The rabbits sat for a while, thinking about Crom’s story, listening to the crackle of the fire. They had heard about warrens being taken over by the Gorm, or being wiped out in some tribal war or other, but they had never imagined a whole tribe giving up and moving on.
Maybe they had never been happy at Darkhollow in the first place. Or, more likely, losing their chieftain had been seen as some kind of sign from the gods. Religion made rabbits do some very strange things, sometimes.
Finally, Podkin spoke up with another question. ‘What about your eyes, Crom? How did you go blind? If you don’t mind me asking, that is.’
Crom made a noise that was part sigh, part growl. Podkin thought he wasn’t going to tell them, but then he spoke again.
‘That was five years or more ago. When the Gorm appeared, up north. Some warrens put together a party to go and scare them off, but we weren’t prepared for them. Our spears just bounced off their armour, off those twisted monsters they ride …
‘And there was something else – a witch-rabbit. She rode a black rat and called down lightning from the sky. We charged on her, but she caught me full in the face with a bolt of thunder. Her magic took my sight, and I lay under a pile of bodies for days in some kind of trance. When I woke up, the Gorm were gone, marching on another poor warren somewhere. I crawled away, helpless as a baby. I could tell the land all around was burnt and blackened – it was poisoned and stank of iron and blood. Luckily some rabbits fleeing the Gorm army found me. They took me with them and healed my wounds, but they couldn’t do anything about my eyes.
‘In the years since then, I’ve taught myself to fight again, how to use my other senses to get by. But I’ll never be the warrior I once was. I used to wish that the Gorm witch had killed me, but now I’m glad to be alive. When you lose something as precious as your sight, you learn to appreciate everything else more.’
With the stories finished, and Pook already snoring his little head off, the rest of the rabbits began to curl up in their cloaks to fall asleep. There were probably beds and blankets somewhere in the darkness of the empty warren, but rooting around to find them was too much effort.
Podkin snuggled up with his back to Paz, enjoying the heat of the fire on his face and the scar of his missing ear. It was like being stroked softly to sleep by an old friend.
His last sight, before his eyes closed, was of Crom, sitting silently in the firelight.
Podkin imagined him as a young rabbit, standing next to his father, laughing and joking together, all those years ago. Then, with his dreams as warm as his toes, he fell fast asleep.
*
The first few weeks in the empty warren were a peaceful time. They spent their days exploring the tunnels, lighting and airing the dusty old rooms and foraging in the forest above for nuts and berries to eat.
Evenings were spent huddled by the great hearth in the longburrow, and what had started with Crom’s tale became a kind of storytelling tradition, for firesides and stories share a special kind of magic together.
They heard all about the life of Mish and Mash and their acrobat troupe. They had joined it when the travelling caravan visited their little village in the Eiskalt mountains.
The dwarf rabbits there lived in warrens carved into the cliffs and were expert rock and tree climbers before they could walk. But Mish and Mash had longed to see the world, and the troupe was a perfect place for them to show off their acrobatic skills. (This part of the story was embellished with exhibitions of several backflips, headstands and feats of balancing that had the little rabbits whooping with applause.)
The dwarf rabbits travelled all over Thrianta and Hulstland in the south, with their band of jugglers, fire-breathers and puppeteers. Life was pleasant and easy then, until they came over the Razorback downs into Enderby.
That was when they first came across the Gorm. The warren where they were performing was raided, and some of their troupe were taken as slaves.
After that, they became something more than just acrobats. They found ways to use their skills to bring down the armoured Gorm giants, and if they met a patrol on their travels, then they made sure there were two or three Gorm who didn’t return home to base.
Mish and Mash paused to show the others the contents of their bandoliers. They were full of little packets: mixtures they had made to fire at the cracks and gaps in Gorm armour. There was blinding goo (which everyone had already seen), poison, glue, itching powder, stink bombs and something called ‘bang dust’. Everyone was suitably impressed.
So, returning to the story, Mish and Mash and their troupe of guerrilla Gorm fighters still travelled from warren to warren, staying ahead of the Gorm and helping where they could.
Boneroot was a natural place for them to end up, full as it was of refugees and runaways. They had paused there to resupply and to make a few copper coins from performing when the two dwarf rabbits had been snatched from their lodgings by the evil Quince and Shape, and hidden away until their troupe gave up looking for them. When Mish was finally let out on a stealing expedition, they were nowhere to be found.
And the rest of the story, everyone knew very well.
Paz and Podkin took turns telling the tale of their epic escape from the Gorm, and how Podkin lost his ear. After that, there were more stories about life in Munbury warren before everything went so horribly wrong. They talked about Midsummer parties at the standing stones, the time Paz pushed Podkin into the river; Bramblemas Eves, waiting for the Midwinter Rabbit, games of hide-and-seek in the forest …
At first, Podkin almost couldn’t bear talking about happier times, knowing they were gone forever. But once he began to share his previous life with his new friends, it gave him a kind of comfort. Those memories were like precious, perfect jewels that he would treasure and keep with him forever.
Darkhollow warren was bleak and empty and buried in the forest, but it was also safe and secret and, by night, full of laughter and the crackle of firewood. Little by little, the rabbits began to think of it as home.
