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Archpelt stepped out of camp, greeted by the gentle crunch of dying grass. The wind brushed the long hairs of his brow into his eyes. Nettlestone and Ibisleap guarded the camp, pelts fluffed against the autumn chill.
“Where are you off to so late?” Nettlestone asked, head still scanning the horizon while her ears turned to Archpelt.
“The Hollow, actually,” Archpelt hummed. “It’s over half a moon until the seers meet again, and I need answers.”
“About what, may I ask?” Nettlestone wondered. Archpelt thought for a moment. He could spend a few minutes talking through the problem with a senior story-keeper.
“The border,” Archpelt sighed, sitting beside Nettlestone.
“It’s been about the border for half a moon,” Nettlestone groaned. “Really, is it so difficult to agree on a new one?”
“You’ll be glad to know that’s no longer an issue,” Archpelt chuckled. “This morning, we settled on a border that gave CliffClan just a bit more land than the old border.”
“I guess I was asleep,” Nettlestone muttered, itching her ear. “If we have a border, what’s the problem?”
“Lemmingstar’s investigations into who started this mess have turned up empty,” Archpelt explained. “I’m hoping StarClan will shed more light on the culprit.”
“I don’t understand their motivations,” Nettlestone huffed. “The border only moved a few fox-lengths at most. If CliffClan had asked for the land, we could have given it to them. We could always expand into the outer regions.”
“It makes me wonder if there’s a purpose to this that we can’t see,” Archpelt grumbled. “Then there’s the Lone Wandering our apprentices undertook.”
“Whalestar said he approved their journey,” Nettlestone said, confused.
“Thrushpaw was distracted in the days before he and Bumblepaw left,” Archpelt muttered. “I want to know if our clan can be at fault for this. It’s such a young age to take part in Lone Wandering.”
“The last time anyone went Lone Wandering, Gingertail and Houndcall tried to figure out if they belonged in the clans,” Nettlestone recalled. “They came back asking to be made mates. Do you suppose…”
“Thrushpaw has been insistent on not following romance until he has a trained apprentice, as the code states,” Archpelt pointed out. “It would explain a few things, however. I’ll have to see what StarClan is willing to tell me tonight.”
“Good luck to you,” Nettlestone said as Archpelt stood.
“Remind me when I get back, I want to perform a ritual with Dustkit and Troutkit tomorrow,” Archpelt sighed, licking his paw to groom back his brow. “Something to show them where they would best be suited as apprentices, but still simple and calm. I’ll be proud of wherever they go.”
“I’ll try to remember,” Nettlestone promised as Archpelt trotted towards the Hollow.
The wind carried soft yellow leaves and crunchy brown ones, scattering them across the territory. From Archpelt’s perspective, it looked like ElkClan’s forest was caught in a storm of leaves. It was their trees that grew the leaves carpeting PuffinClan. The world had the faint smell of ElkClan. PuffinClan territory was so open, Archpelt could see the dulled forms of ElkClan cats marking the border.
It was difficult for any cat not acquainted with such blank space to sneak around, but PuffinClan had learned. It should have brought Archpelt a bit of peace as he sniffed a thick patch of poppies and violets for predators. But old age brought new paranoia, because anything that could hide in open expanses was very, very dangerous.
Maybe he should have asked a warrior to accompany him. Elmpatch was often the first to wake up when called into action, and she would have been pleasant, if not dull, company. She was a great warrior, but Archpelt couldn’t lie, she wouldn’t have done well in any other position. Robinroot, Archpelt’s old mentor, now there was a molly who could have held a conversation for days on end.
“I hope to see you tonight, Robinroot,” Archpelt whispered to the stars. Robinroot would know who moved the border. She had an eye for trouble, something she credited to both StarClan and her own instincts. Archpelt couldn’t get away with anything when she was around. He would step into the holy den and Robinroot would order him to confess his sins. She was unique in the pool of PuffinClan pelts with long grey and ginger fur, but there was no mistaking her as part of any other clan. She carried PuffinClan’s family values everywhere and was a coddling aunt to Leafdapple’s kits. Archpelt wished she had lived long enough to see him make his own family. She would have loved to play with Dustkit and Troutkit or chat with Snailnose.
The Hollow was cold and dead without the company of other seers. Without the moon’s glow, the dead tree’s branches reached toward the ground like hungry claws. This was why Archpelt rarely made these lone trips. Still, StarClan had been silent to him over the past two moons. They had given Rollerfall the message of a storm and bloody battle, but the clans prevented that. Diplomacy won out. So who was the culprit?
