A Forest Divided (11 page)

Rabbit scent touched his nose. Excitement tingling beneath his pelt, he scanned the slope below. A young rabbit was hopping across the grass. It was heading for a burrow—a dark opening in the grass a few tail-lengths ahead. Could he catch it before it dived for cover?

His belly growled.

He charged forward, pounding down the slope. But the rabbit heard his approach and scampered away quickly, the white tip of its tail bobbing over the grass. As it closed upon its burrow, Gray Wing leaped. He soared through the air, his forepaws outstretched, and landed square on the rabbit. He clamped his jaws around its neck and killed it with one bite.

Joy flooded his chest as the scent of blood washed his muzzle. The rabbit's body was warm and he took a bite.

“That's not fair!” A tiny mew made him jump. He sat up, his mouth full.

A ginger tom-kit was marching across the grass toward Gray Wing. He was thin-faced and skinny even though, from the width of his shoulders, he looked older than Eagle Feather and Storm Pelt.

“That was my mother's catch!” the kit spat. “She was stalking it.” He glanced over his shoulder. A dark shape was sliding from the heather.

Gray Wing tasted the air. A she-cat. He watched her approach, her tail low, her ears flat. She was a splotchy ginger-and-black tabby and even skinnier than her son. A ginger-and-white she-kit followed, her steps faltering.
They're half-starved, too! Just like Fern.
Gray Wing glanced at the rabbit, then pawed it toward the tom-kit. “Take it,” he told him. “I didn't realize it was your mother's catch.”

The she-cat stopped as she reached him. “You caught it. You keep it.” She shooed the tom-kit away from the rabbit
with a paw. “We don't take food from strangers.”

The she-kit caught up to her mother and pressed, trembling, against the tabby's flank. “Can't we just take a bite?” She gazed at the rabbit with wide, hungry eyes. “If he
wants
us to share.”

“No.” The tabby she-cat hushed her sharply. “We catch our own prey.”

Gray Wing dipped his head. “I've been lucky today,” he told her gently. “This is my second catch. Please take it.”

The tabby met his eye cautiously.

“Your kits are growing and prey is scarce,” Gray Wing urged. He puffed out his chest. “I don't need it as much as you.”

“It's a trick, isn't it?” The tabby's gaze sharpened.

“No.” Why was this cat so wary?

“I've met your kind before,” she growled. “You don't care if weak cats starve—you just want me to take it so you have a reason to start a fight.”

Gray Wing noticed the shredded tip of one ear and a scar across her black muzzle. His heart twisted in his chest. “I won't hurt you,” he promised. He glanced at the ginger-and-white she-kit. She so was frail.
Like Fluttering Bird.
“I had a sister who died of hunger,” he told the tabby. “I would never let another kit die.”

The she-kit's eyes filled with horror. “Are we going to die? Like Bramble?”

“No, dear.” The tabby nuzzled her daughter's ear. “Bramble
was always sickly. We'll be fine.”

Gray Wing wasn't so sure. This tabby looked too weak to hunt. She'd never have caught the rabbit before it disappeared into its burrow. “What's your name?” he asked her.

“Milkweed.” She nodded to the ginger tom-kit, then her she-kit. “This is Thistle and Clover. Their sister, Bramble, died yesterday.” Emotion glistened in her amber gaze.

“Then eat.” Gray Wing leaned down and grabbed the rabbit in his jaws. He tossed it toward her and it landed at her paws.

Milkweed held his gaze, still wary. “You're one of those cats from the mountains, aren't you?” There was accusation in her gaze. “Ever since you came, there's been less land to hunt on and more mouths competing for food.”

Guilt sparked beneath Gray Wing's pelt. “We came here because we were starving in the mountains,” he explained. “That's where my sister died. We didn't come to steal your land or your food—only to share it.”

“You've set the rogues against each other,” Milkweed snapped. “Now every cat is fighting for prey.”

“That's because the sickness killed so much of it,” Gray Wing argued.
And because rogues like One Eye and Slash take pleasure from making other cats suffer.

“Yet you'd share this catch with us?” Milkweed's nose was twitching. The scent of the rabbit must have been driving her wild with hunger.

“Yes.” Gray Wing sat down and curled his tail over his
paws. “I'll stay here and watch over you until you've finished.”

“Please, Milkweed?” Clover looked at her mother with pleading eyes.

Thistle padded toward the rabbit, his mouth open to draw in its warm scent.

“Okay.” Milkweed crouched beside it and ripped a lump from the rabbit's flank. She dropped it at Clover's paws and tore off another lump for Thistle. Once they'd begun eating. she took a mouthful for herself.

Gray Wing turned away and let them eat in peace.

