A Forest Divided (28 page)

And they will fight for Star Flower.

They had to! Even if Clear Sky had to
force
them to fight.

No one threatens my kits and gets away with it.

Slate skidded to a halt, panting,
and gazed around, her ears pricked. The moorland stretched away from her in all directions, the short, springy grass dotted with clumps of reeds, gorse bushes, and outcrops of rock. Nothing moved in all the landscape.

“Cricket!” Slate yowled, her pelt prickling with worry. “Cricket, where are you?”

There was no reply, no glimpse of her brother's orange tabby fur.

I thought he was right behind me. . . .

Slate and her brother, Cricket, had been racing toward a big jutting boulder that reared up from the flat moorland in front of them. Slate had been winning, and when she'd glanced over her shoulder to see how close her brother was, he had vanished.

It was stupid of me to get so far ahead,
Slate thought.
What if something happened to him
?
Cricket is always getting into mischief.
There were foxes and badgers on the moors, she knew, not to mention those aggressive cats who had appeared out of nowhere a few seasons before and settled down in huge groups as if they owned the place. What if Cricket had run into them?

Though they were littermates, Slate and Cricket were completely different cats. Slate had amber eyes and thick gray fur, quite unlike Cricket's orange tabby pelt. Cricket was lighthearted, always joking and playing around, while Slate was more serious and liked to plan ahead.

Once they had been part of a happy family. But the sickness that stalked the moor had taken their mother and their sister, leaving Slate and Cricket alone.

We only have each other,
Slate thought.
I have to find him!

“YAAAHHHHH!” Slate let out a terrified yowl as something heavy landed on her back and she felt four sets of claws digging into her pelt. Instinctively she hit the ground and rolled, sliding out her claws and bracing her muscles for a fight. But her attacker still clung on, and Slate heard bubbling
mrrow
s of laughter coming from him.

“Cricket!” she spat. “You stupid furball!”

Cricket leaped away from her, and Slate scrambled to her paws to see him standing close beside her, his green eyes bright.

“You frightened me out of my fur!” she exclaimed.

“Yeah, I really got you.” Cricket's tail curled with amusement. “You should have seen your face!”

Slate drew her lips back in the beginning of a snarl, then a moment later relaxed and swatted at her brother, brushing his ear with her claws sheathed.
I can't get angry with him. I love him too much.

“We can't mess around all day,” she meowed. “We need to hunt.”

Cricket nodded vigorously. “My belly has never felt this empty.”

“Come on, then. I bet I catch something first.”

“We'll see about that,” Cricket retorted.

The two cats split up. Cricket disappeared around a scatter of boulders, while Slate prowled across the moor, heading for the clumps of longer grass that grew around a pool.
That's a good place for prey to hide.

Slate parted her jaws to taste the air, and picked up the scent of mouse. When she angled her ears forward, she heard tiny sounds of scuffling from the long grass and saw the stems twitching as a mouse pushed its way between them. Setting her paws down lightly, Slate crept up on her prey, then bunched her muscles for a pounce. Her paws slammed down on the terrified creature and she grabbed it in her claws.

Suddenly a yowl of alarm came from behind the boulders where Cricket had disappeared. Slate paused, her head raised, the mouse wriggling desperately in her grip.

Is Cricket playing another joke?
she wondered.
I'll make him sorry if I lose this mouse and we don't eat today.

Sniffing, she caught a trace of rank scent drifting toward her.
Fox!
Releasing the mouse, she spun around in time to hear another yowl as Cricket burst into the open from behind the clump of boulders. A big fox was hard on his paws, jaws wide to grab him.

My brother is not your prey!

Her heart thumping hard, Slate raced across the grass and hurled herself at the fox, swiping at its shoulder with her claws
extended. The fox whipped around, faster than Slate had thought possible. She screeched as the fox's teeth sank into her ear and pain flooded her senses.

Slate pulled back, horrified to feel the tip of her ear tear away. For a couple of heartbeats darkness covered her eyes and her legs wobbled unsteadily.