Archpelt ducked his head to enter the Hollow. There was a faint scent clinging to the walls, maybe a few days old. Mountainleap and Emberpool had visited the Hollow recently. Archpelt hadn’t seen Mountainleap outside of the healer’s sight in a while. He hoped Mountainleap was healthy.
Archpelt curled against the wall. He had to hope he could speak to someone, even as Moon slept and monsters roamed the outskirts of the clans, powerful in Moon’s weakness. He closed his eyes.
The dry wood scratched against his pelt. Owls flew overhead. He was itchy. Usually, he fell asleep quickly, but he was painfully aware of the world around him. He rolled onto his back. The smell of the sea clung to the walls and sent the echoes of waves through his memories.
A twig cracked outside the Hollow. Archpelt opened his eyes, spinning to his paws. The grassy plains were still. Just a rabbit. Archpelt groaned and tried once more to sleep. His ears flicked at tiny sounds. The scurrying of mice somewhere close by. The gentle pawsteps of the rabbit, slowly moving through the field. His own breathing, made loud with the hard walls of the Hollow. He scratched at the wood.
Archpelt shouldn’t have come to the Hollow on a new moon. There was no light to guide StarClan to his dreams. It was a waste of time. If he couldn’t sleep, perhaps he could think through the problem in the quiet of such a holy site. There was zero motivation for a PuffinClan cat to move the border. After all, it went into their territory. The culprit was a CliffClan cat. Could the night patrol who claimed to simply mark along the stones be at fault? Could they have worked together and hid the truth?
You fool, open your eyes!
Robinroot? Her voice was clear enough to snap through Archpelt’s thoughts. He obeyed his mentor’s command.
Eyes glared at Archpelt from the edge of the Hollow, pupils narrowed.
That hadn’t been a rabbit stepping on a twig.
Before Archpelt could make out the cat’s face, they launched at him. Their claws glinted in what little light entered the dark tree. Stabbing, searing pain tore across his face as the world grew darker. His eyes burned. Blood dripped down his muzzle. StarClan, his eyes!
He kicked his attacker in the stomach and scrambled to his paws. He slammed into the Hollow’s walls, trying to find the exit in the painful dark. The wood tore the top of his head as he finally ran through the hole. His attacker caterwauled and screeched behind him. Archpelt stumbled over his own paws. He had known darkness, like the night around him, but this was different. It was closed eyes that wouldn’t open.
By Moon, it was blindness .
His attacker ran after him, paws slamming against the ground. Archpelt couldn’t tell what direction he was running, but he just ran. PuffinClan speed had to count for something. He ran into trees and snagged his fur in bushes and brambles. This couldn’t be PuffinClan territory, but it wasn’t like he could run backwards. The smell of blood clogged his nose, and the sound of racing paws had ceased, but he knew he was still being chased. Maybe not with someone on his tail, but there was a presence lurking beyond his senses. Stalking him like a rabbit.
His muzzle smashed against bark and he stopped running. He nearly fell over trying to wipe the blood off his face. When his paw touched his eyes, he nearly screamed. This wasn’t something Shimmerblaze could heal if he didn’t get back soon. His tail brushed against large, bulging roots. He crawled under the roots and tried to breathe. If he let his injury, which he had to believe could be healed, overwhelm him, he would never get home.
He was surrounded by trees, he could smell the dying leaves. He was either in ElkClan or beyond the clans. If he was in ElkClan, he could stay hidden and wait for a patrol to find him. If he wasn’t… it wasn’t smart to stay there. What direction had he come from? He squirmed out of the roots and sniffed the air. The smell of blood was still thick, but new scents broke through the pain. The smell of his hunter.
It was a molly.
A CliffClan molly.
Gooseleg’s claws cut through thick fur.
The vole squeaked softly, and was no more. Gooseleg chirped quietly and dug a hole. She pushed the fresh-kill in the hole and covered it up for the end of her hunt. It would feed Brownleap well; she was eating the clan out of camp and home to produce milk for Dovekit and Shellkit. She could be catching more prey if Sleettuft and Otterpaw had kept their plans to join her for a night hunt. But no, Sleettuft forgot it was the new moon, which meant in some strange story-keeper apprentice ritual, Otterpaw was temporarily Beaverstone’s apprentice, and Beaverstone took him on an exhausting moonhigh patrol. Her half-brother could have come along, but he insisted on speaking with Avocetcloud’s kits on being a story-keeper. As though moon old kits knew what they wanted yet. It was the middle of the night, for StarClan’s sake!
At least there was no one to blame for missing prey other than herself. The night was the perfect time for Gooseleg to track nocturnal creatures; low flying bats, rats, hedgehogs, moles… There was a feast lurking under Gooseleg’s paws.