His belly rumbled. This was his second catch of the day, and he still hadn't eaten. He shifted his paws uneasily. Prey was scarce, but starving cats were not. Had the moor cats and forest cats really caused this suffering?
We only came here because we were starving.
Was there any way to help cats like these? He shook out his fur as an idea flickered in his mind.

Spread and grow like the Blazing Star.

“You should go to Clear Sky,” he told Milkweed.

She looked up from the rabbit, blood staining her chin. “Clear Sky?” Fear flashed in her eyes. “He killed my friend Misty—he doesn't care for rogues like me.”

Gray Wing's pelt rippled uncomfortably. “He took in Misty's kits.”

Milkweed snorted. “That was nice of him. Perhaps he'll take in mine after he's killed
me.
”

Gray Wing flinched. “Clear Sky's changed,” he promised. “He wants to bring all cats together now in peace. He wants
his group to grow and spread. Some of my friends have gone to live with him. I'm sure he'll take you and your kits in.”

Milkweed grunted and returned to her meal.

“Just tell him Gray Wing sent you. Tell him I told you to come to him for food and protection.”

Milkweed carried on eating.

Perhaps I should take these cats back to the pine forest.
He frowned. Would they be safe there? The cats still had to find the best places for prey and learn new hunting techniques. And Fern sounded certain that Slash would attack. Clear Sky's forest would be safer.

Thistle sat up and licked his lips. “My belly hurts,” he mewed.

Gray Wing gazed at him sympathetically. “That's because it's not used to so much food. Next time, chew more slowly.”

Clover lifted her head and burped. “I feel warm now.”

Milkweed straightened. “Thank you.” She stared gratefully at Gray Wing.

“Go to Clear Sky,” he urged. “You won't survive out here alone.”

Milkweed wrapped her tail around Clover.

“Please can we go?” Thistle's eyes flashed with excitement. “I want to be a forest cat. I heard Clear Sky's cats train how to hunt and fight. If we go there, he might teach me to be the strongest fighter in the forest. Then we would never have to be scared again.”

Milkweed gazed at him fondly, then glanced at Gray Wing.
“Do you promise he won't hurt us?”

“I promise.” Gray Wing dipped his head.

Milkweed looked down at the rabbit carcass, then headed across the slope. Clover trotted after her, tail high, while Thistle snatched a final mouthful.

“Hurry up,” Gray Wing prompted him. “Your mother needs you.”

Thistle met Gray Wing's eye solemnly. “I'll protect her,” he promised, then scampered over the grass after his family.

Gray Wing stood and watched until they reached the bracken edging the woods. His heart ached as they disappeared between the trees.
Please, Clear Sky, take them in.
He glanced toward the distant pines, then looked across the moor. Beyond its rose-tipped crest, the setting sun would be drenching Highstones. Longing filled his heart, and he broke into a run. Charging up the moorside, he dodged through swath after swath of heather until he emerged at the top. Beyond, he saw the wide, flat boulder that jutted out over the steep drop down to the Thunderpath. He hurried forward and climbed onto it. The smooth, wind-chilled stone stung his paws as he padded across. He lay down and hung his head over the edge and gazed across the rolling fields that stretched toward Highstones. They'd traveled that way from the mountains.

What would Stoneteller have said about the lives they'd made here? There was much to be proud of: new kits, new homes. As his belly rumbled once more, Gray Wing wondered if he should hunt again. But he couldn't drag his gaze
from Highstones shining golden in the dying sunshine. What would Stoneteller have thought of the battles they had fought and the deaths they had caused by coming here? As the sun sank behind him and Highstones disappeared into shadow, Gray Wing closed his eyes and let sleep draw him deep into dreams.

Gray Wing opened his eyes. Scents
swirled around him, thick with memories. A chill nipped his ears with a cruelty he'd forgotten.

Water thundered behind him, and he turned to see the waterfall that veiled the entrance of his old home from the crags outside. Light shimmered through it and rippled over the cave walls.

“Hello?” His mew echoed in the deserted cavern. He scanned the dimples in the wide stone floor where his Tribemates had made their nests, which were empty but for twigs and leaves lying shriveled in each hollow. “Where are you?” Worry pricked Gray Wing's pelt. He stretched his ears, listening. Far away, he thought he heard faint mews. Distant paw steps scuffed the stone, but he could see no cat.

Had his Tribemates traveled beyond his vision? Were they spirit cats now?

“Quiet Rain! Snow Hare! Where are you?” His heart lurched as guilt scorched his pelt. He should never have left them. Had they starved without him? “What have I done?”

Purring rumbled at the back of the cave.

Hope flashed in Gray Wing's heart. He peered eagerly into the shadows and caught sight of a tail whipping away into the tunnel.

He hurried after it, blinking as darkness swallowed him. His paws ached on the freezing stone. His whiskers brushed the walls, and his tail snagged on the jagged roof. “Who's there?” he called anxiously into the blackness.

