“You’re a medicine cat,” she told herself. “And Crowfeather’s a warrior from another Clan. So stop thinking about him. Stop dreaming.”
Head down, she padded away from the stream without looking back at the WindClan border, and went to search for Squirrelflight’s coltsfoot.
Squirrelflight used her claws to tear moss from the roots of an oak tree and began patting it into a ball to take back to camp. A quarter moon had passed since the battle with Mudclaw and his followers, and the Clan was beginning to recover. Wounds were healing and the memory of Mudclaw’s rebellion was fading.
Brambleclaw had started his training sessions, and Sandstorm had insisted that every warrior take a turn with the apprentice duties. Squirrelflight would rather be hunting or exploring than fetching fresh bedding for the elders, but the job wasn’t too boring when you had a friend to share it with.
Casting a mischievous glance at Ashfur, who was gathering moss from another tree nearby, she hooked up her ball with the claws of one paw and hurled it at him. It landed accurately in the middle of his back and disintegrated, covering his pelt with scraps of moss.
Ashfur spun around to face her. “Hey!”
His eyes gleaming with laughter, the grey warrior scooped up his own moss and flung it at Squirrelflight. She dodged behind the tree to avoid it, and crashed straight into Brambleclaw.
“What’s going on?” the tabby tomcat demanded. “What are you doing?”
“Collecting moss for the elders’ bedding,” Squirrelflight replied. Regret for their lost friendship pierced her like a thorn, along with fury that he had to appear at the exact moment she’d stopped working.
Ashfur hurtled around the tree with more moss in his jaws and skidded to a halt when he saw Brambleclaw.
“Collecting bedding? So I see.” Brambleclaw used his tail to flick a scrap of moss from Ashfur’s shoulder. “Carrying it back on your pelt, are you?”
Ashfur put the moss down. “We were only having a bit of fun.”
“Fun?” Brambleclaw snapped. “Wasting time is what I’d call it. Don’t you realise how much there is to do?”
“OK, OK.” Squirrelflight felt her neck fur bristle. “There’s no need to treat us like lazy apprentices.”
“Stop behaving like lazy apprentices, then,” Brambleclaw flashed back at her, a glint of anger in his amber eyes. “Being a warrior means putting the Clan first.”
Squirrelflight’s fury rose like a wave. “Do you think we don’t know that?” she spat. “Who died and made you deputy?”
As soon as the words were out she knew she had said something unbelievably stupid. She wanted to snatch it back, but it was too late.
Brambleclaw’s eyes blazed, but when he spoke his voice was icy calm. “No cat knows whether Greystripe is dead or alive. Do you have any idea what Firestar must be suffering?”
“Of course I do!” Deep inside, Squirrelflight wanted to say she was sorry, but she couldn’t back down when Brambleclaw was being so unfair. “Firestar is my father, for StarClan’s sake! Don’t talk to me like I don’t care.”
“Steady.” Ashfur stepped forward and pressed his muzzle against Squirrelflight’s shoulder.
Squirrelflight struggled to control her anger. “I’d give anything to have Greystripe back.”
“Yes, we know,” Ashfur reassured her. His breath felt warm against her pelt. “Look, Brambleclaw,” he went on, straightening up, “we’ll get the moss, OK? You don’t need to hassle Squirrelflight.”
Brambleclaw twitched his ears. “OK, but be as quick as you can. And when you’ve done that, make sure the elders have had some fresh-kill.” Without waiting for a reply he turned and stalked off towards the camp.
“Feed the elders yourself!” Squirrelflight yowled after him. There was no need for Brambleclaw to behave like this—not unless he was punishing her for being suspicious about Hawkfrost.
If Brambleclaw heard her, he didn’t show it. He just carried on walking until soft green ferns hid him from sight.
“Take it easy,” Ashfur meowed. “He’s just trying to make sure everything gets done. We’re all under pressure, with only one apprentice.”
“He should do more himself then, instead of striding around giving orders,” Squirrelflight grumbled. “If he thinks I’m collecting moss for him, he can think again! I’m going hunting.”
She spun around and raced into the trees. Behind her she heard Ashfur call her name, but she was too furious to slow down. Part of her wanted to launch herself at Brambleclaw and wipe that look of scorn from his face, while part of her was torn apart with guilt for implying that Greystripe was dead. Every time she and Brambleclaw spoke to each other they seemed to plunge deeper into a pit of anger and mistrust. Squirrelflight wondered if anything could put things right between them.
With these troubled thoughts churning in her head she hardly noticed where her flying paws were taking her. Too late she saw a bramble thicket looming up in front of her; she tried to skid to a halt and stumbled headlong into the prickly tendrils.
“Mouse dung!” she spat.
Thorns tugged at the fur on her back as she struggled to wrench herself free; she couldn’t bear the indignity of Brambleclaw or Ashfur coming up to find her stuck. Digging her claws into the ground, she managed to drag herself out of the thicket, leaving scraps of ginger fur on the bramble thorns.
Scrambling up, she saw that the trees around her were unfamiliar—huge grey trunks hung with moss and ivy, packed closer together than in the woods around the camp.
“Squirrelflight! Watch out!”
Ashfur’s gasp of alarm came from close behind her. She spun round, her pelt standing on end. Just beyond the bramble thicket was a clearing where the ground was thick with dead leaves. Squirrelflight’s heart started to pound as she spotted a russet-brown, wedge-shaped face peering out at her from a clump of thorns on the far side of the clearing. She watched in horror as the fox stepped delicately out, its jaws parted in a snarl and its eyes gleaming with hunger.
“Back away slowly.” Ashfur’s quiet meow came from close by.
Squirrelflight’s legs felt as if they had turned to stone, but she forced herself to take one step back. At once the fox leapt. Squirrelflight raised her claws to defend herself, but in the same instant a grey streak flashed between the fox and her: it was Ashfur, slashing at the creature’s muzzle with both forepaws. He let out a fearsome caterwaul, but the fox stood its ground in the centre of the clearing. It wrenched its head towards Ashfur, jaws snapping. Squirrelflight hurled herself at the fox with a furious yowl and raked her claws down the side of its face. It reared up, throwing her off; she hit the ground with a thud that drove the breath out of her. When she scrambled to her paws she saw Ashfur on the ground, battering at the fox with his hindpaws as it tried to bite down on his throat.
Squirrelflight sprang again, claws stretched towards the russet fur. As the fox rounded on her, she glimpsed Ashfur trying to drag himself away with blood pouring from his neck. While her attention was distracted, the fox snapped at her, and this time its teeth met in her shoulder. Squirrelflight yowled with pain and tore at the fox’s muzzle with her claws. She heard Ashfur’s voice calling weakly, “Squirrelflight, run!” But the fox wouldn’t let go. Angry and terrified, Squirrelflight fought harder.
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