When her vision cleared, Slate saw Cricket and the fox circling each other, both poised for the next blow. For a brief moment she realized how hungry the fox must be, now that the sickness on the moor had wiped out so much of the prey.
It needs food, just like us.

Then she saw the blood pouring from her brother's shoulder, and any sympathy she might have felt for the fox vanished like dew under hot sunlight. She lunged again, raking her claws down its side, then leaped back out of range as the fox turned toward her, snarling. Cricket dashed up behind it, nipping at its hind paws.

Slate wanted to reach her brother so that they could attack together, but the fox was too wily for that. It kept its body between the two cats, attacking so viciously, so fast, to one side and then the other, that Slate and Cricket couldn't join up to fight side by side.

It could kill us,
Slate realized, cold terror trickling down her spine.

She made one final attempt to dart around the fox, slashing it across the snout with both her forepaws as she lunged. For a heartbeat she thought she had made it past the bigger animal. Then searing pain tore across her belly, and she realized that
she had left herself vulnerable to the fox's powerful claws.

Slate let out a shriek. Her paws slipped on her own blood and she collapsed onto her side.

“Slate!” Cricket screeched, a look of horror on his face.

For a moment he stood frozen, staring, as the fox swung back toward him.

“Cricket!” Slate choked out in warning, afraid that he was too shocked to defend himself.

But Cricket recovered just in time to meet the fox as it sprang toward him. He raised one paw and scratched the fox along the side of its face. The fox yowled in pain as Cricket's claws sank into its eye. It drew back, stumbling and shaking its head from side to side as blood streamed down its face.

It can't see out of that eye,
Slate thought.
I can attack it from that side, slash its throat, and end all this.

But as Slate tried to heave herself to her paws, she realized with horror that she couldn't move anymore. The blood from the wound in her belly was soaking the grass all around her. Dark mist was creeping up on her from every side.

A screech of rage reached her ears, seeming to come from far, far away. As her vision blurred, she made out a blocky shape—she couldn't even tell whether it was Cricket or the fox—hurling itself toward the other in a furious attack. Then the mist swirled around her, thicker and thicker, until with a defeated whimper Slate gave herself up to darkness.

Huge green eyes peered into Slate's
and whiskers brushed across her face as she blinked groggily awake. With great effort she managed to raise her head, her torn ear aching with pain.

At her movement, the cat who was bending over her, a thin gray tabby tom, leaped back, startled. He looked vaguely familiar, but for the moment Slate couldn't remember where she'd seen him before.

“You're alive!” he exclaimed, relief in his voice.

Slate barely paid any attention to his words. She had spotted some fur lying in the grass just beyond him: the most familiar fur in the world. The orange tabby fur of her brother, Cricket. Slate closed her eyes, trying to block out the sight of her littermate's fur strewn in a mess of grass and blood.

“No . . .” she choked out.

The gray tabby followed her glance, and moved to stand between her and Cricket, fluffing out his fur to block her view. “You friend wasn't so lucky,” he mewed, his voice soft and regretful. “I was out hunting and found you . . . and the remains of him,” he added after a moment's pause. “The fox had gone by then.”

Slate closed her eyes as grief washed over her like a cold wave, sweeping her away to drown in darkness.
Cricket gone . . . it's not possible.
She seemed to live the moment over again when she could have saved him, could have killed the fox or driven it off, if only she could have moved.
I failed my brother. It's my fault he's dead.

The touch of a paw on her forehead roused Slate. She opened her eyes to see the tabby tom bending over her again, concern in his green eyes. “I'm sorry for your loss,” he meowed, “and to be honest, you don't look too good, either. You've lost a lot of blood. I know a cat who can help, but you need to stay alive while I go to fetch him. Okay?” He blinked encouragingly. “Promise?”

Slate forced herself to nod in response, but she had no interest in staying alive.
What can the world possibly have to offer me now?

