A burning underground market was a million miles away from Munbury meadow, but it could still work, couldn’t it?
Podkin slipped from Crom’s back and dashed around behind the Gorm, crouching into a ball. Paz saw what he was doing, and joined in too, the pair of them making a decent-sized stumbling block.
‘Hit him now, Crom!’ Podkin shouted. ‘Kick out straight ahead of you!’
The warrior rabbit threw himself backwards, dropping to take his weight on his hands and bringing up both feet for a mighty kick. It caught the Gorm in the chest and he toppled, spilling over Podkin and Paz and crashing into one of the stone pillars like a clap of thunder. It was like being rolled over by an iron oak tree, and the two little rabbits were flattened to the hot flagstones, the wind knocked out of them.
Looking up to where the Gorm lay wedged in the pillar, Podkin saw cracks appear in the ancient masonry, and up above there was an ominous groaning sound.
But there wasn’t time to worry about that now. Mish and Mash dragged him and Paz up from the floor and the whole group dashed into the tiny burrow, coughing and choking as they went.
*
The tunnel zigged and zagged in all directions and was choked with webs of root and dust. After ten metres or so, it climbed sharply – almost vertically – upwards. There were wooden rungs hammered into the hard earth walls, but many were as old as time, and simply shattered in their grasping hands. Instead, they had to grab fistfuls of roots to haul themselves up.
It was like climbing the inside of a chimney. Cramped, lightless, full of suffocating smoke. They scrabbled as fast as they could, away from the flames and the roaring behind them.
At some point, Pook was knocked from Crom’s back. The big rabbit was on his hands and knees, his shoulders brushing against the tunnel roof. Podkin grabbed him, and with Paz’s help, they heaved him up the tunnel between them. Mish and Mash led the way. All of them coughing and choking from the smoke.
Finally, finally, they burst out of the darkness and through a mat of overgrown brambles, into the evening light. One by one, they collapsed into the snow at the edge of the forest and lay there, panting and gasping. It was like being born into a new world.
Podkin grabbed great handfuls of snow and mashed it into his face. The smoke had turned his eyes into two throbbing balls of pain, and his nose and throat stung like they had been rubbed with sandpaper and vinegar.
After a few moments, his vision began to return, blurred and watery.
They were well inside the treeline, looking out at the wasteland of shrubs and bushes that hid Boneroot. In the distance, he could make out a shape that might be the stone arch where they had entered. Here and there amongst the trees he could see lines of moving shapes. Streams of rabbits were pouring out of other hidden exits, fleeing their home like ants from a nest that had just been doused with boiling water.
Podkin felt very sorry for them all. They had run from the Gorm to get here, and now they were running again.
‘Did you feel that?’ Paz said. She was lying beside him, covered head to foot in black soot.
‘What?’ he croaked.
‘The ground. It moved.’
Podkin looked at the forest floor around them, and then he felt it as well. A deep shudder in the bones of the earth.
‘The chamber’s collapsing,’ said Crom. ‘We’d better move.’
Even though Crom was right, and their lives were in danger, none of the rabbits had the energy to lift a paw. They sat, coughing and staring, as cracks began to appear in the snow, not ten metres away from them.
With a painful, groaning, ripping sound, the cracks spread. Trees began to lean inwards, and spouts of smoke started seeping from the open wounds in the soil.
‘Back!’ Crom shouted, and this time they somehow found a last shred of energy – enough to scrabble and drag each other further into the trees where the ground was more solid.
Podkin turned round in time to see a circle the size of the entire Boneroot marketplace tear itself out of the earth, and then everything inside – trees, bushes, mud, snow – all folded downwards into the pit with a crashing roar that shook them off their feet.
Where a messy scrubland had once stood, there was now a gaping hole, oozing black smoke into the darkening sky. On the far side, where the ruined arch still jutted upwards, Podkin could see figures staggering out of the wreck of Boneroot. Armoured, hunched figures, steaming with smoke and burnt blood.
He counted ten, maybe fifteen of them before they stopped coming. Most of the attackers must be buried beneath several tonnes of earth, stone and root below.
