Tigerclaw’s Fury

Tigerclaw nodded. “Of course, if that’s what you wish. Have a safe journey back to your camp. We will be here tomorrow.” He turned before the cats could speak again and pushed deeper into the ferns. Mercy is a sign of great power. By the time the sun rose again, ShadowClan would be in his debt.

Blackfoot and Tangleburr were delighted to hear that ShadowClan would let them hunt on its behalf, but Clawface was less trusting.

“What if it’s a trap?” he muttered. “They may be sick, but they still outnumber us. Once we’re inside the camp, anything could happen.”

“They’re taking the fresh-kill from us on the border,” Tigerclaw mewed. “I’m not putting any of us in danger for the sake of filling their bellies.”

The ancient oak trees offered good hunting, though the ground was damper than Tigerclaw was used to. Snag managed to knock a squirrel clean out of a tree with a single blow from his paw, and Tangleburr returned with a brace of frogs dangling from her mouth.

“ShadowClan cats like them,” she mewed defensively when Tigerclaw curled his lip.

By the time they returned to the clump of ferns at the border, Tigerclaw was satisfied with their offering. Enough to make a significant contribution to a Clan’s fresh-kill pile, but not so much that it looked like hunting for ShadowClan was the only concern these cats had in their lives. Even after two long hunts the day before, Tigerclaw had insisted on battle practice as the sun sank behind the trees. Tangleburr’s strong neck muscles gave her a ferocious bite, and Tigerclaw had been encouraging her to sharpen her teeth on the stump of an old apple tree, which had the strongest wood. Snag was becoming less cautious about using his weight to his advantage, and it had taken Stumpytail several moments to catch his breath after a particularly heavy blow.

“You came.”

Tigerclaw ignored the faint note of surprise in Flintfang’s voice. “I always keep my promises,” he meowed.

Boulder lowered his head and sniffed the heap of prey. “This will fill our fresh-kill pile better than it has been for days,” he commented.

Dawncloud blinked warmly at her former Clanmates. “Thank you. I’ll make sure Nightstar knows what you have done. There will be no grudges against you after this.”

“Good,” Tigerclaw mewed. “And to make sure that Nightstar knows precisely who has helped him, we’ll help you take this to the camp.”

Boulder tensed. “You said you’d stay out of ShadowClan territory for now. We can’t guarantee how our Clanmates will react.”

Tigerclaw stepped confidently across the scent line. “As Dawncloud said, your Clanmates will only be grateful for our help.” He looked over his shoulder at the cats waiting by the ferns. “Come on, all of you.” The former ShadowClan cats padded warily to join him. Snag brought up the rear, his nostrils flaring as the scent of the Clan washed over him.

Tigerclaw picked up the squirrel—the largest piece of prey—and gestured with his tail to prompt the others to help. Flintfang narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Dawncloud led the way back through the pines, reaching out with her tail to brush against Stumpytail. Tigerclaw knew they had been close friends as apprentices, and he decided to watch the brown tom closely to make sure his loyalties didn’t return too wholeheartedly to his former Clan.

As they approached the thicket of brambles where ShadowClan made its camp, a wave of stench filled Tigerclaw’s mouth and nose. Behind his mouthful of squirrel, he tried not to retch, and he could tell by the looks of alarm on his companions’ faces that they were equally repulsed.

Boulder put down the sparrow he was carrying and halted just outside the entrance to the camp. “No cat has escaped the sickness,” he meowed quietly. “If you don’t want to risk getting infected, you should turn back now.”

Tigerclaw lifted his head. “We are not afraid to deliver help,” he insisted around his mouthful of squirrel fur. Beside him, Blackfoot nodded, although Snag looked increasingly reluctant to keep going.

They followed Boulder through the gap in the brambles, into the clearing at the center of the camp. Tigerclaw spotted the remains of a fresh-kill pile in a corner—now a pitiful scraping of bones and feathers—and strode over to it. He deposited the squirrel and turned to look around. Dozens of eyes gleamed from the shadows under the thorns, and the air was filled with shocked whispers.

Rowanberry emerged from a den. “Dawncloud told us you were going to hunt for us. We didn’t expect you to deliver it yourselves.”

Tangleburr dropped her frogs on the pile and trotted over to her old Clanmate. “We had to know how you are,” she mewed. “Please don’t send us away.”

There was a faint rustle of branches behind Tigerclaw, and he spun around to see Runningnose, the sickly ShadowClan medicine cat, stumble out beside a black tom who was so thin, his fur looked as if it was sliding from his bones.

“You did a brave thing, coming here,” Nightstar rasped.