She jumped from rock to rock when she could, watching for tiny creatures bolting from the cracks or scanning the grass from her vantage point. She found better hunting came from avoiding the sound of pawsteps and focusing on leaps, even if the leaps were a bit loud. The thing was, they rarely were.
Gooseleg landed on a rock close to the new PuffinClan border. The grass reeked with the scent of both clans. There wouldn’t be any more tampering now. Gooseleg could finally spend her sunhigh with the clan rather than endless debates with PuffinClan. Now it would be up to Sleettuft and the story-keepers to find out who started the mess. Personally, Gooseleg suspected one of the PuffinClan apprentices. It would be just like an apprentice to move the border and cause a fuss. She wouldn’t say anything without reason, but she wouldn’t be surprised.
A shadow flickered in the corner of Gooseleg’s eye. A rat? She glanced around, taking in what little light the moonless night provided. She couldn’t smell any prey. Then again, the border was overpowering. Anything could be nearby and she wouldn’t smell it. Had that been another cat?
“Hello?” Gooseleg called out. She didn’t see anything. Maybe she was disturbing someone else’s hunt. Maybe rabbits were active around that time? Then again, if it was a cat, they would have answered her, or acknowledged her presence. She could feel eyes on her. What if it was a fox? SealClan had issues with them half a moon ago.
The gentle sound of paws snapped Gooseleg’s head left. A mouse peeked its head out of a tunnel entrance. Gooseleg rolled her eyes. It was just a mouse! The border problems had gotten to her head. She readied her back legs. She leapt off the rock, but missed the mouse by a kit-step. The rodent squeaked and darted into the tunnel. Gooseleg raced after it.
If the night was dark, the tunnels were like sticking your muzzle into a long black pelt. The only reason Gooseleg could chase after the mouse was through the tiny paws sending vibrations through the ground and her whiskers brushing against the tunnel walls. She stepped on the mouse’s tail and ended the chase. With the mouse and the vole, she couldn’t bring any more prey back to camp. Teeth on the mouse’s scruff, Gooseleg turned back to the tunnel entrance.
Blue-black night cast the silhouette of a cat against the dirt, standing in the mouth of the tunnel.
“StarClan!” Gooseleg yelped, dropping her catch. “I thought someone was around. Who do you think you are?” The cat didn’t respond. “Well, aren’t you going to say something? Come closer, all I smell is my catch.” The cat’s tail twitched. Gooseleg’s ears lowered slowly. “What are you doing? Why are you just standing there? I’m a counselor, you know. If you hurt me, you’ll pay for it. I’ll run back to camp and expose you.” Could the stranger even hear her? She took a step closer, but her instincts screamed at her to stop. This was very wrong.
A screech tore through the tunnel as the cat lunged at Gooseleg.
“What are you doing?” Gooseleg screamed, stumbling back into the tunnel. The strange cat dug their claws into her shoulders and pinned her on her back. Blood dripped down her white fur. Still, cats always underestimated Gooseleg’s short stature. Self defense lessons echoing through her head, Gooseleg squirmed out from her attacker’s hold and rolled under their belly, hopping onto her feet and running down the nearest tunnel. If she had been as tall as a typical cat…
Teeth snapped at her flank. Claws snagged tufts of her fur. Gooseleg had no idea where she was going or who she was fighting. She wasn’t going to get her throat torn out in some forgotten tunnel. Quick, what was something she could do to get this hunter off her tail? What was that move Beaverstone used that got him in so much trouble?
Gooseleg skidded to a stop and kicked her legs back. Her feet collided with chest fur and the attacker stumbled, hissing. Gooseleg ran, whiskers guiding her.
She blasted into a forgotten den and kicked at the tunnel behind her. Dirt and roots crumbled. She clawed at the soil, mud collecting between her toes. A wall grew between Gooseleg and her hunter. Gooseleg packed in the dirt, shoulders throbbing. She’d been bitten by rats and sliced her paws open on sharp stones, but a counselor’s life wasn’t one of bloodshed. She’d never been so wounded before.
Her hunter yowled and hissed from behind the dirt, but the wall held. Gooseleg panted, trying to orient herself. How far below ground was she? Where in the territory could she be? Who was trying to kill her? She couldn’t answer the first two questions yet; she’d have to pick a tunnel and pray it didn’t connect to her pursuer. With the heavy smell of the border and mouse blood replaced by Gooseleg’s own fear, she could finally pick out the hunter’s scent in her wounds. It smelled of cool breezes and rabbits.
