alarm.

A hissing gray tabby she-cat blocked the entrance to another, her fur spiked and her claws out. “Stay back,” she snarled.

“We’re not going to hurt your kits, Ryestalk,” Thrushpelt said reassuringly, inching closer to her.

Her tail bushed out even further. “Get away from the nursery!”

Before Thrushpelt could say anything else, Tigerclaw slashed his claws across Ryestalk’s shoulder, making her wail with pain and surprise. “Take your kits and get out of the nursery,” he hissed. “Or it’ll be your fault when they get hurt.”

Eyes wide with fear, Ryestalk hustled her two kits out of the nursery and as far from the invading cats as possible. The kits peered up at the ThunderClan cats, confused.

“Who’s that, Ryestalk?” one of them, a small brown tom, squeaked, his nose wrinkled. “They smell funny.”