The Darkest Moons (Warrior Cats)

57. Faith

     Scorchwing huffed as he ran, slamming his paws to the ground and leaping over rocks and fallen branches. Anger at his Clan gnawed at him. How can they be so quick to abandon him? They never let him defend himself! 

      When fatigue gripped him, he slowed and sat by a group of thorns. He clawed relentlessly at the grass, tearing at it. And Poppy sided with them. She didn’t say anything. Helen didn’t. Not even Shadowclaw! And Echolight acts like she’s certain! But she can’t be! He sneered and shoved himself up. I’m near the Streams. That’s where the fight happened, right? The Streams? That's what Patchback told Blackstar. 

     For what felt like the first time, Scorchwing had a plan to help Palemist. He dragged himself onward. He had slept little since his friend’s exile, worried for the warrior that he called a littermate. He was exhausted, but he could do what he needed to.  

     The Streams were average, slimming now that the rains had stopped. Scorchwing crept to the edge and sniffed around, smelling only water and mud. He scowled and inched along the bank, passing a vole burrow. He ignored the scent of prey, searching for something else. Any clue would help. Anything. 

     There has to be something. It hasn’t been too long. A scent. Please, let there be a scent. 

     Nothing. All scents had been washed away by the rain. Scorchwing groaned and plopped down in the mud, bending over and lapped up some of the cold water. He shook his head when his whiskers dropped from the liquid, and he glared unto the creek. No scents. I should have known. 

     A sharp breeze brushed him, ruffling his fur. He growled and rubbed his pelt down. When he looked down at the water, he saw a branch from the nearby brush twitching beside his reflection. Black fur stuck to it, hair flicking in the wind. Alarmed, he jumped up and stared at the scrap of fur. It was tucked into the leaves, kept dry by their shade. Hopefully, he sniffed it. Palemist's fur! The scent is almost completely stale. 

     Scorchwing pushed his nose into the intertwining twigs. By the bush's trunk was another scrap of fur; brown, course fluff that had washed onto the shore after the rains. It was embedded into the earth, left there in the mud, which dried over time. Scorchwing shoved further into the mess of shrubbery and sniffed anxiously. Rogue scent! Palemist must have fought a rogue here! Ashtail was killed further upstream, so I should check there. 

     Energized now, Scorchwing backed out and twisted, starting up the hill. He studied every bush and set of reeds that he passed, looking for some clue. He climbed the hill and froze. Another clump of black fur clung to the briars, ripped away in a rush, hidden amongst the red brambles. Scorchwing trotted towards it and sniffed. It was completely stale. Foxdung! Still, he was determined, shoving through and emerging on the other side. There were no scents – none of his Clanmates had come here to hunt – yet the grass was torn. Shoots were slowly growing back, restoring the tattered earth. 

     There must have been fighting here. 

     Scorchwing made his way to the middle, where the grass was the flattest. Sharp crabgrass had been snapped. The growth was oddly red, like the brambles he had passed through. Blood was here. Lots of it. 

     Something cold brushed against Scorchwing, forcing him to shiver harder than he had in moons. It lingered beside him, moving from his flank to his cheek. The scent of Newleaf washed over him, mixed with the smell of clean snow and dying leaves. 

     Look to the moss. 

     Scorchwing shuddered. Something had spoken to him, yet he heard no voice. "The moss?" He echoed.