It was a molly.
A PuffinClan molly.
Archpelt moved from tree to tree, tail brushing against the bark. He didn't care how much scent his actions left behind; he was wounded, and any hunter could follow him. Without the trees, he would be wandering without a guide, chasing his tail.
Why would anyone want to kill him? He knew his hunter wasn’t operating under Lemmingstar’s orders. She would never order a seer’s death. She may lean towards violence, but she respected Archpelt. He had to believe this was someone acting on their own. He ran through the names of every fighting molly in CliffClan. Lemmingstar, Rippedpool, Harriershade, Charpatch…
Archpelt bumped into a tree. He hissed as pain shot through his temples. What monster goes for the eyes? He dug his claws into the bark.
“Hello there!” a distant voice purred. Archpelt’s ears scanned the trees, pelt fluffing up. A warm, unfamiliar scent drifted to his right, mingled with the smell of a tom.
“Who is that?” Archpelt snapped, praying his assailant couldn’t hear this.
“Up here, on the fence!” the mystery tom called. “Are you another of those clan mollies? I hope you’re one of the chatty ones, I hate it when they just leave afterwards.” The voice was a few tail-lengths off the ground.
“Do I smell like a molly to you?” Archpelt grumbled.
“The wild smell overpowers many things,” the mystery tom chuckled. “Why don’t you come into the light? We can have a proper introduction. I’m Doctor.”
“You’ll have to direct me to the light,” Archpelt sighed, moving towards the voice, whiskers twitching. Doctor hissed, a scratching, hacking sound.
“What happened to you?” Doctor gagged. “Oh, I can’t look at it for too long, I’ll cough up another hairball.”
“There’s someone after me,” Archpelt explained. There was something big and flat in front of him. The fence. He put both paws on it and tried to stare at Doctor. “Please, my name is Archpelt. I’m the seer of PuffinClan. I don’t know where I am. I need to get back to my camp.” Paws thudded beside him with a light jingle. Doctor had the heaviest kittypet scent Archpelt had ever smelled.
“If my humans saw you, they’d think you gave me rabies,” Doctor shuddered. “Can you please close your eyes, I can’t even look at you.” Archpelt growled but obeyed. Open or closed, he was still blind.
“I wouldn’t ask a kittypet for help unless I was desperate,” Archpelt begged. “There’s a molly trying to kill me and I can’t find my way back to my clan. I won’t make it back without help.”
“You don’t expect me to defend you,” Doctor muttered. “I’m not dying over some half gray tomcat I just met.”
“Point me in the direction of the clans and I’ll find my own way,” Archpelt huffed. “I don’t know how to fight either. Spare me a little kindness.”
“Now that’s an interesting phrase,” Doctor hummed. His pelt gently rubbed against Archpelt’s as he padded around him. His fur was soft yet short. “I once spent time with a ginger and gray tortoiseshell who said that same thing, wanting to have kits. She told me about your clans and your blood.” The description fluttered through Archpelt’s memories.
“That’s a common PuffinClan phrase,” Archpelt muttered, “for when you desperately need something. Could that molly you mentioned be Nettlestone?”
“Oh, yes,” Doctor purred. “Nettlestone. Such an odd name.”
“You’re Maplesong’s sire,” Archpelt realized. “Are you red too?”
“Please, I am a proud Siamese,” Doctor scoffed. “My mother told me I was born to be a stunning example of my breed.”
“I don’t know what a Siamese is,” Archpelt grumbled, “but would you like to meet your son?”
“I’ve met so many of your mollies, I likely have many sons in the clans,” Doctor sighed with another gentle jingle (Archpelt assumed it was a collar).
“Why not see what your stunning breeding has made?” Archpelt asked. “He’s the deputy of PuffinClan. You could meet him if you’ll lead me back to my home. You’d be showered with kindness for helping me.”
“I feel as though we’ve glossed over something important,” Doctor huffed. “The part of you being hunted? The only hunt I’m a part of is the hunt for toys.”
“I have kits, you mouse-heart!” Archpelt snapped. “They need their father. You may not care about the title, but I do. Help me get home. Please.” Doctor was silent for a long time. Archpelt wished he could see the thoughts running across his face.
“If you’re trying to get home, you’re running the wrong way,” Doctor groaned. “How are you going to follow me?”
“I can still smell you,” Archpelt meowed breathlessly. Leaves cracked to his left. Archpelt’s back puffed up, tail tucked. The molly’s scent was near.
“I know you!” Doctor gasped, fear soaking his pelt. Suddenly, he yowled and bolted away, collar jingling. Archpelt zoomed after him just as his silent hunter slammed into the fence.