Good, he thought, and would have even done a little dance of joy, had he not spotted the last Gorm soldier to step free of the tunnel.
He was bigger than the rest by a good head, and the spikes on his armour were terrible and huge. White bony things hung from his belt, and he was leaning on a massive two-handed broadsword for support. As Podkin stared, he turned to look across the chasm that Boneroot had left, and Pod was sure he could see two glowing red spots of light in the slits of his helmet.
Podkin felt his lips form the name.
Scramashank. He had survived, Goddess curse him.
‘What is it, Pod?’ Paz had him by the shoulder and was shaking him, a look of grave worry on her face.
He wanted to answer, but all he could do was point. Paz followed his stare and, when she saw what he had seen, she snatched Pook up into her arms and ran. They all ran, as far and fast into the forest as they could – just as if the devil himself were behind them.
Which, in a way, he was.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tales Within Tales
On and on they ran, until it was dark, and the moon was shining down on them like a cold, watchful eye. Eventually they stopped, leaning against tree trunks to rest, and straining to hear above their own rasping and panting – listening for any sounds of clanking armour or cawing of Gorm crows.
‘It’s freezing out here,’ Podkin finally managed to speak. ‘But we can’t light a fire in case they’re following us.’
‘And we won’t make it through the night if we don’t,’ said Paz.
‘There must be somewhere we can hide,’ said Mish.
Mash nodded. ‘We could build a shelter from some branches? Or dig a hole in the snow?’
‘I know of somewhere we can stay,’ said Crom. He heaved himself away from his tree trunk, sniffed the air and started staggering south, deeper into the forest. Pook was snuggled against his chest, having fallen asleep with exhausted terror.
The other rabbits watched him go, half tempted to stay where they were and simply freeze to death until, one by one, they forced themselves to walk after him, into the forest’s heart, where the trees were ancient, dark and foreboding.
*
The forest became dense, choked with branches. Thorns and spidery twigs tore at their clothes and sliced their faces. Every now and then, Crom would ask a question about where they were. He was looking for a huge dead oak tree first, then a narrow stream, then a clearing with a ruined log cabin in the centre.
‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ said Podkin, as they stumbled out of the clearing, still heading southwards, ‘but where exactly are we going? We’ve been walking for hours now. We can’t go on much further.’ By which he meant that he couldn’t go on much further, but judging by the gasps and groans the others were making, they were all in a similar state.
As an answer, Crom simply pointed to a large mound they could see rising up amongst the thick trees.
‘There,’ was all he said, and the rabbits hurried along, not caring what they were rushing to as long as it meant a chance to lie down somewhere dry, warm and safe.
*
The mound was actually a small hill, topped off by a towering scots pine with branches as wide as most other trees’ trunks. The great tree sheltered most of the hill from the snow and frosted strands of moss and plants covered everything; ridges and mountains of cracked bar
k, twining with vines and ivy. The spaghetti-mess of tendrils hung down, trailing over what Podkin first thought was a cave mouth. Looking closer, he saw it was a warren doorway, set back into the hill and almost swallowed by the growing forest.
‘Darkhollow,’ Paz said, reading the Ogham runes carved into the stonework. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’
Podkin could make out some time-worn shapes carved into the lichen-covered stone. Some kind of fruit? Pine cones? The wind and rain had smoothed them featureless over many years. This was an old, old warren. Maybe even as ancient as Munbury.
‘Nobody’s lived here in a long time,’ said Mash, thinking the same thing. Mish went up and kicked at the door, making it boom like a drum.
‘How are we supposed to get in then?’ Podkin asked, through chattering teeth. They all looked at Crom, who silently reached into his jerkin and brought out a long iron key that had been hanging around his neck on a leather thong. The expression on his face was hard to read. Nobody dared speak as he walked up and felt over the surface of the ancient oak door. Finally he found the keyhole and slotted in the key. The lock shrieked, groaned, and then finally clunked. Crom took a deep breath, shoving with his shoulder to open up the entrance.
