MAP
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Gillian Philip
CONTENTS
Map
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Back Ads
About the Author
Books by Erin Hunter
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
The dazzling plains seemed to stretch forever. Even Windrider, a vulture soaring high above the savannah, struggled to see where Bravelands reached its end.
Narrowing her ancient eyes, she let her gaze trail over the great yellow-grass sea, and pinpointed at last where it met the endless blue sky in a shimmering line of light. A wingtip twitched, and she banked, riding the warm air downward in a broad, graceful spiral.
Her flock followed her lead, calling out to one another in harsh, guttural voices, but Windrider was silent, scanning the savannah. Far below, herds of animals as small as ants moved across the land, following the paths beaten by countless generations. A gash in the land marked the muddy, trickling river; a horde of wildebeests was teeming into the gully and galloping up and over the sheer bank. Zebras and gazelles, grazing together on the far side, glanced up incuriously at the wildebeests’ approach. Then they dipped their heads to graze again, ambling and milling peacefully.
A dark spot on the landscape caught Windrider’s keen eye—a creature separate from the others, and not moving. She flew lower, adjusting her path with great beats of her broad wings.
“There, my flock. There.”
The others followed her down, in swooping circles. “May Windrider’s eyes be forever sharp,” cried Blackwing, as the others took up the chorus of gratitude. “She has found us flesh once again.”
It was just as Windrider had hoped: the corpse of a gazelle. Its old and tired spirit had gone; its eyes were blank and dead. Perhaps a cheetah had brought it down. It lay half hidden between ocher rocks, barely visible to wingless rot-eaters; and though its killer had fed, much of its torn flesh remained on its bones. The gazelle had enjoyed its time and its life; now it would nourish the vultures—just as they, in their turn, would one day become food for others. All was as it should be . . . or at least, so Windrider hoped.
“We must test the flesh, brothers and sisters,” she called. “Then we can feed in peace.”
Windrider tilted her head, banking sharply in to land, the other vultures flapping and clamoring behind her. Her claws touched the gritty ground, and she hopped a couple of paces toward the gazelle. With a glance to the birds on her right and left, Windrider nodded once.
“A bad death will linger with the fallen.”
“May the Great Spirit always grant good death,” chorused the rest of the flock.
Each vulture tore a thin strip of meat from the carcass’s flank, gulping it down. They all paused, looking to Windrider for the final judgment. She closed her eyes briefly.
“The kill is clean,” she reassured them at last. “Feed, my flock.”
When the carcass was picked bare, its bones stripped of the last tattered remnants of flesh, Windrider stepped back. Beating her wings, she launched herself skyward once more. Every vulture, sated, followed her in a chaos of feathers and rasping cries. It felt good to return to the air, to soar higher and higher into the fierce blue, knowing that the flock had eaten well and survived for another day.
When she was high enough to catch a broad current of warm air, Windrider let it take her, twitching her wings, gazing down once more. From the shimmering horizon to the dark sprawling forests, to the low range of mountains far beyond the plains, she surveyed the land. Ahead lay a cluster of slender, flat-topped acacia trees; at their edge, just within their shade, shifting golden-yellow shapes were visible against the dry earth.
Lions, she thought, lounging in the heat of the day.
“They will not hunt, for now,” remarked Blackwing, following her gaze.
“No, not until dusk,” Windrider agreed.
Then they will feast. And we will follow.
Windrider had mixed feelings about the great prides of Bravelands. Lions meant food, unsullied and copious; like all the creatures of the land, they followed the Code, killing only to survive. But she loathed their arrogance. They were among the few creatures who would not follow the Great Mother, leader of all the animals, and give respect to her wisdom.
Two cubs were romping and play-fighting, full of energy and mischief even in the heat of the high white sun. As her shadow passed over the smaller of the two, he started and looked up. His golden eyes met hers, and he opened his small jaws.
She was still high above him, but the sound of a roar buffeted the air around her. With astonishment, Windrider felt her wings tremble, and she was momentarily rocked off her course.
“Windrider?” came Blackwing’s concerned voice.
Glancing back, Windrider realized none of her flock had felt the impact of that roar.
No. It was not the little lion’s voice. That is not possible!
“It is nothing,” she told Blackwing curtly.
Half angry, half fascinated, she forced her wings to readjust, balancing her flight once more. No grown lion’s roar could reach the heights of the sky, let alone a tiny cub’s. There is more here to know.
Windrider tilted in the air, seeking out the little lion once again. He still stood there, stiff-legged and defiant, his golden gaze fixed upward. At last, his tail whisking with triumph, he turned away. The other cub followed him as he bounded back to his pride.
Lost in thought, Windrider veered east. What she had just seen—it was an omen, she was sure of it; though she could not imagine what its message might be. A tiny cub, with a roar to make the sky shudder. This is a vision, a portent!
She led her flock higher and farther into the clear blue sky, until the small pride of lions and even the huge herds of the savannah were lost in the beautiful vastness of Bravelands.
CHAPTER 1
Swiftcub pounced after the vulture’s shadow, but it flitted away too quickly to follow. Breathing hard, he pranced back to his pride. I saw that bird off our territory, he thought, delighted. No rot-eater’s going to come near Gallantpride while I’m around!
