DAWN. Эрин ХантерЧитать онлайн книгу.
Stars glittered coldly on a forest stripped bare by a bitter leaf-fall. Shadows moved through the undergrowth—thin shapes, fur flattened by the chilly evening dew, slipping between the stems like water through reeds. The cats’ pelts did not ripple with muscle as they once had; instead, their fur clung to the bones beneath their thin frames.
The flame-coloured tom leading the silent procession lifted his head and tasted the air. Even though nightfall had silenced the Twoleg monsters, their stench clung to every dying leaf and branch.
The cat took comfort from the scent of his mate beside him; her familiar scent mingled with the hateful Twoleg odur and softened its cruel tang. She matched his pace stubbornly, even though her faltering stride betrayed her long-empty belly and wakeful nights.
“Firestar,” she panted as they padded onward. “Do you think our daughters will find us when they come home?”
The flame-coloured cat flinched as though he had trodden on a thorn. “We can only pray that they will, Sandstorm,” he said softly.
“But how will they know where to look?” Sandstorm glanced back at a broad-shouldered grey tom. “Greystripe, do you think they’ll know where we’ve gone?”
“Oh, they’ll find us,” Greystripe promised.
“How can you be so sure?” growled Firestar. “We should have sent another patrol to search for Leafpaw.”
“And risk losing more cats?” Greystripe meowed.
Firestar’s eyes clouded with pain and he hurried ahead along the shadowy path.
Sandstorm twitched her tail. “This was the hardest decision he’s ever had to make,” she whispered to Greystripe.
“He had to put the Clan first,” Greystripe hissed back.
Sandstorm closed her eyes for a moment. “We have lost so many cats this past moon,” she mewed.
The wind must have carried her voice, because Firestar turned his head, his gaze hardening. “Then perhaps, at this Gathering, the other Clans will finally agree that we must join together to face this threat,” he growled.
“Join together?” A defiant mew sounded from a tabby tom. “Have you forgotten how the Clans reacted last time you said that? WindClan was half-starved, but you might as well have suggested they eat their kits. They are too proud to admit they need help from any cat.”
“Things are even worse now, Dustpelt,” Sandstorm argued. “How can any Clan stay strong when its kits are dying?” Her voice trailed away as she realised what she had said. “Dustpelt, I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“Larchkit may be dead,” snarled Dustpelt. “But that doesn’t mean I will let ThunderClan be ordered around by another Clan!”
“No Clan is going to give us orders,” Firestar insisted. “But I still believe we can help each other. Leaf-bare is almost here. The Twolegs and their monsters have driven most of our prey further and further away, and they have poisoned what remains so that it’s not safe to eat. We cannot fight alone.”
Suddenly the whispering of the wind through the branches grew to a roar, and Firestar slowed his step, pricking his ears.
“What is it?” Sandstorm whispered, her eyes stretched wide.
“Something’s happening at Fourtrees!” Greystripe yowled.
He broke into a run, and Firestar rushed after him, closely followed by their Clanmates. All the cats skidded to a halt at the top of a slope, looking down into a steep-sided hollow.
Bright, unnatural lights, sharper than moonshine, blazed against the trunks of the four giant oaks that had guarded this sacred place since the time of the Great Clans. More lights shone from the eyes of huge monsters squatting at the edge of the clearing. The Great Rock—the vast, smooth grey stone where Clan leaders stood to address the Gathering