Crookedstar’s Promise

He sniffed again, unable to put a cat’s name to the scent through the strong smell of heather. But it was definitely RiverClan. Had Hailstar sent a patrol to find him? That seemed unlikely. He’d been alone in the nursery. Who would even know he was missing yet? He frowned and kept going.

At the top of the slope, a small pile of rocks jutted from the heather. Crookedkit scrambled onto the lowest rock and looked at the stones above him. If he could get higher he might be able to see Highstones. He glanced up at the sky, wishing the clouds would clear. He wanted to see Silverpelt and know that StarClan was near. Rain spattered his nose. Screwing up his eyes, he reached up the rock, feeling for cracks to curl his claws into. Finding one, he hauled himself up and scrabbled onto the next boulder. He was above the heather now. It stretched out ahead of him, and in the distant darkness he could just make out the jagged shape of Highstones.

A warm wind tugged his wet pelt. He tasted the air. The RiverClan scent hit his tongue again, clearer now. He could recognize it now.

Fallowtail!

A mew sounded on the breeze. Crookedkit scrabbled up onto the summit of the outcrop and crouched at the top.

“Did you hear something?”

A deep mew sounded below. Clinging to the wet stone with outstretched claws, Crookedkit crept forward and peered over the edge. Two pelts gleamed in the heather below. Crookedkit gasped. Grit showered from beneath his claws.

Fallowtail’s light brown pelt glowed in the half-light. A tabby tom stood with her. Crookedkit shot backward and pressed his belly against the rock.

“Is someone up there?” Fallowtail’s mew sounded frightened.

“I’ll look,” the tom growled.

Crookedkit froze. The stench wafting up alongside Fallowtail’s fear-scent smelled like the markers he’d passed at the border. WindClan! As claws scraped rock, Crookedkit slithered tail-first over the edge of the boulder. He landed clumsily on the ledge below and pressed himself into the shadow, thankful he was small enough to hide in the shallow crevice where the boulders met. Drawing his tail close, he waited, trembling.

“I can’t see anything,” a voice called above him.

“Let me look.”

Crookedkit heard another pelt brush stone.

“I can smell RiverClan!” Fallowtail gasped.

“But no one’s here,” the tom soothed. “There’s nowhere for a warrior to hide.”

“I smell RiverClan!” Fallowtail’s breathing quickened. “Some cat must have followed me. Let’s go.”

Crookedkit pressed himself harder into the crack as Fallowtail and the other cat slid down past him. Paws damp with fear, he stared from his hiding place as the warriors slipped into the heather and bounded away across the moor. When his breathing had slowed, he crept out of the crevice and slithered down the rock. He padded around the outcrop, skirting the trail of mixed WindClan and RiverClan scent, and pressed on toward Highstones.

His mind whirled as he followed a track through the gorse, ears pricked and pelt bristling. What was Fallowtail doing here? Had Hailstar sent her on a secret mission? But why was she with a WindClan tom? Was he helping her? Why would any warrior betray his Clan like that?

The rain eased and the clouds drifted away until the moon was a claw-scratch of silver against a crow-black sky. Crookedkit crested a short, steep rise that stood like an island in the vast sea of heather. Highstones towered in the distance, more sharply etched against the sky but no closer than they had been before. Crookedkit gazed in dismay at the wide space between the moorland and the Moonstone. It was broken by hedges and stretches of meadow and dark shapes he guessed must be Twoleg nests.

How would he ever travel that far? His belly growled. If only he knew how to hunt! It couldn’t be that hard. Echomist was always complaining about kittypets hunting on the edges of their territory. If a kittypet could do it, then so could he. And imagine Rainflower’s face when he told her he’d traveled to the Moonstone and back! He tasted the air, hoping to scent prey, but smelled nothing more than heather and WindClan stink. Sighing, he padded down the rise. At least the edge of the moor was close. He could see where it tipped down toward the meadows beyond. He’d be out of WindClan territory by moonhigh.

Bushes rustled behind him. Crookedkit whipped around and glimpsed a pair of eyes flashing in the heather.

StarClan, help me!

Heart lurching, he ran. His claws sprayed peat as he hurtled through a swath of gorse. The sharp twigs snagged his pelt but he hardly felt the pain. Paws thrummed the ground behind him. Crookedkit didn’t dare look back as he skidded over the crest at the edge of the moor and raced down the slope toward the meadowland.