Podkin One-Ear

by Kieran Larwood

  The enormous fire at the centre of the camp cast fingers of orange light across the snow, and sparkled on the mounds of dozing iron that were the unconscious Gorm. I forgot to ask how long they would be asleep, Podkin thought, with a twinge of worry. It must be long enough for us to get in and out, or Brigid wouldn’t have let us come. Would she?

  In any case, he hurried his footsteps, tiptoeing past the sleeping soldiers, heading for the prisoners’ pen on the far side.

  Until, that is, something brought him to a sudden stop.

  There, sticking up out of the snowy ground like a rotting, poisonous tooth, was a hunk of metal. A gigantic warped shard of rusted, pitted iron. It reminded Podkin of the statue-like shard they’d seen in the middle of Redwater longburrow, but this one was much, much bigger. It was studded with serrated spikes and jagged nodules, like warts on a toad’s back.

  And it wasn’t just metal. Something was wrong with it. It was deeply unnatural. Evil, even. Podkin watched as the odd snowflake hit its surface and vanished with a sudden hiss.

  ‘What … what is that?’ he whispered to Paz. Whispering, not because he was afraid of waking the Gorm, but because he didn’t want to draw the attention of that thing. Some part of him wondered why he was stupid enough to think a lump of iron was alive, but every instinct told him that it was.

  ‘It’s like that thing we saw at Redwater.’ Paz’s voice was small and scared. ‘But much bigger. And more powerful, I think. See what it’s doing to those rabbits.’

  Podkin tore his eyes away from the metal and looked beyond it. There, arms chained out to each side, were two rabbits. They had been left, exposed to the iron, staring at it for Goddess knows how long.

  Podkin could see the effect it was having on them. Rusty clouds of blood were starting to cover the whites of their eyes. They were motionless, like statues; they looked unable to speak or think. Unable to do anything but stare at the pillar of metal.

  ‘They’re turning into them,’ Podkin whispered. ‘Into the Gorm.’

  ‘This must be what happens – how rabbits turn into the Gorm,’ said Mish. The thought made everyone tremble with horror.

  ‘I can feel its power,’ Crom agreed. ‘I can feel it pulling at me, even though I can’t see it. We should move on.’

  The rabbits started to back away from the thing, even as it tried to draw them closer. It was a magnet, of a sort. A polluting, poisonous magnet that seemed to take over your mind. It made Podkin feel almost sorry for the Gorm, if that was possible. Once upon a time, they must have been normal rabbits, just like him. Was that the thing they dug up in their warren? The thing that changed them? He supposed it could have happened to any rabbit. Maybe even Munbury itself, if it had been built near a seam of that warped metal.

  As they stepped away from it, Podkin was sure he saw it shudder – a ripple in the solid iron, and something vaguely eye-like blinking out at him. He felt Starclaw grow suddenly heavier – hotter in his hand. As if the blade were angry again.

  But, in the next instant, both blade and pillar were still lifeless metal again. Had he imagined the whole thing? Concentrate, he told himself. Get your head together, Podkin. You’re in the middle of a Gorm camp, two whiskers away from being skinned alive, for Goddess’s sake!

  ‘Come on! We have to hurry!’ Paz hissed. Podkin pulled himself back to the present. They were far enough from the iron that its power was weaker. Holding each others’ paws in a line, the rabbits broke free completely and rushed over to the prisoners’ enclosure.

  As they neared it, the thought of seeing his mother again made Podkin step faster and faster, until he was running across the trampled snow, dagger held out before him.

  He reached the pen and chopped straight through the fence. There were the prisoners, bundled together in a huge mass of bodies, trying to keep out the cold.

  ‘Mother! Mother!’ Podkin cried and now the sight of them up close caused Podkin to gasp in horror.

  These were starved rabbits – sorry things, more dead than alive. Their fur was patchy and dull; skin hung from their bones, and their eyes were blank orbs in deep shadowy sockets. Even though their pen was broken and they were free to escape, they barely moved. Their heads followed the little form of Podkin as they blinked stupidly at him.

  ‘Mother!’ he called again. ‘It’s Podkin! Has anyone seen my mother? Lady Enna from Munbury? Or Olwyn?’