“Who is it?” Archpelt hissed, focused on Doctor’s scent trail.
“I never asked for a name!” Doctor hissed as the hunter’s claws snagged Archpelt’s tail, drawing more blood. Fear pounding in his heart, Archpelt blindly ran after the kittypet that would either save his life or doom it.
Gooseleg tasted the air. It was stale, coated with bugs and the dying things of the dirt. She had been in the tunnels many times, but old tunnels collapsed and new ones were dug out constantly. It took the careful training of a CliffClan cat to navigate the ever shifting paths. The first rule of finding your way to the surface was to follow the freshest path. All the scents were the same, but one tunnel behind Gooseleg slowly climbed upwards. She hurried through. The second rule; generally, up was good.
PuffinClan was a group of lying fox-hearts. Always trying to claim CliffClan were the antagonists, but here they were, trying to kill her! Was Mistpaw’s public clawing not enough for them? They would blame CliffClan for bad weather if they could. Gooseleg hoped they’d get lost in the tunnels forever. She hoped rain would flood the lower tunnels and show them a glimpse of the Eternal Tide.
Gooseleg laughed, voice muffled by the dirt. She was a terrible counselor by most standards. They were supposed to be kind and diplomatic , but that wasn’t what she did for her clan. No, she reminded them to get out of their heads and do their jobs. She was smooth and efficient and kept her clan running. She’d had daydreams of being appointed Lemmingstar’s deputy, of becoming Goosestar of CliffClan. A leader’s ceremony was only told to the story-keepers once the leader’s last life was spent, so she knew what sort of sight would await her in that pretend ceremony. Her mate, Mousedawn, would certainly be in the line-up.
Gooseleg stopped, shoulders burning from the walk. She was in another chamber, this one lined with patches of stone. Mousedawn never got the honor of being buried outside camp. She met her end in a dark tunnel, chasing down a mole. Gooseleg wasn’t going to die alone, not like Mousedawn. She was finding her way out of here.
The smell of rabbits stung her nose. Gooseleg tensed. The PuffinClan huntress. She was close, her scent was overwhelming. If Gooseleg could smell her, she could smell Gooseleg.
The click of claws against stone bounced through the chamber. Gooseleg spun around, facing each tunnel. Where did the sound come from? How did the hunter find her? Gooseleg picked a tunnel and ran.
The walls squeezed against her, pushing through her pelt. They sent vibrations her way, the sensation of someone else rubbing against the tunnel’s tight walls. Gooseleg couldn’t look back, she had no room to turn her head.
Teeth bit into Gooseleg’s flank. The counselor stumbled, legs kicking desperately. Claws dug into her flesh.
“You’ll pay for this!” Gooseleg yowled. “CliffClan will destroy you!” Her foot collided with the attacker’s jaw. The grip on her knee loosened just enough for Gooseleg to slip out and limp through the tunnel.
There was something up ahead. Not light, not in such a dark night, but something lighter than shadow. Gooseleg bolted towards it.
Mushrooms sprinkled the ground around her, nestled between chamomile and other fresh herbs. Along the walls of that strange world, thin mushrooms with wide, flat heads glowed a soft, sickly green. The stars looked upon Gooseleg and blades of grass tickled the edges of the hole she found herself in.
“The Underground Forest,” she gasped. She knew where she was! There was a tunnel entrance just across from her. Leg burning, she ran towards it. Memories played over her eyes. Following her younger sister Hailbranch, helping her gather chamomile for her stores. Bringing Goldenshade after her counselor ceremony, celebrating her new name with the sweet flowers. Sneaking around with Palescar as an apprentice, stealing mushrooms and stuffing them in their mentors’ nest as some strange prank. The Underground Forest was a happy place, and now it was the place of her salvation.
Gooseleg burst into the hollow-roofed cave, flank bleeding, and tumbled into the starry night. She turned the grass red. She faced the cave with claws unsheathed. With the light of the stars, she was going to see who was so desperate to kill her. Her panting echoed through the cave. A bat fluttered overhead. No one exited the cave.
Gooseleg felt weak. Dirt smeared her wounds and mud coated her paws. She needed to get to Hailbranch and Martenpaw. She couldn’t tell how serious her wounds were. Senses strained for pawsteps or the smell of rabbits, Gooseleg limped towards camp.
The reality of what happened began to settle in. Gooseleg had never known such danger. She never witnessed a battle, merely its aftermath. How could anyone have such a disregard for the sanctity of counselor-ship? Was this the pain her clanmates put up with to defend CliffClan? Gooseleg struggled to breathe.