Cold, musty air hissed out, washing over them in a wave. It smelt of dust and age. They could see nothing inside except a lonely, inky blackness. It was a ghost warren. An empty, lifeless shell of a place.
Crom turned round to face them, spreading his arms wide. ‘Welcome to my warren,’ he said.
*
The entrance tunnel still had torches sitting in brackets on the wall, as if waiting for someone to return. As the rabbits gingerly stepped over the threshold, Mash took down a torch and lit it with a pair of flints that he kept in a pouch on his belt. When he held the flame high, light filled the burrow, shooting down into the dark depths of the warren, as if the place was hungrily drinking it up.
It looked like it had been deserted for ten, maybe twenty years. Despite the dark, the cold and the shrouds of dust and cobwebs, it had been made well and hadn’t leaked or crumbled.
The walls and ceiling were held up by stout wooden beams, all carved with rabbits leaping and twirling through the trunks and roots of the forest. Pine cones were everywhere, obviously the warren symbol, and in several places Podkin spotted a tall horned rabbit, peering out from a thicket of trees or leaping after a startled weasel. Hern, he realised. The god of the forest. It made sense that the Darkhollow rabbits would worship him, living in the deepest part of Grimheart itself.
Mash lit more torches from the one in his hand, and other details of the warren appeared. The floor was tiled with patterns and mosaics of coloured clay. There were bare patches on the whitewashed walls, where tapestries had once hung. Wooden doors opened off the main tunnel, on to guards’ rooms and weapon stores. In one, they found a stack of torches, lanterns and firewood, all neatly piled, ready for whoever might need it.
They moved into the warren, spreading light as they went. Every now and then someone gasped or made a noise of admiration. It really was a fine place to be hiding out.
Podkin looked behind to see Crom, walking slowly with one hand gently brushing the wall. Was he imagining it, or did the torchlight sparkle on tears in the big rabbit’s eyes? Podkin quickly turned away and joined the others in their exploration.
The tunnel led down to the longburrow. Paz and the others dashed about, lighting lanterns and torches, and carrying firewood to stack in the hearth and set alight. It wasn’t long before they had a good blaze going, bathing them all in delicious heat and the sweet scent of burning pine. One by one, they collapsed on the tiled floor and stretched out, letting the warmth ease their aches and pains. Podkin couldn’t describe how good it felt to be in a proper warren again, safe and warm in the bones of the earth.
They all sat in silence for a while, looking round at their new home.
It had clearly been a wealthy warren. The fireplace was carved stone, and there were long feasting tables and hundreds of wooden chairs, all with a little pine cone carved into the back, all sitting quietly in the dark, waiting for the next feast to begin.
The warren tapestries were rolled and stacked in a corner. Mash unfurled one and held it up to show the tall horned rabbit again, this time standing next to a stag whose neck was garlanded with pine cones.
It reminded Podkin of Munbury: an orderly, tidy, pretty little warren that had once seemed like the centre of the world. Except Darkhollow was so empty and lost. It was lonely – a sad, hidden thing, sleeping and dreaming away the years until life and light returned.
It took a while for them all to finish warming up and calming down. Smoke still stung eyes and chests, and everyone was smudged black with soot and mud. Only their feet, which had crunched through miles of snow on their way here, were clean. Brown, white and grey toes wiggled by the fire, slowly coming back to life.
‘Are we safe here?’ Podkin had to ask. ‘Will the Gorm find us?’
Crom rubbed at his tired eyes for a moment before answering. ‘I don’t think they will. The pine trees are too thick for their crows and their armour. And if they follow anyone from Boneroot, it’ll be all the other rabbits. They left much more of a trail than we did.’
Podkin wondered if it was right to feel so relieved that rabbits other than him would be hunted down in his place. But it was difficult not to.
The others must have been thinking the same uncomfortable thoughts. As a distraction, they started giving each other looks, seeing who would be brave enough to ask Crom his story. In the end, it was Mish who spoke up, her little voice echoing about the empty hall.
‘Why is this place so empty, Crom?’ she asked.