  There were dull groans from the huddle, which didn’t even sound like words. And then Paz was with him, both of them calling out for their mother together.

  Finally, just when Podkin was beginning to think it had all been for nothing, there was a muttering from the centre of the huddle. The bodies began to rise, to move aside, and two rabbits came staggering out towards them. Podkin felt Paz grasp his arm and squeeze it, and they both held their breath as the weakened rabbits came closer. They were dressed in rags and blankets. Slowly, the moonlight lit their haggard faces, and Podkin could see brown fur: filthy, matted and patchy, but the same colour as his mother’s and aunt’s at least. Could it really be?

  ‘Mother!’ Paz shouted – the first to completely recognise them. ‘Mother!’

  A spark of light and recognition appeared in the empty eyes of the starved rabbits, and Podkin saw his mother and his aunt come back to themselves like frozen flowers thawing in the sunlight.

  ‘Children? Is it you?’ The voice was cracked and broken, but it was definitely his mother’s. Podkin didn’t remember running to her, but in the next instant he was wrapped in the fiercest, tightest hug he had ever known, with Paz and his aunt all crushed together as well. He could feel hot tears running out of his eyes, and he heard a wailing and sobbing that was part joy, part sorrow and seemed to come from everywhere at once.

  It was wonderful.

  Which made it all the more terrible when it was shattered by the sharp cawing of a Gorm crow.

  Podkin’s eyes snapped upwards, searching the black sky for the bird. But Mish and Mash were quicker. There was a flurry of zips as their slingshot and blowpipe fired in quick succession, and then three or four feathered shapes crashed out of the sky, smacking into the snowy ground with meaty thumps.

  Crom had his spear and shield ready. ‘We have to go. Now.’ Wherever there were birds, the Gorm weren’t far away. And any second now their sleeping comrades inside the camp might also wake up. If they didn’t move quickly they would find themselves surrounded.

  But it was too late.

  Behind them, beside that awful pillar, the two chained creatures, half-Gorm, half-rabbit, started moaning. A low, tortured sound, as if something was causing them great and terrible pain. Podkin could feel the thing thrumming and throbbing, growing frantic with rage and excitement.

  It was almost as though it were calling out to someone or something, Podkin thought, gritting his teeth so hard he thought they would crack. But what?

  He had a sick certainty that he knew, but he didn’t want to believe it was possible. Instead, he pulled at his mother’s arm, hoping to get her away from this terrible place before they were parted again.

  And that was when the camp gates burst open.

  With a crash and a flurry of snow, a pack of riders stormed through the gateway, the pounding of their iron-clad beasts making the ground shake. They thundered through the campfire, sending a tsunami of orange sparks skittering across the snow; they galloped past the jagged metal pillar, which cried out in horrible glee, and finally they skidded to a halt in a wash of steam and melted snow, with a screeching of metal against metal that made all the other rabbits clutch their ears.

  ‘You.’ A voice came out of the clouds, cold and flat and metallic. The voice of something that would eat you alive, just because you were in its way.

  Podkin knew that voice. He could never forget it. It was the one he heard every night in his nightmares, the voice from the last night he saw his father alive.

  He peered out from the huddle of cold furry bodies, looking up to see a huge Gorm rabbit,
the lopsided metal horns of his armour twisted up above his head like an evil iron version of Hern himself.

  It was Scramashank.

  *

  ‘You. Boy.’ The voice spoke again, and somehow, even though every scrap of flesh in his little body told him not to, Podkin found himself stepping forward, out in front of Scramashank, with Starclaw held before him in his shaking hands. The dagger was buzzing gently, reminding him of its power, although even that didn’t make him feel any braver.

  ‘You must be the runt we have been looking for. The runaway kitten from Munbury. Fancy that – searching up and down the whole of Enderby, and here you are, walking right into our camp with the real magic dagger in your hands. Is it a gift for me, bratling? A thank-you present for killing your stupid father?’ Scramashank sounded as though he was smiling behind the iron faceplate of his helm. The kind of smile that used all of your teeth and made your eyes look as though they were about to pop out of your head.