Suddenly, the tunnel opened around him and he emerged into a cave lit by moonlight, which seeped through a hole in the roof. Sharp claws of rock jutted up from the stone floor and down from above. Some touched, like paws meeting, and they glistened as water trickled down them. It pooled on the floor, sending light flickering against the walls.

An ancient white cat watched him from beyond the pools, her tail twitching softly behind her.

“Stoneteller?” Gray Wing blinked. Was she all that was left of the Tribe?

She didn't answer, but touched one of the pools with a forepaw, sending ripples shivering across its surface.

Gray Wing padded closer. “I'm so sorry,” he began. “I never stopped to think how the Tribe would survive without us.”

“Hush.” Stoneteller lifted her green gaze to meet Gray Wing's. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“But the cave!” Gray Wing wailed. “It's empty! And it's my fault. If only I'd stayed—”

“Gray Wing.” Stoneteller's mew was firm. “You cannot decide the fate of every cat. You do not hold power like that.”

“Then why did you bring me here?” Surely it was Stoneteller
who had summoned him to see the empty cave. “What's happened to the Tribe?”

Stoneteller looked down into the pool as the ripples faded. “All will become clear soon enough,” she murmured. “For now, you must let go of the past. The future is the only thing you can change.”

A shriek jerked Gray Wing awake. He blinked at the dark valley stretching below him. The mountains beyond Highstones were no more than shadows against the starry night sky.

The Tribe!
He jumped up.
Where are they?

The shriek sounded again. It tugged him from his thoughts.

The moor was bathed in moonlight, the grass turned white by frost.

“Back off!” He heard a vicious yowl from beyond a patch of gorse. Gray Wing recognized it at once.

Slate!
He leaped from the stone and charged over the top of the moor, skidding on the grass as he swerved around the gorse.

Slate was backed against its sharp spines. A fox snapped at her hind legs, then her muzzle, its sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight. Slate hissed and shrank deeper against the thorns. Blood darkened her pelt. Eyes blazing, she slashed at the fox's face with a forepaw, but it dived for her tail.

She whipped it clear just in time. The fox's jaws slammed shut on thin air. Yelping with rage, it lunged for her neck.

“Leave her alone!” Gray Wing plunged forward, pelt
bushed. Snarling, he leaped onto its back.

Caught by surprise, the fox staggered and fell. Gray Wing clung on, digging his foreclaws in hard. He could feel bones through its mangy pelt. Cats were not the only creatures starving on the moor.

Slate growled. “It tried to take my prey.”

Gray Wing caught the scent of fresh-kill through the fox's stench. He turned his gaze to meet Slate's. The fox bucked beneath him, with far more strength than Gray Wing had expected. Hunger had clearly made it bold—and desperate. It jerked back its muzzle to snap at Gray Wing's neck. He felt his fur rip. Pain scorched through him. He let go with a shriek and slithered to the ground, struggling to find his paws on the frosty grass.

The fox turned on him. Its stinking breath bathed Gray Wing's muzzle as its savage jaws opened for a killing bite. Then fur flashed at the edge of his vision. With a yowl, Slate sent the fox tumbling backward.

Gray Wing leaped to his paws. Slate and the fox were tumbling over the grass. Muscle thudded on earth as they grappled with each other. The air shivered with their screeching. Gray Wing hurled himself at them as the fox's jaws clamped shut on Slate's ear.

Hissing with rage, he shoved the fox away. He heard Slate shriek in pain, but he was on his hind legs, batting the fox backward, swiping with one paw after another. He felt its fur rip beneath his claws until the fox's muzzle was wet with
blood. The fox's eyes flashed with anger. With a yelp it turned and fled, streaking across the grass like a shadow.

Gray Wing turned to Slate. “Are you okay?”

She sat, her head low, her flanks heaving. “It got my ear.”

Gray Wing rushed to her side. The tang of blood filled the air. It welled on Slate's ear, and he could see the tip had been ripped away. “It'll heal,” he soothed.

His own pelt felt damp; his neck fur was drenched with his own blood. “Foxes don't normally fight that hard for prey,” he growled. “I thought it would run when it saw there was two of us.”

Slate was still panting. “Thanks for coming.” She lifted her head, pain darkening her amber gaze. “But what are you doing on the moor?”

“I'll explain later.” Gray Wing was too dazed by the fight to think up a good reason for being here. He couldn't tell her about Fern—their conversation had to remain a secret while Slash threatened her. If word got out that she'd spoken to him, the vicious rogue might kill her. “Let's get you back to your camp. You're bleeding.”

Slate's gaze flicked over him. “You'd better come with me. Your neck looks pretty bad. Reed can treat your wounds.”

“He knows about herbs?” Gray Wing blinked at her.

“I told you last time I visited.” Slate got stiffly to her paws and nudged him with her muzzle. “You're getting forgetful in your old age.”