“I don't mean to offend you,” the gray tabby mewed, “but that wasn't much of a nod. I'm not sure I believe you.” He thought for a moment, then went on. “Right, new plan. I'll send my mate and kits to keep an eye on you while I get help. They will make sure that no dangerous animals come near, too. Okay?”

This time he didn't wait for Slate to respond, just bounded off across the moor.

Slate knew the tom was being kind, but she wished he would just leave her alone. What did it matter if she died? She could join Cricket, then. She closed her eyes again, inviting the blackness to take her, sinking into it with a sigh of relief as
her senses whirled away.

But Slate could not stay in the comforting darkness for long. She was roused by the sensation of being prodded all over by tiny paws. Forcing her eyes open, she saw two bright-eyed kits staring at her: a white she-cat and a gray tom.

“She's dead,” the white kit mewed, sounding disappointed.

“She's not,” the little gray tom retorted. “See, she's looking at you.”

The white kit let out a gasp of excitement. “Her eyes are open!” Taking a step forward, she peered more closely at Slate and added, “Hello. Do you want to be friends?”

“Get away from her!” A sharp voice sounded in the distance; Slate couldn't see the cat it was coming from. “We don't know what kind of diseases that rogue might have.”

Instantly the kits backed away and were replaced by a wiry brown she-cat; like the tom, she looked vaguely familiar to Slate. She halted several tail-lengths away and looked Slate up and down, her yellow eyes unimpressed.

Slate flexed her claws in annoyance at the she-cat's rudeness.
I don't know why I should care. All I want is to die in peace . . . but I'd like to claw that sneering look off her face.
She was offended, too, that the she-cat had called her a rogue.

Now I remember who these cats are,
she thought.
They're part of the group Cricket was always complaining about.
Cricket had been outraged by the way these cats had appeared on the moor and settled down there and in the nearby forest, making it harder for the local cats to find prey. And they'd called the cats who had always lived here
rogues
.

“They want to fight all the time,” Cricket had said scornfully. “They're violent prey-stealers, and I don't want anything to do with them.”

Slate raised her head and glared back at the brown she-cat. “Hello,” she meowed pointedly. “I can hear you, you know.”

The she-cat narrowed her eyes. “So you're alive,” she snorted, not sounding happy about it. “You don't have the sickness, do you?”

No, just this gaping wound in my belly,
Slate thought. Aloud, she replied, “No, I don't have the sickness. My name is Slate,” she added.

The brown she-cat whisked her tail. “I'm Wind Runner.”

“And the kits?” Slate asked.

Wind Runner eyed her warily. “You don't need to know their names.”

Lovely,
Slate thought.
What a delightful cat to share my dying moments with.
She cast a disdainful look toward Wind Runner. The brown she-cat was ignoring Slate now, instead clawing up moss. When she had a mouthful, she trotted off with it in her jaws. A few heartbeats later she returned, with the moss dripping wet.

“Here,” she growled, dumping the moss beside Slate's head. “Drink.”

Slate stretched out her tongue and lapped at the moss. The water was cool and fresh, and Slate thought she had never tasted anything so delicious in her entire life.

While she was drinking, Wind Runner scraped together a bundle of grass, leaves, and more moss, and tucked it under
Slate's head to prop her up.

“What happened?” she asked brusquely.

Slate was bewildered by the contrast between Wind Runner's kind actions and the roughness of her speech. “It was a fox,” she replied at last. “It attacked me and my brother, Cricket.” Her voice shook as she added, “Cricket was killed.”

Wind Runner looked stricken at the news. “I've noticed that fox lurking around the edges of our camp,” she meowed. She turned toward her kits, who were play wrestling a little way away on the moor, and beckoned them with her tail. “Come closer!” she yowled.

The kits broke apart and scrambled to their paws. “You told us to get away from that sick cat,” the white she-kit reminded her mother.

Wind Runner twitched her tail-tip in exasperation. “Come a little closer, then, but not
too
close,” she meowed. “Do you have kits?” she asked, turning back to Slate as the kits scampered up.

