Larkfeather's Choice

PROLOGUE

THE moon was a silver claw hanging from the ashen night sky. Tendrils of light sauntered through the branches of the tall mossy pines — they stood both proudly and as hoary fortresses. Crows hoarsely cawed high up in the canopy of the trees. A pure-white tom slid around the edge of the bracken thicket, following at his heels was a dappled gray tom. The dry slope was dotted with medicine cats from their respective clans. They sat upright and looked about with their ears erect. The big white tom and his companion slipped under cover of the brambles and down into the ditch and up into the field, joining the others.

"So," said a ginger tabby with a twisted forepaw, a shade of unease creeping into his voice. "Is it bad?"

A tiny golden tabby opened her jaws as if to reply, but it was a black she-cat who spoke.

"It's infected. Harekick told us it was from a fall he took while fighting off those rogues. I don't know why he lied ... It looked horrible ... we told him he needed to get it checked out further, but I think he thought maybe if he ignored it, it might go away."

A tortoiseshell she-cat nodded. "I know what you mean. Some toms won't see a medicine cat unless their tails are about to fall off!"

The black she-cat paused for a moment before continuing. "I won't lie to you —

"You shouldn't waste your time." interjected the white tom quickly, as though to check her before she could say more. "He's going to die. Foam-Mouth out here is a death sentence." They were all startled by the bluntness with which the white tom went to the point. "I'm sure you did the best you could, Hollypaw." Moonshine said, in a tone Hollypaw couldn't decide was encouraging or patronizing.

"That can't be true!" cried a silver-gray she-cat. "Perhaps, he might get lucky."

"It is true, Mistypaw," replied Hollypaw. "I wish it weren't." she muttered under her breath.

"We don't want to panic cats," the golden tabby's tail twitched. "But Hollypaw and I have heard that there has been a Foam-Mouth outbreak that has occurred recently. WindClan patrols had reports of infected rogues near our borders. They said that they didn't ... look, right. The scent of sickness was so strong, that they smelled of marsh water and wharf rats."

"Infected rogues?" The ginger tabby's heart lurched. "Why don't we inform the clans straight away?"

"To prevent hysteria, Pebblefoot," answered the tortoiseshell she-cat firmly. Leaffall's apparent unnecessary comment only seemed to draw tighter on Pebblefoot's anxious impatience.

"What's really going on here?" questioned Moonshine. "Just how dangerous is this, Thornberry?" Thornberry flicked an ear, pondering the question for a few seconds. "The rest of our warriors all appear to still be relatively healthy, not in nearly as bad a shape as Harekick. As for the rogues ..." Thornberry let out a guilty sigh. "I hate to admit that they got away. But, the patrol saw tracks heading north."

"They probably went hunting for food. How many tracks did they see?"

"They think there were about four or five of them. All I can say is be alert."

Moonshine raised his right eyebrow as Hawkpaw fixed a dark gaze on Thornberry and Hollypaw. The other medicine cats were watching them expectantly, waiting for one of them to speak; dead eyes, all of them. But both sat in stony silence. Moonshine cleared his throat. "The last thing all of these cats here need is an unknown disease running rampant." He studied Thornberry and noticed how thin she was looking these days. Even from several fox-lengths away Moonshine could count her ribs. Pebblefoot eyed the WindClan medicine cats suspiciously. No cat responded.

The big white tom remained silent for a heartbeat, then gave his thick pelt a swift shake. "Hawkpaw and I should get back to camp," he growled. "It's freezing." The dappled gray tom who followed Moonshine back into the thicket felt rather inclined to side with his mentor. His tail spiked as he pictured a world of endemic sickness; kits shivering in their mothers' belly fur and anxious fathers. There were gruesome images flashing in his head, as clearly as if they were right in front of him. "Moonshine," whispered Hawkpaw. "Something very bad is going to happen; there's a danger coming to the clans."