INTERLUDE
The bard pauses, takes a swig from his cup.
‘Is that it?’ says the inquisitive rabbit, folding her arms and pouting. ‘What about when Podkin becomes the Horned King? What about all the battles and fighting and chopping things into pieces with his magic dagger?’
‘This must be when he starts to be the Horned King,’ says the sensible rabbit. ‘The warren in the forest is where his army lives in the stories. They have a secret home where nobody can find them, don’t they?’
‘That’s just stupid,’ replies the inquisitive rabbit. ‘Why would a whole warren full of rabbits just up and leave? If your dad vanished, we’d just pick another chieftain, and carry on like before.’
There is a grunt from the fireside, where Chief Hubert has been listening along. The inquisitive rabbit has the decency to squirm and look embarrassed.
‘The way rabbits feel about their chieftains is complicated,’ says the bard. ‘They believe they are chosen by the Goddess herself to lead them. If a warren loses its chief, and he has no sons to take over, it is seen as a bad omen. So they would often rather pack up and find homes elsewhere, in happy, lucky warrens.’
‘So Darkhollow is cursed?’ the sensible rabbit asks.
‘Perhaps,’ says the bard. ‘But then, its chief did come back, in a way. And besides, not everyone believes in all that rubbish.’
‘Never mind that,’ says the inquisitive rabbit. ‘What about the fighting? When does Podkin One-Ear get revenge against the Gorm?’
‘Stories aren’t all about fighting and revenge,’ says the bard. ‘You have to have a bit of character development in there as well. Some suspense, some atmosphere. A little bit of romance.’
‘Yuck!’ All the listening rabbits make retching, spewing noises and pull their ears over their eyes. The bard sighs.
‘By Clarion’s sacred harp strings, you lot are a hard crowd to please,’ he says. ‘Very well. Revenge against the Gorm it is the
n.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Wagon in the Woods
A month or so passed in the warren of Darkhollow, and everyone had fallen into a comfortable routine.
The warren had been thoroughly swept and aired – dust sheets removed, cobwebs brushed away. The place looked more like a home and less of a haunted shell. The rabbits had found their own rooms amongst the empty burrows, beaten and plumped the mattresses and settled themselves in. Mish and Mash were bunked next door to Podkin, Paz and Pook, and Crom had chosen a room on the other side of the longburrow. Podkin had thought Crom might take the old chieftain’s chambers, but he had opted for a simple cell with a cot and a rack for his armour and weapons. Nobody questioned him about his choice.
The short winter days were spent keeping busy. Mornings saw Podkin, Paz and Pook foraging the forest floor for winter caches of nuts and seeds hidden away by squirrels. Mish and Mash took to the trees, gathering whatever they could find, while Crom chopped firewood.
In the afternoon, the rabbits trained. Mish and Mash taught the little ones acrobatics – backflips, headstands and somersaults – and Crom gave Podkin sword lessons. The little rabbit was a bit reluctant at first, but Crom insisted that a chieftain’s son must know how to fight. And there was no sneaking off to a hidden cupboard or secret cubbyhole this time. Crom was nothing like old Melfry, the weaponmaster from Munbury. Every time he got even slightly cross with Podkin, the image of Shape and Quince getting pummelled flashed through the little rabbit’s mind. Crom was not someone you wanted to annoy.
They used wooden practice swords, which, Podkin quickly discovered, tended to leave nasty welts and bruises wherever they hit you (which was pretty much everywhere). Paz usually joined the classes as well, much to Podkin’s annoyance. She stood nearby, mirroring his movements with her own sword. From the corner of his eye, Podkin could see she was naturally much better than him, which only made him angry. That made him lose his focus and make mistakes, leading to another clonk on the head.
Sometimes Crom asked her to join in, and that was even more embarrassing. Paz was bigger, quicker and faster than Pod, and it was all he could do to keep dodging and rolling out of the way. He wished she’d go and play with Pook or hunt berries for tea.
One afternoon in particular was really difficult for Podkin. He had been working on blocking and parrying with Crom, and for once felt like he was getting somewhere. After he had managed to turn aside Crom’s wooden blade for the third time, they paused for a breather. As Pod leant on his sword, panting for breath and rubbing the latest lump on his head, Crom cleared his throat.
Thinking that he was due some praise for his effort, Podkin’s little chest puffed up and a smile twitched the corners of his mouth. A good word from Crom had come to mean so much to the little rabbit, especially as it didn’t happen very often.
But instead, the old warrior waved a hand at where Paz was standing, swishing her sword about and generally showing off. ‘Come on, Paz. Let’s see if he can block you as well.’
Oh, badgers’ bottoms, thought Podkin, as his sister came skipping over, cocky as anything and grinning from ear to ear. Before he could protest, she swung her wooden sword at him, just missing his whiskers.
‘Don’t dodge, Podkin. Block!’
Jab, jab, swing. Paz came at him relentlessly. He tried to remember the parrying technique he’d just mastered, but in his panic not to let his sister beat him, it all went out of his head.
Clonk! She caught him on the shoulder. Whack! She smacked him on his nose. She was winding up for another swing, when Pod’s temper got the better of him.
