FAILED // a Warriors short story

FAILED

He had failed.

Failed miserably.

The cat dragged himself through the undergrowth, hissing with stifled agony. Pain lanced through his left flank from the fresh cuts inflicted there. His head pounded. Blood was dripping into his eyes. His entire body ached from all the blows he had received. But he had to continue on. If he did not pass the border by sunrise, he would die.

He struggled on for a few more agonizing minutes, falling twice but regaining his paws each time, determined to put adequate distance between himself and those that had hurt him so. Finally he fell a third time, and this time did he not get back up.

Time stretched out, passing in painful heartbeats and labored breaths. The tomcat could taste his own blood in his mouth, but he didn't have enough energy even to gag at the metallic tang. His eyes were pressed closed and his skin radiated heat. All he could feel was the blistering pain of his wounds. The rest was a haze of darkness.

Eventually his senses cleared somewhat, and the tom's eyes fluttered open. He noted with some surprise that he had collapsed at the edge of a small pond, and his right forepaw was submerged. The tom grunted and pulled himself forward enough so that he could drink. The cool water cleared his head even more, and then he dunked his face into the pool to wash the blood out of his eyes.

Feeling like some of his strength had returned to him, the cat heaved himself into a sitting position, one leg splayed awkwardly out to the side. He gazed around himself. His surroundings were illuminated by pale moonlight. The small pool was quiet, and the trees around him were empty and unfamiliar. It seemed he had made it out of clan territory. He exhaled a sigh of relief. He would be safe come sunrise.

The feline looked down at his reflection in the pool. His beige and white fur was matted and stained crimson by dried blood. Not all of it was his, he realized with some satisfaction. His piercing yellow eyes glimmered. He must have managed to claw a few more of his opponents than he'd realized.

He swallowed a few more mouthfuls of water, wishing that he had prey to chase away the foul taste in his mouth as well as to fill his belly. But he had no energy to hunt. He didn't think he could even stand. His muzzle dipped down and his chin touched his chest.

A heartbeat later the sound of a snapping twig made his head jerk up to scan the trees around him. The scene around him didn't quite make sense - the moon was shining from a different angle than before, and a silvery mist had crept over the ground. Had he fallen asleep, sitting here by the pond?

Suddenly he noticed three dark shapes standing in the fog. The tom's fur bristled along the nape of his neck. They were cats, he could tell that much. But they weren't anyone he knew.

"Who are you?" the tom snarled when none of them moved to speak.

The voice that replied was low and unemotional. He couldn't tell if it was a male or a female. "We are the Claws." There was a pause, and then the cat added, "You are injured."

"I've strength enough to fight," the tom spat back, his muscles tensing. He had heard of the Claws before; they were a rogue group living on the outskirts of clan territory. They were known to attack border patrols from time to time.

"That won't be necessary," another of the strangers drawled. This voice was definitely female. She stepped closer so that he could see the green of her eyes and the dark tabby swirls on her pelt through the mist. "What's your name?"

"Coyotefang," the beige tom grunted. His claws scratched the soft earth beneath his paws. He didn't trust these rogues not to spring on him and take advantage of his weakness.