The blind rabbit sat still and silent for so long, Podkin wondered whether he had heard the question. When he spoke, his words were heavy and tired, as if it was a story he didn’t want to tell.
*
‘I don’t suppose you can imagine me as a young rabbit – maybe a few years older than yourselves – but I was once. That was when I first met your father, Podkin.
‘The custom in those days was for the sons of chieftains to be sent to live with other clans. Ones where there was a chance of fighting going on, so as to teach them a bit about being a leader and a warrior. Otherwise it was easy for rabbits to become spoilt and lazy. And spoilt, lazy rabbits make bad rulers.’ Paz gave Podkin a very pointed look. He stuck his tongue out at her.
‘Well,’ Crom continued. ‘Your father was son of a chief, and so was I. This was my father’s warren, and I was due to take over from him.
‘As it was, Lopkin and I were sent to a warren called Flintchip, up north in the shadow of the Arukh mountains. They were having problems with long-haired Arukh rabbits and needed men to fight them.
‘So fighting was what Lopkin and I did.
‘At first I didn’t know what I was doing. I had spent all my life lying around in meadows, nibbling clover and snoozing. I hid away from my weapon teachers and couldn’t even read or write. I only just about knew one end of a sword from the other.’
That doesn’t sound so bad, Podkin thought. He made sure he ignored Paz, who was sniggering and pointing at him.
‘So when it came to my first actual battle, I very nearly died.
‘I don’t know if you’ve seen the Arukh rabbits. They are fierce, screaming warriors, with long manes of hair that they braid and hang with beads and paint bright blue. They fight with stone weapons, but they are deadly and well-trained warriors.
‘Your father and I were arrow-boys when our army marched on them. All we had to do was keep the archers supplied with fresh arrows and stay well out of the fighting.
‘But things didn’t go to plan, and a bunch of Arukhs broke through the line. They managed to get as far as the archers, and knocked several of them down. One big Arukh buck smashed right through to where I was positioned, and was about to bring his stone axe down on my head. I just stood there, staring up at him in surprise.
‘Then your father, who was no bigger than you are now, leapt up at him, grabbed hold of his braids and smashed him over the head with a clay bottle. Knocked him out cold. Eight summers’ old, and able to take down an Arukh warrior. That was your father.’
Podkin and Paz looked at each other. Both had tears in their eyes, but they managed to share a smile.
‘After that, I vowed to make a soldier of myself. Lopkin and I trained every day, and a year or two later we were on the front lines with the rest of the warriors. Proper little scrappers we were, and the life of a soldier started to suit us.
‘So much so, that once the Arukhs had been tamed, we carried on looking for adventure. The two of us travelled over most of the Five Realms, helping out wherever there was trouble. We were together every day for five or six years, and we saved each others’ lives so many times that I lost count.
‘Then one day, word came to Lopkin that his father, your grandfather, had died, and that it was time for him to return home and rule the warren. He was pleased to go, even though it was hard for us to say goodbye. I think, in his heart, he had finally grown tired of the warrior life.
‘I hadn’t, though. Far from it. I kept on travelling and fighting. I stopped by Munbury once, just after Lopkin was married. Your mother was a fine rabbit, and he was happy. That was when he showed me the dagger, and told me about how it was one of the Twelve.
‘I didn’t stop for long, as there was more action to be had. Fighting the giant rabbits in Orestad, pushing back the cult of Cruach, the war god in Thrianta. Then, one day, word came to me that my father had passed away, and it was time to come back to Darkhollow and rule as he had.
‘I thought long and hard about it, but in the end I refused. I knew what it would mean for the rabbits living here, but I just couldn’t give up the life of a soldier. Being a chieftain – it just wasn’t in me. I thought the Darkhollow rabbits would choose someone else, but instead they just moved on. Some to Inkcap Dell in the north, some to Stumphaven down south. Others headed off to Orestad. Formed a warren of their own in the forest there, last I heard. They always were a stubborn, superstitious lot. They’d rather start afresh somewhere new than carry on in a place they thought had run out of luck. And the warren has sat here empty ever since.’
Podkin One-Ear Page 11