  ‘Leave him be.’ Crom’s voice came from behind him and, without looking back, Podkin knew the blind rabbit was moving into a fighting stance, ready to give his life. ‘Pick a fight with me, if you’ve got the whiskers.’

  Scramashank turned his head slightly, and in that instant Podkin knew he would kill Crom without so much as a blink.

  ‘Stay back, Crom!’ Podkin moved a step closer to the Gorm riders. ‘That’s an order! Stay back!’

  Despite being bigger, older and scarier than the little rabbit, Crom found himself obeying. He was a soldier after all, down to the bone, and Podkin was a chieftain by right. He stepped back, leaving Podkin standing on his own – a tiny scrap of a rabbit clutching a dagger that was too big for him.

  Podkin heard sounds of protest from Paz, his mother and his aunt, but he ignored them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the little shapes of Mish and Mash running away from the Gorm, out of the camp. He couldn’t really blame them.

  ‘Yes, I have the dagger!’ He wanted his voice to sound strong and unafraid. Like his father’s when he had faced Scramashank. Instead it came out weak and shaky, but still he carried on. ‘This is it. This is Starclaw. What do you want with it?’

  ‘To destroy it, of course. To destroy all of the Twelve Gifts, like I did the sacred helmet of Sandywell.’ Scramashank made a crushing motion with his fist, and behind him the iron pillar groaned in hunger.

  ‘But why?’ said Podkin. ‘I don’t understand. Why would you want to destroy something so special? What good will it do you?’

  Scramashank snorted and made a motion towards his sword hilt, as if he were going to kill Podkin there and then. But in the end he couldn’t resist the chance to boast. After all, he did have a captive audience.

  ‘The Balance,’ he said. ‘Have you heard of it? The balance between our master and nature. Neither can become too powerful. But if the Twelve Gifts are destroyed, then there will be no Balance. No more tribes, no more petty feasts and pointless festivals. There will be only the Gorm.’

  It began to make sense to Podkin. The Gorm were like a disease, like a virus. They wanted to spread themselves across all the Five Realms until there was nothing else left. He felt anger like a fire burning in his little belly. Before he knew it, he couldn’t stop himself.

  ‘But that’s just wrong,’ he said. ‘What about the Goddess? What about all the other gods and goddesses and spirits and everything else? Who says that being Gorm is the right way? Why should you get to take us all over, just because you’ve got that stupid iron armour? It’s just … it’s just … not fair!’

  Scramashank sat atop his mount and stared down at Podkin for a heartbeat, then two. The little rabbit thought, for one hopeful instant, that his words might have pierced through the iron armour controlling whoever was inside. Could the chieftain, or the rabbit he was before, still be alive in there somewhere? Could he be listening, fighting against the poison in his mind and trying to return?

  But when Scramashank spoke again, his voice was as cold and heartless as before.

  ‘You rabbits don’t understand the glory and strength of the Gorm. How could you? I used to be a pathetic timid failure of a chieftain, always doubting myself, always scared of making the wrong decision. Walking around with that oversized copper pot on my head like a fool.

  ‘Now I have no doubts. No weaknesses. No fear. All I have is power and purpose. You puny things of flesh and fur don’t understand. This entire world belongs to Gormalech. He was cheated of it, but he will have it back. It will be washed clean for him in a tide of blood and iron, along with all your tribes, gods and goddesses.’

  As though in response to his words, the metal pillar howled. Podkin clearly saw spikes and jagged hooks pushing up from beneath its surface. The Gorm around him writhed on their saddles, some of them cackling and whooping with joy. These things could never be reasoned with. They were pure evil, lost to all sense and blind to everything that was good in the world.

  That was when Podkin snapped. Never mind that he wasn’t even half the Gorm Lord’s size. Never mind that his magic weapon was totally useless against him. He pulled himself up as tall as he could and shouted at the top of his voice.

  ‘Fight me then, Smell-a-skank, and you’ll see just what real rabbits are made of! Or run me down with your stupid iron monster! I don’t care. I am Podkin, son of Lopkin, chieftain of Munbury warren, and you are nothing but a fat, stinking coward!’

  With the fiercest roar he could manage, he launched himself at Scramashank’s mount and began whacking his dagger against its head-armour, just below the thing’s left eye.

