The branches on the path ahead parted and a figure stepped out. Just a silhouette against the moonlight, but Podkin could see he was impossibly tall and broad, bigger than any rabbit he had ever seen. A pair of stag’s horns stretched up and out from his head. There was only one being with horns like that. Now Podkin was sure he was dreaming.
‘Hern,’ he whispered. ‘Hern the Hunter.’
‘No, Pod,’ Paz whispered back. ‘That’s not a god. Crom was wrong. It is real. The Beast. The Beast of Grimheart.’
To Piper
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Maps
Prologue
Chapter One: Smoke
Chapter Two: Spinestone
Chapter Three: The Tale Begins
Chapter Four: Leaving
Chapter Five: A Knife in the Night
Interlude
Chapter Six: Beast
Chapter Seven: Beast
Chapter Eight: Blodcrun
Chapter Nine: Pack
Interlude
Chapter Ten: Scramashank Rides Out
Chapter Eleven: Quarrel
Chapter Twelve: Gormalech
Interlude
Chapter Thirteen: Battle
Chapter Fourteen: The Final Blow
Chapter Fifteen: Afterwards
Chapter Sixteen: Judgement
Character List
The Twelve Gifts of the Goddess
About the Author
About the Illustrator
The Five Realms Series
Praise for Kieran Larwood
Copyright
Maps
Prologue
Back in the first days, it is said, the goddesses Estra and Nixha came to Lanica and banished Gormalech the World Eater underground. Then they set about filling the place with life (and death, because that was Nixha’s job): plants, trees, insects, fish and, of course, rabbits.
They chose rabbits to run the world, walking and talking as the Ancients before them once had. They gave them fire and shelter, even twelve magic Gifts to keep them safe.
But something was missing.
Living, Estra realised – properly living – is nothing without the power to think about it. To think, talk and sing and to pass on those thoughts and ideas to those that come after you (once Nixha has done her work), so they can use them, build on them and add to them.
Life, the Goddess thought, is one big story. And she needed someone to tell it.
So she called upon Clarion to join them, and he became the god of songs and tales. He chose certain rabbits to be his bards and he gave them this blessing: the ability to tap into the realm of ideas and creation whenever they wanted; to look at the world in a slightly different way and then pass it on through a word, a tune or an image.
And so the Five Realms were filled with songs, stories, plays, poems and paintings, and it was a much better place for it.
Such a thing, the bards decided, needed a celebration (and bards really like celebrating) so they chose to gather every year at a valley in the Razorback downs, where Enderby meets Orestad, where the ring of obsidian stones known as the Blackhenge sparkles in the spring sunshine.
There they could drink, dance, get their ears tattooed and, most importantly, share and spread their stories and songs with other bards from all over the Five Realms of Lanica.
The Festival of Clarion: a tent city full of noise and colour, complete with a contest to find the High Bard’s champion. An organised riot of singing, performing and mead drinking, where old friends reunited and new friends were introduced. A happy, chaotic place, full of joy and celebration.
Except for this particular festival.
For the bards awoke this morning to hear that their beloved High Bard had died in the night. Laughter has turned to tears, singing has turned to mourning, and the festival itself has become a funeral.
Nixha comes for all rabbits, and every song or story or poem has to end. The High Bard’s time of telling tales has finished. The bards will ensure that his words go on and that he becomes a part of them.
But first, it is time to say goodbye.
CHAPTER ONE
Smoke
‘Why are you crying?’
The bard and his little apprentice, Rue, are standing next to the ring of obsidian stones known as the Blackhenge, looking down into a valley filled with tents, stages and flagpoles. The morning sun is glinting on the volcanic glass of the stones, the sky is pure forget-me-not blue, tiny butterflies flit to and fro amongst the flowers. It seems like the perfect start to the perfect day.
And yet the bard is struggling to hold back giant, tearful sobs. His mouth is clenched, his fists bunched, his body literally shakes with the effort, but his eyes have betrayed him: tears have soaked his face; they roll down his nose and drip on to his cloak.
‘What’s making you so sad?’ Rue has never seen the old rabbit like this. He clutches at the bard’s breeches, feeling like crying himself. Unable to speak, the bard points down towards the festival below. It was supposed to be a celebration: the annual get-together of bards from all over the Five Realms to swap songs, stories and sagas. Now it has turned into a funeral.
The centrepiece of the gathering had been a large hexagonal stage. Just last night they had been sitting around it, watching performers weave their magic on the audience. The wooden boards have now been hacked to pieces to build a funeral pyre, upon which the body of the High Bard has been laid, draped in rainbow flags, bunting and garlands of daffodils. From what Rue can gather, he died in the night, sending the whole festival into mourning.
All the bards have gathered around the pyre. They have dressed themselves in their brightest outfits, tied coloured pennants to their staves, even dyed their fur in vibrant streaks of orange, violet and spring green. From up on the hillside it looks like several rainbows have collided, shattering into a puddle of shards, to fill the valley below.
Rue stares at the sight, scratching his ear. ‘I thought people wear black when someone dies,’ he says. ‘It looks like they’re having a party.’
