Crookedstar’s Promise

“Look, the stepping-stones!” Stormkit spotted smooth boulders breaking the surface farther downstream. “We can get to Sunningrocks!”

Oakkit blinked. “Why would we go to Sunningrocks? It belongs to ThunderClan.”

“No, it doesn’t!” Stormkit answered hotly. “They’re invaders.” He glanced at the far bank. A stretch of sandy shore lay in the shade of Sunningrocks. Stormkit stiffened.

A cat was moving along the water’s edge, tugging at weeds that clung to the rocks and streams in the current. “Look!” he hissed to Oakkit.

“It must be a ThunderClan warrior!” Oakkit gasped.

“A warrior? No way!” Stormkit sniffed. “Look at him. He looks older than Sunningrocks.” The ThunderClan cat was unkempt, his thick gray coat clumped with burrs and twigs. His ears were ragged and his whiskers frazzled like chewed grass.

“What’s he doing?” Oakkit whispered.

The tom was nosing intently through the weeds along the shore, sniffing each one, tasting the air, and then hesitating a moment before tugging out a leaf or two with his shaggy paws.

Stormkit bristled. “He’s stealing our herbs!”

“They’re not exactly ours. Hailstar gave Sunningrocks to ThunderClan.”

“No, he didn’t. He just didn’t fight them. Besides”—Stormkit glanced up at the huge gray boulders that loomed over the river—“that old cat is on the shore, not the rocks, and that’s definitely ours.”

“Should we go and tell Shellheart?” mewed Oakkit.

Stormkit stared at his bother. “Are you frog-brained?”

“He’s on our land.”

“If we tell Shellheart, he’ll know we were outside camp.”

Oakkit frowned. “So what should we do?”

“Let’s chase him off!”

“Chase him off?” Oakkit’s eyes widened. “He’s bigger than both of us put together.”

“But look at the state of him!” Stormkit pointed out. “He can’t even wash himself. He’s obviously not a real warrior. He might not even be ThunderClan. He might be a loner.”

“I think we should tell Shellheart.” Oakkit dug his claws into the mud.

But Stormkit was already padding along the shore. “Let’s deal with this ourselves.”

Oakkit scurried after him. “We can’t take on a full-grown tom.”

“Why not? There are two of us.”

“But we—”

“Shhh!” Stormkit crouched and began stalking along the riverbank. “Or the mange-ball will hear us.”

The ragged tom was still sniffing his way from plant to plant.

Stormkit paused and pressed his belly to the mud, feeling water soak his fur. The stepping-stones began about a tail-length from the bank. A narrow stretch of water stood between him and the first rock. The river wasn’t flowing particularly fast, but it looked deep and cold around the base of the stone. Stormkit tensed, then leaped, clearing the channel and landing with a soft skid on the first stepping-stone. It felt smooth beneath his paws, worn by countless moons of lapping water.

Oakkit joined him with a muffled oof. There was only just enough room for both of them. “I still think we—”

Stormkit flicked his tail over Oakkit’s mouth. “Shhh!”

The river gurgled between the stepping-stones, making tiny whirlpools at the edges of the rock. Stormkit took a breath and launched himself toward the next stone. He landed with his paws splayed out, feeling dizzy; the river streamed around the rock so smoothly it seemed for a moment as though the rock were moving. Stormkit steadied his gaze, fixing it on the ragged tom who was still skulking in the shade of Sunningrocks, then jumped on to the next rock, and the next, keeping low and praying that the swirling river would camouflage their approach. He felt Oakkit’s pelt brush his as his littermate kept pace. One more stone and they’d be on the shore.

Oakkit breathed in his ear. “He’s going to see us for sure!”

“Not if we land over there.” Stormkit nodded toward a clump of mallow clinging at the river’s edge. “We’ll hide behind that.”

He sprang, pushing off hard, and swished through the mallow clump. Wet sand spattered around his paws as Oakkit landed clumsily beside him. Stormkit froze and glanced at the tom. Had he spotted them?

The tom was tugging at weeds, his pelt smooth, his gaze intent on his leaves. Then he looked up. His cold blue gaze bored into Stormkit’s.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice you?” A growl edged his mew.

Oakkit’s fur bushed up. “Let’s get out of here!”

“Not yet.” Stormkit showed his teeth. “You’re on RiverClan territory!” he hissed at the tom. “Get off our land.”

Oakkit unsheathed his claws. “Go and steal someone else’s herbs!”

The tom’s gaze narrowed. “How dare you?” His ears flattened.

Stormkit felt sick.

“He’s going to kill us!” Oakkit croaked.

“Run!” Stormkit turned and scrambled through the mallow. He skidded to a halt on the first stone, then leaped again.

Oakkit landed beside him. “Help!” he wailed as his hind paws slipped off the stone. Stormkit grabbed his brother’s scruff before Oakkit could slide into the swirling river.

“Thanks!” Oakkit regained his balance and jumped for the next stone. The tom yowled behind them. Stormkit hurtled after his brother.