The Heir of Mistmantle by M. I. McAllister Page A

near a stream, which was exactly what she needed. The sound of water dancing over stone made her thirstier than ever. She was tired, but not too tired to look for it. Clambering uphill and over rocks, struggling through tall brackens, coughing as dust and pollen tickled her dry throat, she came at last within sight of the stream. In the hot weather it ran slowly and was shallower than it might have been, but sunlight sparkled on it as it rippled over the stones. It seemed to call her.
    She hurried to it, scenting the heathery air. She sniffed as she bent over it, but smelled only the overpowering scent of thyme, rosemary, and vinegar on her own fur. The water must be all right. Crackle bent down to drink.
    Something hit her across the shoulder so hard that it knocked the breath out of her and hurled her sideways. Rolling over, shocked by pain, she struggled to her paws and found her voice as somebody caught her from behind and held her tightly.
    “Help help help help help help help!” she yelled, and stretched out her claws as she fought, kicked, and tried to bite the paws that held her. “Get off me!” She stopped thrashing to tip back her head and take a good look at her attacker. “You!”
    “Yes, only me, sorry,” said Fingal, “I didn’t mean to hurt you, I just had to stop you touching that water. Couldn’t you smell it? Farther upstream it stinks something disgusting. Didn’t you know we’re not supposed to drink from the streams?” He helped her to her paws, and she dusted herself down.
    “Nobody told me,” she said plaintively.
    “You’re covered in that pongy stuff that the queen’s been giving out,” observed Fingal. “I don’t suppose you could smell a thing. Good thing we were here. Aren’t you supposed to be in the tower? Who’s baking the biscuits if you’re not there? And you’ve set out uphill on your own.”
    Crackle’s lip trembled. She was shaking.
    “Leave her alone,” said Scatter, and put her paws protectively around Crackle. “She was probably looking for Catkin, weren’t you, Crackle? And she’s upset.”
    “I didn’t mean…” began Fingal, but Crackle was sobbing violently into Scatter’s shoulder.
    “I only…I only wanted"—she gulped—"to help.” She stopped sobbing, pouted, and hiccupped. “And I nearly…I could have been poisoned!”
    “Yes, but you weren’t,” said Scatter, hugging her. “Fingal stopped you in time. You’re all right. Fingal, she’s had a very nasty fright!”
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Fingal. “Sorry to be a very nasty fright. The fact is, Crackle, I saw you bending over that stream, and it scared the whiskers off me, because I’m pretty certain that water’s polluted. It smells worse farther upstream, so we need to keep climbing uphill to find the source. You can come with us if you like, but it’ll be pretty unpleasant.”
    Crackle dried her eyes on the back of her paw. “I’ll come,” she said.
    The steep uphill climb led them through a pine wood (which, as Fingal observed, smelled a lot better than the water did) until the trees grew thinner and they stood on almost level ground near the thin trickle of a stream, which fell halfheartedly into a pool. Crackle and Scatter took a few steps back when they saw the pool, and Crackle couldn’t help turning her face away. Even Fingal held his breath.
    Something thick and gray-green floated on the top of the water, something that might have been mold, or decayed flesh, or rotting plants, or perhaps all of those, thick and spreading enough to obscure whatever might lie in the water beneath. From the pool, the water overflowed into the course of the stream. Crackle and Scatter pressed their paws over their mouths and noses, and Fingal pulled a face.
    “Whatever died in that, it died a lot,” he muttered through clenched teeth. He retreated to the trees and scratched about in the undergrowth.
    “Whatty lookyfor?” asked Scatter, through her paws.
    “A stick,” called