Palescar and Mistpaw were on night guard duty as Gooseleg came into view of the camp. The scars that lined Mistpaw’s legs mimicked the wounds on his mentor’s back. The smell of Gooseleg’s blood caught in the wind. Both toms turned their heads. Mistpaw’s jaw dropped.
“Gooseleg!” Palescar gasped, racing towards his littermate. Gooseleg purred, both from relief and from pain.
“Get me to Hailbranch,” she groaned, never stopping her march. Her brother sniffed her wounds, checking her over.
“Mistpaw, stay on guard,” Palescar ordered as he and Gooseleg entered camp. Mistpaw nodded, eyes alert with a newfound maturity.
While many cats slept, there were still some clanmates going about nighttime chores and routines. Lynxshine and Harriershade shared tongues outside the warrior’s den, brother and sister in quiet conversation. Charpatch watched the stars shine over the ocean, tail dangling off the edge of the cave mouth. Avocetcloud paced around the nursery. Eyes and ears turned towards Gooseleg and Palescar as everyone smelled blood.
“Hailbranch, Martenpaw!” Palescar called. “Gooseleg needs help!” Hailbranch was out of the holy den in the blink of an eye while Martenpaw tried to shake off sleep.
“Gooseleg, who did this to you?” Hailbranch snapped, tail wrapping over Gooseleg’s back, her pelt smeared with Gooseleg’s blood as they limped to the holy den. “Martenpaw, get cobwebs and gather herbs for preventing infection, you know what we have.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Martenpaw chirped, lunging at the wall of herbs. Cats poked their heads out of their dens. Lemmingstar leapt from her den and landed in the center of camp.
“Gooseleg?” Fidgetflower stammered, shoving past Lynxshine and Harriershade. Rollerfall scrambled out of the holy den to make room for the healers. Gooseleg collapsed into a nest.
“Rippedpool, Beaverstone, over here,” Lemmingstar barked. The deputy and story-keeper ran out of the warrior’s den and joined their leader’s side. Martenpaw dropped a wad of cobwebs by her mentor’s paws.
“May lily roots and nettle leaves in the poultice?” Martenpaw suggested, grabbing the herbs from the stores.
“Staunching blood and calming swelling, very good,” Hailbranch huffed, as orderly as ever, even when her paws were soaked with blood from wrapping Gooseleg’s wounds.
“What happened?” Lemmingstar growled, stepping into the holy den.
“I was hunting,” Gooseleg panted, thoughts scattered with pain and fear. “Someone attacked me, a PuffinClan cat, a molly. I couldn’t see who.”
“All I smell is lavender,” Rippedpool muttered as Lemmingstar growled.
“She reeked of rabbits when she came in,” Palescar explained, keeping Fidgetflower away.
“We spend days trying to fix the border, and when we get a little more land in the end, PuffinClan has the gall to attack one of our counselors?” Lemmingstar hissed, spinning out of the den with a thrashing tail and curled lips.
“Lemmingstar, we need to investigate this,” Beaverstone gulped, following his leader. “We don’t know who exactly attacked Gooseleg.”
“I’m done with investigations!” Lemmingstar barked, facing Beaverstone. The tom backed away, tail tucked and head bowed to his furious leader. All of CliffClan watched her as she yowled, “CliffClan are not warriors to be played with like mice. We’ve spent half a moon looking for the snake-tongue who moved the border. PuffinClan’s always played the victim. We’ve met their demands again and again. I publicly clawed an apprentice to please them!” Martenpaw fed Gooseleg a few poppy seeds. As Gooseleg’s thoughts swirled and sleep took over, Lemmingstar declared, “It is time for CliffClan to set the rules!”
“We’re faster than her!” Doctor cheered, matching Archpelt’s sprint through the trees.
“You can’t beat PuffinClan speed,” Archpelt huffed, humor masking his terror.
“Tree!” Doctor yelped, shoving Archpelt to the left. Archpelt flipped over, the world spinning in darkness. He tumbled down a hill, hitting rocks and the sides of trees. He dug his claws into the grass and slid to the bottom of the hill. Someone skidded beside him with the jingle of a collar.
“Big bush, behind you, hide!” Doctor hissed. Archpelt spun and dove into thick brambles and leaves that scratched his skin. Doctor’s collar jingled, moving farther away. Another set of paws slid down the hill. Archpelt held his breath. The hunter growled. Archpelt waited for teeth to dig into his throat.
