DAWN. Erin Hunter
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pelts did not ripple with muscle as they once had; instead, their fur clung to the bones beneath their thin frames.
The flame-coloured tom leading the silent procession lifted his head and tasted the air. Even though nightfall had silenced the Twoleg monsters, their stench clung to every dying leaf and branch.
The cat took comfort from the scent of his mate beside him; her familiar scent mingled with the hateful Twoleg odur and softened its cruel tang. She matched his pace stubbornly, even though her faltering stride betrayed her long-empty belly and wakeful nights.
“Firestar,” she panted as they padded onward. “Do you think our daughters will find us when they come home?”
The flame-coloured cat flinched as though he had trodden on a thorn. “We can only pray that they will, Sandstorm,” he said softly.
“But how will they know where to look?” Sandstorm glanced back at a broad-shouldered grey tom. “Greystripe, do you think they’ll know where we’ve gone?”
“Oh, they’ll find us,” Greystripe promised.
“How can you be so sure?” growled Firestar. “We should have sent another patrol to search for Leafpaw.”
“And risk losing more cats?” Greystripe meowed.
Firestar’s eyes clouded with pain and he hurried ahead along the shadowy path.
Sandstorm twitched her tail. “This was the hardest decision he’s ever had to make,” she whispered to Greystripe.
“He had to put the Clan first,” Greystripe hissed back.
Sandstorm closed her eyes for a moment. “We have lost so many cats this past moon,” she mewed.
The wind must have carried her voice, because Firestar turned his head, his gaze hardening. “Then perhaps, at this Gathering, the other Clans will finally agree that we must join together to face this threat,” he growled.
“Join together?” A defiant mew sounded from a tabby tom. “Have you forgotten how the Clans reacted last time you said that? WindClan was half-starved, but you might as well have suggested they eat their kits. They are too proud to admit they need help from any cat.”
“Things are even worse now, Dustpelt,” Sandstorm argued. “How can any Clan stay strong when its kits are dying?” Her voice trailed away as she realised what she had said. “Dustpelt, I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“Larchkit may be dead,” snarled Dustpelt. “But that doesn’t mean I will let ThunderClan be ordered around by another Clan!”
“No Clan is going to give us orders,” Firestar insisted. “But I still believe we can help each other. Leaf-bare is almost here. The Twolegs and their monsters have driven most of our prey further and further away, and they have poisoned what remains so that it’s not safe to eat. We cannot fight alone.”
Suddenly the whispering of the wind through the branches grew to a roar, and Firestar slowed his step, pricking his ears.
“What is it?” Sandstorm whispered, her eyes stretched wide.
“Something’s happening at Fourtrees!” Greystripe yowled.
He broke into a run, and Firestar rushed after him, closely followed by their Clanmates. All the cats skidded to a halt at the top of a slope, looking down into a steep-sided hollow.
Bright, unnatural lights, sharper than moonshine, blazed against the trunks of the four giant oaks that had guarded this sacred place since the time of the Great Clans. More lights shone from the eyes of huge monsters squatting at the edge of the clearing. The Great Rock—the vast, smooth grey stone where Clan leaders stood to address the Gathering each full moon—looked small and exposed, like a kit crouched on a Thunderpath.
Twolegs scurried around the hollow, shouting at one another. A new sound sliced through the air, a screeching, high-pitched whine, and one Twoleg raised a massive shiny forepaw that flashed in the brilliant lights. The Twoleg pressed it against the trunk of the nearest oak, and dust flew out from the tree like blood spraying from a wound. The shiny forepaw howled as it bit viciously into the ancient bark, pushing deeper into the tree’s heart until the Twoleg cried out a warning and the hollow rang with a crack so loud that it drowned the rumbling monsters. The great oak began to lean over, slowly at first, then faster, faster, until it fell crashing to the ground. Its leafless branches clattered as they struck the cold earth, then stilled into deathly silence.
“StarClan, stop them!” mewed Sandstorm.
There was no sign that their warrior ancestors had seen what was happening at Fourtrees. The stars glittered coldly in the indigo sky as the Twoleg moved on to the next oak, his forepaw screaming for another kill.
The cats watched in horror as the Twoleg worked its way around the clearing until the last oak had been felled. Fourtrees, the place where the four Clans had met for many, many generations, was no more. The four giant oaks lay sprawled on the ground, their branches quivering into stillness. Twoleg monsters snarled at the edge of the clearing, ready to move in to carve up the fresh-kill, but the cats stayed frozen at the top of the slope, unable to move.
“The forest is dead,” murmured Sandstorm. “There is no hope left for any of us.”
“Have courage.” Firestar’s eyes glittered as he turned to face his Clan. “We still have our Clan. There is always hope.”
It was Crowpaw who scented the moorland first as the morning sun spread creamy light over the dew-soaked grass. Although he made no sound, Squirrelpaw saw his ears prick up and sensed him shake off a little of the weariness he had struggled against since Feathertail’s death. The dark grey WindClan cat quickened his pace, hurrying up the slope, where mist still clung to the long grass. Squirrelpaw opened her mouth and drew in a deep breath until she too could taste the familiar scent of gorse and heather on the cold morning air. Then she dashed after him with Brambleclaw, Stormfur, and Tawnypelt following fast behind. They could all smell the moorland scents now; they all knew they were close to the end of their long, exhausting journey.
Without saying anything, the five cats stopped in a line at the edge of WindClan territory. Squirrelpaw glanced at her Clanmate, Brambleclaw, and then at Tawnypelt, the ShadowClan she-cat. Beside her, Stormfur, the grey RiverClan warrior, narrowed his eyes against the cold wind; but it was Crowpaw who stared most intensely at the rough grassland where he had been born.
“We would not have come this far without Feathertail,” he murmured.
“She died to save us all,” Stormfur agreed.
Squirrelpaw winced at the raw sorrow in the RiverClan warrior’s voice. Feathertail was Stormfur’s sister. She had died saving them from a ferocious predator after they had met an unfamiliar group of cats in the mountains. The Tribe of Rushing Water lived behind a waterfall and listened to their own set of ancestors—not StarClan, but the Tribe of Endless Hunting. A mountain cat had been preying on the Tribe for many moons, picking them off one by one. When it had invaded the Tribe’s cavern yet again, Feathertail had managed to dislodge a pointed spur of stone from the roof and send it crashing down to kill the beast. But she had been fatally wounded in the fall, and now she lay beneath rocks in the Tribe’s territory, close by the waterfall with the sound of rushing water to guide her to StarClan.
“It was her destiny,” Tawnypelt commented gently.
“Her destiny was to complete the quest with us,” Crowpaw growled. “StarClan chose her to travel to the sun-drown-place and hear what Midnight had to tell us. She shouldn’t have died for another Clan’s prophecy.”
Stormfur padded to Crowpaw’s side and nudged the WindClan apprentice with his muzzle. “Bravery and sacrifice are part of the warrior code,” he reminded him. “Would you have wanted her to make any other choice?”
Crowpaw