‘Stop it!’ he screamed, and flung his practice sword at Paz. ‘This is stupid! I’m never going to learn to fight! I don’t want to learn to fight! Paz can be the chieftain, and she can stick her poxy wooden swords in her earholes!’
Crom’s brow was furrowed; Paz’s face was surprised and worse, amused. He’d made a complete idiot of himself in front of his father’s old friend, just like the old, spoilt Podkin would have done. It was too much. He turned and ran off into the woods.
An hour or so later, when he couldn’t feel his toes any more, he slunk back into the warren. Crom was waiting for him by the fire. Podkin went and stood before him, shivering. He expected a telling-off – deserved it, even. He knew that.
But Crom just put one of his big scarred hands on Podkin’s shoulder and gently squeezed.
‘I’m sorry,’ Podkin said, his voice small and almost lost amongst the crackling of the fire.
‘Don’t be,’ said Crom. ‘You did well today. I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard. I forget how young you are, sometimes. Goddess knows, you should have seen me when I was your age. I didn’t know a spear from a carrot.’
‘But Paz …’
‘She’s older and bigger than you. Her reach is longer, and she’s fast. But keep trying like you did today and you’ll be the one whacking her on the head soon enough.’
That will make a nice change, thought Podkin, but didn’t say it aloud. Instead he promised himself he wouldn’t lose his cool again. He wanted to make Crom proud, maybe because it was the closest he could get to making his father proud. And from then on he doubled his effort, swallowed his pride and tried to learn something from each new bruise.
In the evenings they prepared whatever they had scavenged from the forest and sat down to eat by the fire. There was never very much, and their stomachs always seemed empty, but at least they didn’t starve. The Darkhollow well was still good and, with a supply of fresh water, Crom thought they would be fine until the spring when there would be more food around. (Podkin was very glad, because the warrior rabbit had told them several stories about being stranded with no food and having to eat worms and beetles. Pook seemed quite excited by the idea, but the only crunchy things Podkin liked to eat were carrots and turnips.)
And that was how life went on: pleasantly boring and quiet. Up until, that is, the day that Mish and Mash saw the wagon.
*
They had been in the top branches of a pine tree, Mash told them later, when they heard the squeaking of wagon wheels. Having grown up travelling the Five Realms by wagon, they would have known the sound anywhere.
Seeing as they hadn’t met a soul since stepping into the forest nearly two months ago, they were very curious about whom it could be. Clambering and flipping from tree to tree, they followed the sound until they were looking down at a rough, narrow track that wound between the trees.
Wobbling along the rutted road was an old wagon, pulled by a mangy, exhausted creature with matted fur. It might have been a giant rat, but it looked more like a walking skeleton with a broken, stumpy tail and torn, flea-bitten ears.
There were two rabbits sitting on the driving board, one with a hooked spear, which he used to jab the rat every now and then. The creature was too exhausted even to squeal. It just plodded slightly faster for a few seconds, until the next spiking came its way.
The wagon itself was filled with supplies. They spotted sacks of grain and oats, reed baskets of potatoes and beetroot and kegs marked with the sign of Silverock warren. That could mean only one thing: that gallons of famous Silverock mead would be sloshing around inside.
This instantly got the two dwarf rabbits’ stomachs rumbling, and they whispered about whether to try and hook a barrel off the wagon. They also thought about following it, but weren’t sure they could find their way back again. Not wanting to end up lost and alone in the deep dark forest, they set off to Darkhollow to report back.
That night, they all sat by the fire and wondered about the wagon and where it might have been going.
‘It can’t be Boneroot,’ said Podkin. ‘The warren has completely collapsed. Wasn’t it the only place north of here for miles and miles?’
Crom shook his head. ‘There’s Applecross warren, up by the river. But trade for them won’t come through this part of the forest. It goes upriver on narrow boats.’
‘What’s wrong wi
th this part of the forest?’ Paz asked.
‘It’s haunted, of course,’ Crom smiled. ‘There’s a cursed warren of ghost rabbits here, didn’t you know? That and the Beast of Grimheart.’
‘The Beast of what?’ Podkin said. ‘You never told us there was a beast running around here! We’ve been walking around the forest every day for ages now!’
‘Relax,’ said Crom. ‘I lived here for years and never saw it. It’s just an old legend. In fact, I’m pretty sure we made it up ourselves, just to keep visitors away. The Darkhollow rabbits always were an antisocial bunch.’
‘So where can the wagon be going then?’ Mish asked. ‘Do you think we could rob it?’
‘Robbing is theft, and that is wrong,’ said Crom. ‘But let us keep an ear out for it. If it comes again, we will follow and find out where it’s headed.’
*
It snowed harder than ever for the next two weeks: hard enough for drifts to break through the dense branches of the tree canopy and to cover the forest floor. It made foraging nearly impossible, and the rabbits were hungrier than ever. Tracking the cart was the last thing on their minds but, once the snow had eased off and the forest road thawed a bit, Mish and Mash started keeping an ear out again.
One morning they came rushing into the clearing outside Darkhollow, where Crom was busy chopping wood.
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