When a minute passed and no painful end arrived, Archpelt assumed he was safe. Both the hunter’s scent and Doctor’s were fading. He peered out of the bush and then remembered that wasn’t going to do any good. He shook the brambles away and got out. Now he was more lost than ever. If he wanted to get home, he had to find Doctor. Archpelt couldn’t live with himself if he got some helpless kittypet killed.
Archpelt followed the scent trail, paws feeling the path ahead for roots or stones. Doctor’s scent stood out with its unnatural human tint, but the hunter was different. Her scent was strong CliffClan, of dirt and caves and rocks, but it was too CliffClan. The smell of the territory overwhelmed the hunter’s personal scent, making it impossible to tell anything but gender. Whomever was hunting Archpelt didn’t want her identity known, but she wanted her clan to be known. What game was she playing?
A sudden grief overwhelmed Archpelt. He would never see his kits again. Even if he found his way home, he could never meet their eyes. He knew Shimmerblaze wouldn’t be able to bring his vision back. The blood on his face was close to dry and the pain in his eyes grew every moment. Blinking burned.
“Archpelt!” Doctor wailed, somewhere ahead. “Help!” Archpelt sped up, trusting his nose to avoid the trees. This was no time to mope! He had to fight.
Archpelt almost ran past Doctor. He caught his scent, fresher than ever, mixed with a tinge of blood. The wind blew against his pelt. He was in a clearing or the edge of the trees, somewhere open. The hunter’s scent swarmed the area. Archpelt hissed, spinning around, trying to find her.
“She’s not here!” Doctor cried. “She left me alone when she realized I wasn’t you!”
“Are you hurt?” Archpelt asked, sniffing. “Come closer.” His collar jingled.
“Archpelt,” Doctor groaned.
“How close are we to the clans?” Archpelt huffed. “If we hurry, we can leave before she comes back.” He tasted the air. Doctor’s fear scent was fading. Archpelt’s ear twitched, confused. Why did Doctor no longer smell terrified?
“She was going to kill me,” Doctor whined. “She forced me to lead you here!” Archpelt’s heart dropped.
A twig cracked behind him.
Thrushpaw woke up in a field of brown and yellow flowers. Pollen tickled his nose. He sneezed, blowing a few petals away. A prideful purr rumbled through his body. He was getting used to visiting StarClan in his dreams. He was becoming a true seer! He didn’t mind the ocean smell that lingered in the air. He hoped he always arrived in that field.
“Halfstar?” he called, stretching. “Leafdapple? I’ll even talk to Blacksplash!” He assumed he was here to receive thanks. He found the first seer! Granted, that seer was an entitled kittypet who complained about sleeping outside, but Gorgeous would get used to clan life.
Thrushpaw scanned the impossible landscape lit by both the sun and moon. He couldn’t see or smell anyone. Did they expect him to find them? He trotted out of the flowers, the smell of sea salt clinging to his pelt. He traveled towards the hills, in the direction Leafdapple had taken him a quarter moon before. Had a giant mountain always lurked at the horizon’s edge? Thrushpaw thought he would have remembered something like that.
“Is there anything important I should know?” Thrushpaw said to no one. “Are we going in the right direction? Any advice for Podpaw’s foot?” Why wasn’t anyone around?
Someone ran into Thrushpaw’s flank. He tripped and glanced behind him. There was a silver molly standing there, with blue-green eyes, a white speckled face, and stars dripping from her nose and mouth like a bad cold. She leapt back, just as surprised as Thrushpaw.
“Um…” Thrushpaw gulped, racking his memory for stories of a silver molly. “PuffinClan?”
“...yes,” the molly mumbled after a moment. “You must be Thrushpaw. I’m typically more aware of myself, but I’m in a rush today. My name is Icebrook.” Icebrook… Shimmerblaze and Archpelt’s mother! Thrushpaw had heard the name quite a few times.
“Aren’t you here to talk to me?” he asked. “Wait, what could a StarClan cat have to be in a rush for?”
“You might be here for the same reason I am,” Icebrook sighed, raised tail dipping in sympathy (sympathy to what?). “Why don’t we walk together?”
“Where are we going?” Thrushpaw muttered.
“I’m meeting someone,” Icebrook explained. “Please, follow me. This will be good for him.” Thrushpaw was so confused, he forgot to ask who Icebrook meant.
They wandered towards the mountain, the salty smell fading. The land flattened and trees popped up with curving branches weighed down by huge apples. There were more StarClan cats a few fox-lengths away, all heading the same direction as Icebrook and Thrushpaw.
“I thought this place would make a good impression,” Icebrook hummed. “Sunseed and I find the arch in the branches beautiful. We always have. We named our kits after apple trees. Archpelt for the bend of branches, Shimmerblaze for the shine of a ripe apple. There’s only two in PuffinClan. It made it special.”