“I've never seemed to have the time,” Slate replied. She hadn't met a tom she wanted to have kits with, either, but she didn't feel like telling Wind Runner that.

She expected Wind Runner to say something comforting about how Slate would have kits someday, but instead the brown she-cat just snorted.

“You're lucky in a way,” she continued after a moment. “Kits are exhausting. I haven't slept a single night through since they were born.”

“They must be very needy, then,” Slate mewed.

Wind Runner shook her head, her hard yellow gaze growing soft and affectionate. “No, it's my problem,” she admitted. “I love them too much.”

She's not unkind at all,
Slate thought, rapidly revising her opinion of the she-cat.
Just tough on the outside—but there's more to her than meets the eye.

Before she could say any more, the gray tabby tom reappeared, followed by a long-furred black tom with white on his ears, chest, and paws. He was carrying a bundle of leaves in his jaws.

“Oh, you've kept her awake,” the gray tom meowed, bounding up to Wind Runner and pressing his muzzle to her shoulder. “That's great.” Turning back to Slate, he added, “I'm Gorse Fur. Wind Runner's my mate. And this”—he waved his tail at the long-furred tom—“is Cloud Spots. He knows a lot about herbs and treating wounds, and he's come to help you.”

Slate closed her eyes as Cloud Spots padded up and began to examine her. She was vaguely aware of him sniffing at her wound and touching her belly with gentle paws, but she kept drifting away into unconsciousness. This time, though, the darkness wasn't as alluring. Perhaps she wasn't going to join her brother in death yet after all.

Finally Slate came back to full consciousness to hear Wind Runner, Gorse Fur, and Cloud Spots talking together, the sharp tones of an argument in their voices. She opened her eyes and turned her head toward them, struggling to make out what they were saying.

“What did you expect?” Cloud Spots was asking Wind Runner. “That you'd just leave her lying here in the grass? She's lost a lot of blood. I've patched her wound with cobweb and put on a poultice of chervil to fight infection, but she's very weak. She needs watching.”

“Then you should take her back to the hollow,” Wind Runner snapped.

The hollow? What does she mean?
Slate wondered, confused.

“I can't move her that far,” Cloud Spots retorted. “Her wound would break open again. Wind Runner,
your
camp is just the other side of that gorse thicket.”

Gorse Fur looked at his mate. “We could take her in,” he suggested. “Just for a moon or so.”

The fur on Wind Runner's shoulders bristled with annoyance. “We left the hollow to get
away
from other cats,” she pointed out. “To protect our kits. And now you want to take in some flea-bitten rogue?”

“Excuse me!” Slate struggled to sit up, all her early dislike of Wind Runner rushing back. “I don't
want
to come to your camp. I've no interest in joining a group like yours.”

“Why not?” Gorse Fur asked, his ears pricking up curiously.

“Because all you do is fight,” Slate retorted, repeating what Cricket had said so often. “And you take prey from the cats who were born here.”

“
We
were born here, thank you very much,” Wind Runner put in.

Cloud Spots waved his tail, gesturing for silence. “Then what do you want to do?” he asked Slate. “Do you have kin
who could look after you?”

An overpowering pang of grief for Cricket shook Slate from her ears to her tail-tip, but she did her best to hide it. She shook her head. “I'll look after myself,” she responded, putting out all her strength to draw herself to her paws.

She tried to stalk off casually, but after a single step she felt as if her legs had turned to water. She collapsed, her head spinning. “Oh . . .” she murmured.

Gorse Fur bounded to her side. “We'll take her in,” he meowed with a pointed look at Wind Runner. “We
have
to. Remember, she's some cat's kit.”

Slate looked up at Wind Runner, who let out an annoyed growl, then shrugged in resignation. “All right,” she told Slate. “But you
cannot
stay too long. We're not looking for more cats.”

Slate glared at her. “I'm not looking to become one of your cats.”

Cloud Spots's whiskers twitched in amusement. “Very well,” he meowed. “Something tells me you two will have lots to talk about.”