The pride needed him to defend it, Swiftcub thought, picking up his paws and strutting around his family. Why, right now they were all half asleep, dozing and basking in the shade of the acacia trees. The most energetic thing the other lions were doing was lifting their heads to groom their nearest neighbors, or their own paws. They had no idea of the threat Swiftcub had just banished.
I might be only a few moons old, but my father is the strongest, bravest lion in Bravelands. And I’m going to be just like him!
“Swiftcub!”
The gentle but commanding voice snapped him out of his dreams of glory. He came to a halt, turning and flicking his ears at the regal lioness who stood over him.
“Mother,” he said, shifting on his paws.
“Why are you shouting at vultures?” Swift scolded him fondly, licking at his ears. “They’re nothing but scavengers. Come on, you and your
sister can play later. Right now you’re supposed to be practicing hunting. And if you’re going to catch anything, you’ll need to keep your eyes on the prey, not on the sky!”
“Sorry, Mother.” Guiltily he padded after her as she led him through the dry grass, her tail swishing. The ground rose gently, and Swiftcub had to trot to keep up. The grasses tickled his nose, and he was so focused on trying not to sneeze, he almost bumped into his mother’s haunches as she crouched.
“Oops,” he growled.
Valor shot him a glare. His older sister was hunched a little to the left of their mother, fully focused on their hunting practice. Valor’s sleek body was low to the ground, her muscles tense; as she moved one paw forward with the utmost caution, Swiftcub tried to copy her, though it was hard to keep up on his much shorter legs. One creeping pace, then two. Then another.
I’m being very quiet, just like Valor. I’m going to be a great hunter. He slunk up alongside his mother, who remained quite still.
“There, Swiftcub,” she murmured. “Do you see the burrows?”
He did, now. Ahead of the three lions, the ground rose up even higher, into a bare, sandy mound dotted with small shadowy holes. As Swiftcub watched, a small nose and whiskers poked out, testing the air. The meerkat emerged completely, stood up on its hind legs, and stared around. Satisfied, it stuck out a pink tongue and began to groom its chest, as more meerkats appeared beyond it. Growing in confidence, they scurried farther away from their burrows.
“Careful now,” rumbled Swift. “They’re very quick. Go!”
Swiftcub sprang forward, his little paws bounding over the ground. Still, he wasn’t fast enough to outpace Valor, who was far ahead of him already. A stab of disappointment spoiled his excitement, and suddenly it was even harder to run fast, but he ran grimly after his sister.
The startled meerkats were already doubling back into their holes. Stubby tails flicked and vanished; the bigger leader, his round dark eyes glaring at the oncoming lions, was last to twist and dash underground. Valor’s jaws snapped at his tail, just missing.
“Sky and stone!” the bigger cub swore, coming to a halt in a cloud of dust. She shook her head furiously and licked her jaws. “I nearly had it!”
A rumble of laughter made Swiftcub turn. His father, Gallant, stood watching them. Swiftcub couldn’t help but feel the usual twinge of awe mixed in with his delight. Black-maned and huge, his sleek fur glowing golden in the sun, Gallant would have been intimidating if Swiftcub hadn’t known and loved him so well. Swift rose to her paws and greeted the great lion affectionately, rubbing his maned neck with her head.
“It was a good attempt, Valor,” Gallant reassured his daughter. “What Swift said is true: meerkats are very hard to catch. You were so close—one day you’ll be as fine a hunter as your mother.” He nuzzled Swift and licked her neck.
“I wasn’t anywhere near it,” grumbled Swiftcub. “I’ll never be as fast as Valor.”
“Oh, you will,” said Gallant. “Don’t forget, Valor’s a whole year older than you, my son. You’re getting bigger and faster every day. Be patient!” He stepped closer, leaning in so his great tawny muzzle brushed Swiftcub’s own. “That’s the secret to stalking, too. Learn patience, and one day you will be a very fine hunter.”
“I hope so,” said Swiftcub meekly.
Gallant nuzzled him. “Don’t doubt yourself, my cub. You’re going to be a great lion and the best kind of leader: one who keeps his own pride safe and content, but puts fear into the heart of his strongest enemy!”
That does sound good! Feeling much better, Swiftcub nodded. Gallant nipped affectionately at the tufty fur on top of his head and padded toward Valor.
Swiftcub watched him proudly. He’s right, of course. Father knows everything! And I will be a great hunter, I will. And a brave, strong leader—
A tiny movement caught his eye, a scuttling shadow in his father’s path.
A scorpion!
Barely pausing to think, Swiftcub sprang, bowling between his father’s paws and almost tripping him. He skidded to a halt right in front of Gallant, snarling at the small sand-yellow scorpion. It paused, curling up its barbed tail and raising its pincers in threat.
“No, Swiftcub!” cried his father.
Swiftcub swiped his paw sideways at the creature, catching its plated shell and sending it flying into the long grass.
All four lions watched the grass, holding their breath, waiting for a furious scorpion to reemerge. But there was no stir of movement. It must have fled. Swiftcub sat back, his heart suddenly banging against his ribs.