“I don’t know what we’re doing,” Thrushpaw huffed. There was a crowd up ahead, gathered by a small pond. Thrushpaw recognized Halfstar and Leafdapple in the sea of starry pelts. They seemed excited. Was there something in the pond?
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Icebrook purred, catching the group’s attention. “I found our visitor.” Thrushpaw’s pelt burned under the gaze of so many of his ancestors. He softly nodded to each one. Icebrook joined a ginger tom with a white muzzle; that had to be Sunseed.
“Is there a celebration?” Thrushpaw asked. Was it for his accomplishments? He didn’t dare ask that aloud. The crowd parted, opening a path to the pond. Sitting at the water’s edge was Archpelt.
“Archpelt, I’m so happy to see you,” Thrushpaw gasped, jogging to the senior seer. “I’m sorry I left without telling you, I’m…” Thrushpaw’s words slipped from his mind.
Archpelt didn’t look right. The gray specks that danced around his muzzle were few and far between when they had once coated his face like snowflakes. His pelt was fuller, not entirely youthful, but not thin. Stars glowed across his eyes and down his throat.
“You’ve done well,” Archpelt sighed, a half-hearted acknowledgement.
“No,” Thrushpaw whispered. “No no no no no, you’re not here, you’re just dreaming back at home, this is a regular dream that isn’t really happening.” Thrushpaw pressed his face into Archpelt’s shoulder, his eyes wide. Archpelt smelled of goldenrods and the nursery. “This didn’t happen, not when I wasn’t there, this didn’t happen.”
“Thrushpaw, please,” Archpelt begged, chin on Thrushpaw’s head. “You had to leave. No one could have prevented this.”
“You’re not dead!” Thrushpaw yowled, closing his eyes and turning away. “I’m going to wake up and go home and when I do, you’re going to be there and I’ll tell you about everything I’ve done so far and say sorry for leaving you behind. I wasn’t sent to find your replacement. That’s not why I’m here.”
“I hold no ill will to you,” Archpelt promised. “While the clans handle their affairs, it is your job to keep my legacy alive. Bring fresh blood to the clans and share my teachings with the starwatchers. Don’t forget what’s waiting for you.”
“This is a nightmare,” Thrushpaw muttered, laying down. “This is a nightmare. I’m going to wake up. I’m waking up now and you won’t be here.”
“I consider you as much my apprentice as Murkstream was,” Archpelt told him. “Remember that.” Thrushpaw spun around, a paw raised to bat some sense into his living mentor.
Thrushpaw was at the bottom of a gentle hill, the stars dulled by glowing lights on the horizon. Bumblepaw slept beside him. Flowerpaw’s tail laid over Podpaw. Gorgeous slept in a tidy loaf while Faith curled beside her. Thrushpaw couldn’t slow his breathing.
“Wake up,” he ordered, kicking Bumblepaw. “All of you, wake up.” Bumblepaw jolted awake, his long fur flying in all directions. Gorgeous hissed while Faith groaned, still half asleep and turning over.
“What time is it?” Flowerpaw huffed, moons of training snapping her and her brother awake.
“We need to get going,” Thrushpaw growled, shoving Faith with his nose. “The other seer could be right nearby. We need to find them.”
“Darling, we can do that in the morning,” Gorgeous grunted. “I’m exhausted. Go back to sleep.”
“The sooner we find the seer, the sooner we get home,” Thrushpaw spat, kicking and prodding everyone to their paws. “We need to get home.”
“Do you have bees in your brain?” Bumblepaw yawned. “What’s the rush?”
“We wasted time!” Thrushpaw barked, paws itching to move. “We should have been home. I should have been there!”
“Thrushpaw, you’re breathing really fast,” Faith gulped, scratching her collar.
“We should have brought Codpaw,” Bumblepaw groaned. “Thrush, what’s wrong?”
“Everything!” Thrushpaw yowled. “Everything is wrong, Bumblepaw! We shouldn’t have left home when our clan was in the middle of fighting with CliffClan!” Thrushpaw’s thoughts were moving too fast. His back arched and his tail tucked itself between his legs.
“What does Dad do when cats are panicking?” Podpaw whispered, paw cradled to his side. Flowerpaw marched to Thrushpaw and pressed both front paws into his bristling back.
“You’re right here,” Flowerpaw muttered, repeating words spoken in broken moments by her father. “You can breathe.” Thrushpaw stared at the glowing horizon, trying to deny the horrible truth he saw.
Someone killed Archpelt. PuffinClan would tear apart the world to avenge him.