Gray Wing nudged her back. “Who are you calling old?”

Slate's whiskers twitched fondly. “Wait there.” She limped back to the gorse and dragged something out from beneath one of the bushes.

Grouse.

Its pungent scent touched his nose as she carried it toward him. Its wings dragged along the ground, and Slate struggled not to trip.

“Let me help.” Gray Wing fell in beside her and grabbed the bird's tail in his jaws. Feathers pressed around his nose, his warm breath billowing through them.

Side by side, they carried Slate's catch to Wind Runner's camp. The scratches on Gray Wing's neck stung like fire, but he held fast to the grouse. They'd fought hard to keep it.

Slate guided him along the secret passages that led to the clearing hidden in a wide patch of heather. As the trail narrowed, she tugged the grouse from him and pushed ahead. Gray Wing let go and fell in behind, slowing as the heather opened onto a small grassy clearing. Would Wind Runner welcome him? The last time he'd seen her, she had made it clear that her new home was closed to outsiders.

“Gray Wing!” Gorse Fur saw him first. The gray tabby tom clambered out of a heather nest and hurried across the grass. “How are you?” He paused, his nose twitching. “I smell blood. Are you okay?”

Slate dropped the grouse and pushed it beneath the heather. “I ran into a fox,” she explained. “Gray Wing heard my screeches and came to help. Don't worry, we chased it off. It won't show its snout around here for a while.”

Small ears poked up above the rim of Gorse Fur's nest.

“Who is it?” A kit clambered out of the nest and came charging across the clearing.

“Moth Flight!” Wind Runner sat up in a nest a tail-length away. “It's too cold to be out of your nest. And Dust Muzzle will freeze on his own!”

“No I won't!” A second head bobbed up.

“You're supposed to be sleeping.” Wind Runner meowed with annoyance.

“We can sleep later!” Dust Muzzle climbed out of Gorse Fur's nest and raced after his sister.

Wind Runner's eyes shone in the dark, widening as they reached Gray Wing. She hopped out of her nest. “It's you!”

“I'm sorry to disturb everyone.” Gray Wing dipped his head.

Wind Runner flicked her tail happily. “It's good to see you.” She tasted the air. “You're hurt!”

“Just scratches.” Slate shrugged.

“Slate lost a piece of her ear.” Gray Wing told her.

Wind Runner sniffed at Slate's wound. “Reed had better look at it.” She called over her shoulder. “Reed? Are you awake?”

“How can any cat sleep with this noise?” A silver tabby tom was stretching in his nest.

Gray Wing felt soft fur brush his forepaws. A tail flicked past his nose. He looked down. “Moth Flight? Is that you?”

“Of course it's me.” Moth Flight had grown. She was bigger than Dew Nose but still had her kit fluff. She gazed at Gray
Wing with bright green eyes. “Who are you?”

“I'm Gray Wing.”

Moth Flight tipped her head. “You dug the graves for my sister and brother,” she mewed, “when we lived in the hollow.”

Gray Wing nodded, his pelt rippling uncomfortably as he saw grief glisten briefly in Wind Runner's eyes.

She shifted her paws. “Moth Flight, take your brother back to the nest. You can speak to Gray Wing once it's light. He has wounds that need treating.”

Reed had crossed the clearing and was already sniffing at Gray Wing's neck. “I'd better put some herbs on those scratches before they turn bad.”

Gorse Fur grunted. “Fox bites are as sour as a badger's.”

“I can help you, Reed!” Moth Flight offered.

“Me too!” Dust Muzzle pushed past his sister. The tom-kit's gray pelt glowed in the moonlight.

Moth Flight pushed him away. “I offered first.”

Wind Runner growled. “
Neither
of you is helping,” she told them firmly. “Go back to the nest and sleep.”

Moth Flight eyed her mother. “Can we have a bite of grouse first? It's the best catch we've had in ages.”

Wind Runner gave her a stern look. “In the morning.”

Moth Flight turned and flounced back to the nest. “If I starve to death before dawn, it'll be your fault.”

Dust Muzzle ran after her. “At least we can look forward to a meal when we wake up,” he mewed eagerly.

As the kits climbed back into their nest, Gray Wing scanned
the camp. The cold wind hardly penetrated the little hollow among the heather bushes. The cats had built deep nests in the shade of their branches. It was far cozier than the hollow had been, but when the kits grew into nests of their own, it would be cramped.

Reed peered at the scratches on Gray Wing's neck.

Gray Wing nosed him away. “Treat Slate's ear first.”

The gray she-cat was acting as though her injury weren't bothering her, but Gray Wing could sense her stiffness. She was brave, but she must still have been shocked by the ferocity of the fox's attack.
If I hadn't been there, it could have killed her.

He pushed the thought away. He was not going to lose another cat.