style="font-size:15px;"> Sorrelpaw had ventured too close to the Thunderpath while she was chasing a squirrel in newleaf. A Twoleg monster had struck her a glancing blow, injuring her shoulder. While she lay in Cinderpelt’s den for three long, uncomfortable moons, under the gentle care of the medicine cat, her brothers, Sootfur and Rainwhisker, had become warriors. Sorrelpaw had been determined to follow them as soon as Cinderpelt declared her fit enough to begin training again; Brambleclaw had watched how hard she had worked with her mentor, Sandstorm, until her shoulder was as good as new. She had never shown any bitterness at being forced to train for several moons longer than the usual apprenticeship. She really deserved her warrior ceremony.
“I’ve just taken fresh-kill to Ferncloud,” she meowed to Brambleclaw. “Her kits are beautiful! Have you seen them yet?”
“No, not yet,” Brambleclaw replied. Ferncloud’s second litter of kits had been born only the day before.
“Go now,” Sorrelpaw urged him. “You’ve just enough time before we hunt.” She sprang up and danced a few steps sideways, as if all her energy had to go somewhere.
Brambleclaw set off for the nursery, which was hidden in the depths of a bramble thicket near the centre of the camp. He squeezed through the narrow entrance, wincing as thorns scraped against his broad shoulders. Inside it was warm and quiet. Ferncloud was lying on her side in a deep nest of moss. Her green eyes glowed as she gazed at the three tiny kits curled up snugly in the curve of her body: one was pale grey like her, the other two brown tabbies like their father, Dustpelt. He was in the nursery too, crouched beside Ferncloud with his paws tucked under him, occasionally rasping his tongue affectionately over her ear.
“Hi, there, Brambleclaw,” he meowed as the younger warrior appeared. “Come to see the new kits?” He looked ready to burst with pride, quite different from his usual prickly, detached air.
“They’re beautiful,” Brambleclaw mewed, touching noses with Ferncloud in greeting. “Have you chosen names for them yet?”
Ferncloud shook her head, blinking drowsily up at him. “Not yet.”
“There’s time enough for that.” Goldenflower, the oldest ThunderClan queen and Brambleclaw’s own mother, spoke from her mossy bed. She had no kits of her own to nurse, but she had decided to stay in the nursery and share the care of the new arrivals instead of taking up her warrior duties again; she was nearing the time when she would go to join the elders in their den, and was the first to admit that her hearing and eyesight were no longer sharp enough to keep up with the best hunting patrols. “They’re strong, healthy kits, that’s what matters, and Ferncloud has plenty of milk.”
Brambleclaw respectfully dipped his head to her. “She’s lucky to have you to help look after them.”
“Well, I didn’t do too bad a job with you,” Goldenflower purred proudly.
“There’s something you could do for me,” Dustpelt meowed to Brambleclaw as he was leaving.
“Sure, if I can.”
“Keep an eye on Squirrelpaw, would you? I want to spend a day or two with Ferncloud, while the kits are still so small, but Squirrelpaw shouldn’t be left without a mentor for too long.”
Squirrelpaw! Brambleclaw groaned inwardly. Firestar’s daughter, eight moons old, recently apprenticed—and the biggest nuisance in ThunderClan.
“It’ll be good practice for when you have an apprentice of your own,” Dustpelt added, as if he sensed his Clan mate’s reluctance.
Brambleclaw knew that Dustpelt was right. He hoped that Firestar would choose him to be a mentor before much longer, with an apprentice of his own to train in the warrior code, but he also hoped that his apprentice would not be some smart-aleck ginger she-cat who thought she knew it all. He was well aware that Squirrelpaw would not take kindly to orders coming from him.
“OK, Dustpelt,” he meowed. “I’ll do my best.”
When Brambleclaw emerged from the nursery he saw that more cats had appeared in the clearing. Brightheart, a pretty white she-cat with ginger patches on her fur like fallen leaves, had just chosen a piece of fresh-kill from the remains of the pile and was taking it across to where Cloudtail still sat by the nettle patch. The uninjured side of her face was turned to Brambleclaw, so that he could almost forget the disfiguring wounds she had received when the dog pack roamed the forest. One side of her face was seamed with scars, and her ear had been shredded; there was only a gouge mark where her eye should be. Even though she survived the vicious attack, the Clan had feared that she would never be a warrior. It was Cloudtail who had trained with her and worked out ways of making up for her blindness on that side, even turning it into a strength, so that now she could fight and hunt as well as any cat.
Cloudtail greeted her with a flick of his tail and she sat beside him to eat.
“Brambleclaw! There you are!”
Brambleclaw turned and saw a long-legged ginger warrior heading toward him from the direction of the warriors’ den. He padded over to meet him. “Hi, Brackenfur. Greystripe said you’re organising hunting patrols.”
“That’s right,” Brackenfur meowed. “Will you go out with Squirrelpaw this morning, please?”
He angled his ears toward the apprentices’ den, and Brambleclaw noticed for the first time that Squirrelpaw was half-concealed in the shade of the ferns. She sat tall, her tail curled around her paws, her green eyes following a bright-winged butterfly. When Brackenfur beckoned her with his tail, she got up and strolled across the clearing, her tail straight up and her dark ginger fur gleaming in the sunlight.
“Hunting patrol,” Brackenfur explained briefly. “Dustpelt is busy, so you can go with Brambleclaw. Can you find another cat to go with you?”
Without waiting for an answer, he hurried off toward Sandstorm and Sorrelpaw.
Squirrelpaw yawned and stretched. “Well,” she meowed. “Where shall we go?”
“I thought Sunningrocks,” Brambleclaw began. “Then we can—”
“Sunningrocks?” Squirrelpaw interrupted, her eyes stretching wide in disbelief. “Are you mouse-brained? On a day as hot as this, all the prey will be hiding down cracks. We won’t catch so much as a whisker.”
“It’s still early,” Brambleclaw replied crossly. “The prey will be out for a while yet.”
Squirrelpaw let out a heavy sigh. “Honestly, Brambleclaw, you always think you know better than anyone else.”
“Well, I am a warrior,” Brambleclaw pointed out, and knew instantly it was the wrong thing to say.
Squirrelpaw bowed her head in deep and exaggerated respect. “Yes, O Great One,” she meowed. “I shall do exactly what you say. And when we come back empty-pawed, maybe you’ll admit that I was right.”
“Well, then,” Brambleclaw mewed, “if you’re so clever, where do you think we should hunt?”
“Up toward Fourtrees, by the stream,” Squirrelpaw replied promptly. “That’s a much better place.”
Brambleclaw was even more annoyed when he realised that she might be right. In spite of the endless hot days that had lasted