“Skies above!” Gallant laughed. Valor gaped, and Swift dragged her cub into her paws and began to lick him roughly.
“Mother . . .” he protested.
“Honestly, Swiftcub!” she scolded him as her tongue swept across his face. “Your father might have gotten a nasty sting from that creature—but you could have been killed!”
“You’re such an idiot, little brother,” sighed Valor, but there was admiration in her eyes.
Gallant and Swift exchanged proud looks. “Swift,” growled Gallant, “I do believe the time has come to give our cub his true name.”
Swift nodded, her eyes shining. “Now that we know what kind of lion he is, I think you’re right.”
Gallant turned toward the acacia trees, his tail lashing, and gave a resounding roar.
It always amazed Swiftcub that the pride could be lying half asleep one moment and alert the very next. Almost before Gallant had finished roaring his summons, there was a rustle of grass, a crunch of paws on dry earth, and the rest of Gallantpride appeared, ears pricked and eyes bright with curiosity. Gallant huffed in greeting, and the twenty lionesses and young lions of his pride spread out in a circle around him, watching and listening intently.
Gallant looked down again at Swiftcub, who blinked and glanced away, suddenly rather shy. “Crouch down,” murmured the great lion.
When he obeyed, Swiftcub felt his father’s huge paw rest on his head.
“Henceforth,” declared Gallant, “this cub of mine will no longer be known as Swiftcub. He faced a dangerous foe without hesitation and protected his pride. His name, now and forever, is Fearless Gallantpride.”
It was done so quickly, Swiftcub felt dizzy with astonishment. I have my name! I’m Fearless. Fearless Gallantpride!
All around him, his whole family echoed his name, roaring their approval. Their deep cries resonated across the grasslands.
“Fearless Gallantpride!”
“Welcome, Fearless, son of Gallant!”
His heart swelled inside him. Suddenly, he knew what it was to be a full member of the pride. He had to half close his eyes and flatten his ears, he felt so buffeted by their roars of approval.
“I’ll—I promise I’ll live up to my name!” he managed to growl. It came out a little squeakier than he’d intended, but no lion laughed at him. They bellowed their delight even more.
“Of course you will,” murmured Swift. Both she and his father nuzzled and butted his head. “You already have, after all!”
“You certainly—” Gallant fell suddenly silent. Fearless glanced up at his father, expecting him to finish, but the great lion was standing still, his head turned toward the west. A light breeze rippled his dark mane. His nostrils flared.
The pride continued to roar, but with a new strange undertone. Fearless wrinkled his muzzle and tried to work out what was different. He began to hear it: there were new voices. In the distance, other lions were roaring.
One by one, the Gallantpride lions fell silent, looking toward the sound. Gallant paced through them, sniffing at the wind, and his pride turned to accompany him. Swift walked closest to his flank.
Overcome with curiosity, Fearless sprang toward the meerkat hill, running to its top and staring out across the plain. His view was blurred by the haze of afternoon heat, but he could see three lions approaching.
They’re not from our pride, thought Fearless with a th
rill of nerves. He could not take his eyes off the strangers, but he was aware that other lions had joined him at the top of the slope: Gallant, Swift, and Valor. The rest of the pride was behind them, all quite still and alert. Swift’s hackles rose. Gallant’s whole body looked taut, his muscles coiled.
“Who are they?” asked Fearless, gaping at the three strange lions.
“That is Titan,” replied his mother. “The biggest one, there, in the center. Do you see him? He’s the cub of a lion your father once drove away, and he’s always hated Gallant for that. Titan’s grown a fine mane, I see.” Her voice became a low, savage growl. “But he was always a brute.”
The three lions drew closer; they paced on, relaxed but steady, toward Gallantpride. Fearless could make out the leader clearly now: he was a huge, powerful lion, his black mane magnificent. As he came nearer, Fearless found himself shuddering. His mother was right—there was a cold light of cruelty in Titan’s dark eyes. His companions looked mighty and aggressive, too; the first had shoulders as broad as a wildebeest’s, while the other had a ragged ear, half of it torn away.
“Why are they in our territory?” asked Fearless in a trembling voice. He didn’t yet know whether to be furious or very afraid.
Gallant spoke at last. “There’s only one reason Titan would show his face here,” he rumbled. “He wants to challenge me for leadership of this pride.”
“What?” Fearless stared at his father.
“Come.” Gallant turned and began to pad back down the meerkat hill.
Fearless followed with the rest, staying close to his sister’s flank. “Valor, what does Father mean?” he growled. “Titan can’t do that, can he? He can’t just take over Gallantpride. It’s not possible!”
For a moment Valor said nothing; Fearless did not like the tension in her face. “I’ve heard of such things,” she said at last, grimly. “It happened to Fiercepride, from beyond the forest. Fierce had been leader for ages, Mother told me, but he was challenged and defeated by a lion called Strong who’d recently grown his mane. And his family became Strongpride, and his pride had to live under Strong’s rule. Fierce was forced to leave and live alone, and hunt by himself.”