‘He … he always … hated black,’ the bard manages to say, before the sobs threaten to overtake him again. There is a flare as someone lights the pyre, and flames begin to lick over the piled wood. The rainbow flags start to blacken and shrivel.
‘Did you know him, then?’ Rue asks. He can’t understand why his master is so upset about someone they had only seen on the stage.
‘Very … well,’ says the bard.
Smoke is drifting up from the pyre now. The stack of wood has been packed with incense and herbs. Even though they stand high above, Rue can catch a hint of the scent: patchouli and lavender. Sweet, white smoke rising up to drift away in the breeze.
‘Then why aren’t we down there with everyone else?’ The bard had dragged him out of bed at first light and Rue had been looking forward to another day of exploring the festival. It seems unfair that they are missing out, even if it is a sad occasion.
‘Because,’ is all the bard says. He reaches out a paw, as if to touch the smoke that is lazily curling up out of the valley. Rue thinks he hears him whisper, ‘Goodbye’, and then the bard turns to walk away, pulling Rue along beside him.
*
They march eastwards for the rest of the morning, along the top of the downs, the bard keeping up a fast pace that has Rue panting for breath. The little rabbit has a ton of questions but no time to ask them (which he suspects is a cunning plan on the bard’s part). They bubble up inside him, making him hop and skip as he walks. When they finally stop for a rest, out they come, one after another like an overflowing teapot.
‘So how do you know the High Bard? How did he die? Why d
id we have to leave so soon? Is it something to do with your real name? What is your real name? Why won’t you tell me? Where are we going now?’
The bard sinks to the ground, stretches out his legs, groans, then lies back on the spongy heather, looking up at the pure blue, endless sky.
‘Are you ignoring me? Why are you ignoring me? Is it because I ask too many questions? Is it? Is it?’
The bard stays silent but pats the spot of ground next to him. With a sigh Rue drops his stick and pack and lies down next to his master.
‘If I tell you why we had to leave, do you promise to stay quiet for five minutes?’ the bard asks. Rue can’t help noticing that his voice sounds strained and a bit husky.
‘I’ll try,’ he says.
‘As I said, I knew the High Bard well. When I was younger. He was like a father to me, once. My own father died when I was very young.’
‘How?’ Rue asks, then bites his tongue, hoping he hasn’t ruined the flow of information he was finally getting.
‘Never you mind,’ says the bard. ‘Anyway, the High Bard – although he was just an ordinary bard back then – raised me and taught me all the art I know. I would have loved to be there by the pyre, singing songs and telling tales about him, but it’s too dangerous.’
‘Dangerous?’ Rue sits up and stares at his master. ‘Do you mean with the fire and the patchouli and everything?’
‘No,’ says the bard. ‘Dangerous because people are looking for me. Bad people. That’s why I have to keep my hood down, and why I can’t tell anybody who I am.’
‘Why are they looking for you? What have you done?’ Rue can’t help a touch of morbid excitement creeping into his voice.
‘Nothing that interesting,’ says the bard. ‘I just told the wrong story to the wrong people, that’s all.’
‘Are the ones looking for you wearing black cloaks?’ Rue asks. ‘With swords underneath?’
‘They might be,’ says the bard. He reaches out to squeeze Rue’s arm. ‘Why, did you see someone like that? Someone watching us at the festival?’
‘No,’ says Rue. ‘Not at the festival.’
‘It was just something you imagined then,’ says the bard, breathing a sigh of relief.
‘Not really,’ says Rue. He lifts a finger and points back along the downs. ‘There’s one over there, watching us right now.’
‘What?!’ The bard jumps up, staring westward where, sure enough, a lone figure stands fifty metres away, motionless. A hooded somebody with black robes gently flapping in the slight breeze. The bard spots a sword sheath and a grey-furred paw lightly resting on the hilt.
‘Whiskers!’ he curses, grabbing his pack and stave. He turns to run east, but there – on the path ahead – stand two more figures, identical to the first. There’s no escape in any direction, just the steep edges of the downs falling away on either side, where they would quickly stumble and be caught.
‘We’re trapped aren’t we?’ says Rue, his lip beginning to tremble.
‘I’m sorry,’ is all the bard can reply, and he sinks to the ground again, waiting for the strangers’ unstoppable approach.
*
As he sits amongst the chalk and heather, listening to the slowly approaching footsteps of his assassins, the bard looks out at the spectacular view. From up here, on the spine of the Razorback downs, the whole of Grimheart forest spreads out all the way to the horizon. An unbroken ocean of green leaves in every possible shade.
Funny, he thinks. I’ve been terrified of this moment for over a year. But now it’s here, I don’t really mind that much.
It is true – if anything he feels quite peaceful. The worst thing imaginable is about to happen, and there is nothing he can do to stop it. All that worry, fear and tension is now over. Of course he will miss his friends: little Rue, his sister and brother.
Podkin. He won’t get to see him again after all. He really should have stayed at Thornwood a bit longer. Hugged him a bit tighter when he left …
Still, there is nothing he can do about it now.
He stares at the forest again. All the times he has spent there, all those adventures. And now here he is, about to be struck dead, and yet everything will carry on just as normal underneath the leaves and branches, in the cool, mossy darkness of the forest world.