  Clang! Clang! Clang! Scramashank stared down at him, bemused. ‘Your knife doesn’t cut through iron, idiot,’ he said. ‘You won’t be able to kill my beast like that.’

  Podkin ignored him and kept on striking. ‘I’m not trying to kill it …’ clang! ‘I’m just …’ clang! ‘showing …’ clang! ‘my friend where to throw …’ clang! ‘his spear!’

  There was a whistling sound, followed by a wet squidgy thunk. One second the beast was glaring down at the frenzied Podkin below, the next there was a two-metre-long ash spear jutting out of its eye socket. With a strangled yelp, it collapsed to the floor, sending Scramashank toppling into the snow.

  There was a cheer from Podkin’s family and the prisoners behind them, which was quickly cut off by the other Gorm raising their own spears. That and the horrible sight of Scramashank rising slowly, unstoppably to his feet again.

  His red eyes flashing, the Gorm Lord came striding around the body of his dead mount. In his hands was his huge broadsword, and he looked more terrifying and murderous than any rabbit ever has, before or since.

  Oh whiskers, Podkin thought. What shall I do now? In his imagination, Scramashank should have been trapped underneath the iron beast, and then they could somehow all have run away. He’d never thought he’d actually have to fight the monster.

  Remember. A voice rang in his head. It sounded a lot like his father – that gentle, lecturing voice he used to use when he was trying to tell Podkin how to be a good chieftain. Remember what Crom taught you. You can’t cut his armour, but you can block a little. And you’re much smaller and faster. Now, quick! Duck, roll and jump!

  Podkin didn’t need to be told twice. With a yelp, he dived right between the legs of Scramashank and rolled out the other side, ducking low as the Gorm Lord swung his sword round behind.

  Armour clanked, and Scramashank spun to face Podkin. Pod flipped backwards, out of reach, and the sword thudded into the ground.

  ‘You can’t jump around forever, rat-maggot.’ Scramashank sounded almost amused, sure of his eventual victory. ‘Soon you will get tired, and then I will peel you like a parsnip.’

  ‘Not yet, you won’t!’ Podkin dashed left and right. He hopped and sidestepped and feinted, all the while keeping just out of reach of the deadly sword blade. From the corner of his eye, he could see Crom and Paz hefting their weapons, ready to jump in and come to his aid.

  Boots! That
voice again, only this time more urgent. He rolled under a particularly low sword-swipe, wondering what his mind was telling him.

  Boots? What about them? And then it came to him.

  Scramashank’s boots weren’t iron. They were leather. Big black leather boots. That meant Starclaw could …

  He just happened to be standing between the Gorm Lord’s legs. Without a second thought, he swung the dagger sideways, aiming for the spot above Scramashank’s ankle. It swished through, as if it were nothing more than a blade of grass.

  There was a roar of agony somewhere above his head, and something splattered all over the snow: crimson on white. Podkin smelt a hot iron stink and heard the hiss of rapidly melting ice. Blood, he thought, and then Scramashank collapsed in a heap, clutching his leg and screaming so loud it hurt Podkin’s ears. For the first time, he sounded like a real animal.

  The little rabbit looked up to see the rest of the Gorm riders turning towards him, spears raised. This is it, he thought. I’m going to be skewered like a hedgehog.

  But instead there was an explosion from the direction of the iron pillar. A flower of orange light and a roar that drowned out Scramashank’s howls. It was followed by another, and another.

  The glare made Podkin’s eyes water, and the noise rang in his ears. For a moment he thought the world itself was ending, and then he saw Mish and Mash running amongst the Gorm, waving lit torches and shouting. Of course, Podkin realised. ‘Bang dust.’ Their plan was to blow up the Gorm camp. His friends weren’t fleeing – they were setting up bombs!

  The effect on the Gorm mounts was dramatic. With their riders clinging on for dear life, they turned and stampeded across the camp, crashing into each other with great clangs of iron.

  ‘Well done, little one.’ Crom was beside him, one big paw on his shoulder, and his sword drawn. ‘But we are not safe yet.’

  ‘Wait!’ Mish was pointing out of the camp, in the direction of the hill where they had left Brigid and Pook. ‘What’s that?’