The bard sighs, and wraps one of Rue’s little paws in his own, squeezing tight. The cloaked assassins are here now. The footsteps halt and Rue gives a gasp of surprise.
‘Look!’ he says. ‘They’ve got masks made of bone! Are they bonedancers, like Zarza from the story you told me?’
The bard looks up at the three figures who now surround him. They have black hooded cloaks and long robes. Beneath their cowls, sunlight gleams on polished bone carved with whorls, spirals and runes. From the holes in their masks, three pairs of eyes watch him: cold, calm, emotionless.
‘Yes,’ says the bard. ‘They’re bonedancers. You don’t need to sound quite so excited, though. They have come to kill me.’
One of the cloaked figures reaches into its robe. The bard’s calm feelings from a few moments ago suddenly evaporate.
‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Before you do it – please don’t let the boy see. And there are some gems in my bag. They’re yours, if you would just take him back to the festival for me … you know … afterwards … and make sure there’s someone to look after him. He’s my apprentice, you see. He needs to learn the ways …’
‘I’m your apprentice?’ Rue almost jumps out of his fur. The bard remembers he hasn’t told the boy about his discussion with the High Bard yet. He probably should have mentioned it, but the funeral …
‘Drink this,’ said the bonedancer, bringing a glass vial out of her robe instead of the knife the bard was expecting. ‘Don’t worry about the boy.’
‘Poison?’ says the bard. ‘I thought that was more the style of the Shadow Clans of Hulstland. Have you lot stopped using blades then?’
‘Drink it,’ says the bonedancer.
Uncorking the vial, the bard takes a sniff. Valerian, a hint of poppy seed. It smells more like a sleeping draught than something deadly.
‘Don’t do it!’ Rue shouts, eyes brimming with tears. The bard puts a hand on his shoulder.
‘Relax,’ he says. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in all my years, it’s never to argue with three deadly assassins who could chop you into twenty pieces before you even had time to blink.’
Before Rue can stop him, he glugs down the mixture. It tastes bitter, makes his mouth go numb. He thinks there might be a touch of magnolia in it too, some lavender maybe …
… and then he is gone.
CHAPTER TWO
Spinestone
The first thing the bard feels is a gentle rocking motion, interrupted every now and then by an unpleasant bump. He is lying on his back, with a hard wooden surface beneath him, and it seems as though someone has stuffed his head full of angora wool.
He can hear the slow creak of wood grinding against wood and the scratch-scratch of animal paws on packed earth. Behind those sounds there is the rustling of reeds, the tooting call of marsh birds – coots, he thinks – and the high-pitched whine of mosquitoes swarming everywhere.
I’m not dead yet, then, he thinks. On a wagon, though. Being taken somewhere.
He has a good idea of where that might be and opens one eye to check. Things are a bit blurry but he can make out the little shape of Rue – sitting, clutching on to his cloak – the sides of the wagon, some silhouettes that are probably the bonedancers, and above him a wide, pink-tinted sky. The sun is just beginning to set.
‘You’re awake!’ Rue shouts, almost jumping on his chest.
‘Are you all right?’ the bard manages to say, his words slurring and muddling together. ‘Have they hurt you?’
‘No, they haven’t. I’m fine. The sisters have been really nice to me. We all carried you down the hill, then they found this farmer with a wagon and made him give us a ride. I think he was crying, and h
e might have wet himself a bit. They’re taking us to—’
‘Spinestone,’ the bard finishes Rue’s sentence. Spinestone. The temple warren of the bonedancers. Not a place the bard has ever really wanted to see. They haven’t killed him already because they are taking him back to their home to make a proper job of it.
As if to confirm his fears, one of the bonedancers moves to his side, peering down at him through the holes in her mask.
‘Why did you have to drug me?’ the bard asks. ‘I would have come quietly.’
‘Just to be sure,’ says the bonedancer. ‘You have been a difficult target for us to find.’
‘You didn’t put my apprentice to sleep.’
‘He is a good boy,’ says the bonedancer. She reaches out to ruffle Rue’s ears and he smiles back at her. Traitorous little weasel, the bard thinks.
‘We are nearly there,’ the bonedancer continues. ‘You should try to sit up.’
With some help, they manage to get the bard into a sitting position. His head and vision are slowly clearing, and he can make out the wagon, the trembling farmer driving it and the two brown rats pulling it along a narrow track. On either side of the road, swampy marshland stretches into the distance. Up ahead, bursting through the reeds, is a huge ridge of stone, shattered and spiked at the top into a crest of shards that looks like the backbone of a colossal fallen monster. Underneath it, he knows, the bonedancers have lived, worshipped and trained for centuries. The sight of it makes his insides tighten into a knot of dread.
‘Now that you’ve got me,’ he manages to say, ‘I don’t suppose you can tell me who it is that has paid for me to be killed? I’m pretty sure I know, but I’d like to be certain.’
‘You will find out soon enough,’ says the bonedancer, turning back to her sisters and leaving the bard to watch Spinestone getting closer and closer.
*
The Beasts of Grimheart Page 1