The Beasts of Grimheart

by Kieran Larwood

  They draw up outside the gates and clamber out of the wagon, leaving the terrified farmer to gallop away as fast as his rats can go. Both the bard and Rue gasp as they look up at the two enormous statues flanking the giant double-doored entrance, both of them carved out of the granite hillside. As terrified as he is about being killed, the bard can’t help but be impressed at the sight.

  The statue on the left is a graceful doe rabbit dressed in a long robe with a belt of skulls. She holds a bow in one hand, the other rests on the quiver of arrows at her side. ‘Nixha,’ says the bard, pointing. ‘The Goddess of death and sister of Estra. She is worshipped by the bonedancers.’

  ‘Who’s the other one?’ Rue asks. The statue on the right is a masked rabbit holding a two-handed sword with a strange, backward-curved blade.

  ‘That must be Cero,’ says the bard. ‘The first bonedancer. She was once a princess, about to be married against her will to the prince of the neighbouring warren. But it was all a trick. When her tribe invited her groom-to-be and his family into their longburrow, they came in, pulled out their weapons, attacked everyone and stole all their treasure.’

  ‘Did she die?’ Rue asks.

  ‘No, she survived. But only her. Then she went away and learnt how to fight. How to fight really well.’

  ‘Did she have her revenge on the nasty groom?’

  ‘I’ll say,’ says the bard. ‘She chopped the whole warren up so small they had to be buried in buckets. Nixha saw it all, as the story goes, and was so impressed she told Cero to come here and train more rabbits like her to be the Goddess’s servants. I’ll tell you the tale properly one day.’ The bard gulps loudly, then adds, ‘Hopefully.’

  Two of the bonedancers now place their hands on the bard’s shoulders, moving him forwards. The third waves up at the doors, signalling to someone inside, and they begin to creak open. Under the cold stone gaze of Nixha and her servant, they are marched into the temple.

  *

  Rue gapes as they enter. The little rabbit has never seen anything constructed on this scale, and never with so much stone.

  The doors open on to a wide entrance tunnel, built of carved granite, with a gleaming polished marble floor. Oil lamps line the walls, making everything shine much brighter than in most rabbit warrens. The ceiling is very high, sculpted into arches and ridges, with a few too many skull motifs for the bard’s liking. Tapestries hang everywhere, all done in black and white, and all showing various scenes of Nixha taking lives. Mostly with her bow, sometimes with swords, knives, axes … even a pitchfork. The bard begins to sweat uncontrollably.

  ‘Look at all the bonedancers!’ Rue whispers. The bard has noticed them too, although he is not as excited about it as his apprentice. The masked, robed sisters are everywhere, silently moving across the shiny floor like a troupe of ice skaters. They spot black robes, grey robes, some with a silver trim. There are even some rabbits in white with unmasked faces.

  ‘Who are they?’ Rue asks, finding it impossible not to gawp at everything.

  ‘Initiates,’ replies the bard. ‘Those who have just joined the order. They haven’t earned their masks yet.’

  ‘You know a lot about us for one who has never been to Spinestone before,’ says one of the bonedancers behind him. The bard swallows hard.

  ‘I have had some experience with your order,’ he says. ‘In a good way, of course,’ he quickly adds.

  ‘What’s in that room, there?’ Rue is pointing through an archway at a chamber that seems to be filled with tall piles of mud.

  ‘The termite mounds,’ answers one of their escorts.

  ‘Termites?’ says Rue, stopping to stare for a second before he is nudged onwards again.

  ‘Bonedancers have to kill something every day, remember?’ says the bard. ‘It’s part of their tradition. They carry pouches of bugs around with them, so it doesn’t always have to be a rabbit.’

  Both he and Rue look at the waists of the bonedancers behind them, spotting the leather pouches next to their sheathed swords. Rue wishes he could see them kill a bug. The bard prays they have done today’s kill already.

  ‘The Hall of Trials,’ says one of their escorts. The bard and Rue look up as they enter a wide circular chamber, its ceiling the bare jagged stone of the hill itself. Lit by an enormous chandelier, stark, angular shadows are cast all around the edges – zigs and zags of overlapping darkness.

  Pillars ring the Hall’s edge and in between them are more black-and-white tapestries hanging from ceiling to floor. Each bears a skull-like bonedancer mask, repeated over and over. Although, looking closer, the bard realises the patterns on each mask are subtly different.

  They walk past a deep pit set into the polished marble floor. Peering over, the bard sees bones strewn all over its bottom, and the grille of a cage on one wall. For a second, he is certain he spots a pair of glowing eyes behind it, accompanied by a low chittering sound, but when he looks again, it is gone.

  He half expects to feel a shove from behind at any moment, sending him down into the pit – dinner for the half-starved giant stoat or weasel they probably keep in there – but they march on, up to the far edge of the Hall. There, partly draped in shadow, is a raised throne decorated with carved skulls of every size. Sitting on it is a bonedancer, an old one, dressed in black robes with scarlet trim and with a mask almost completely covered in silver swirls. A single red ruby shines on her forehead and the eyes beneath are a cold, cold blue. They watch, unblinking, as the bard and Rue are brought close.

  ‘Probably a good idea to kneel,’ the bard whispers to Rue and they both sink down to their knees, waiting for the bonedancer on the throne to speak.

  ‘You are Wulf the Wanderer,’ she says, finally. It is a statement, not a question, and although her voice is cracked with age, you can still hear the strength underneath.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ says the bard, bowing his hooded head.

  ‘I am no madam,’ says the bonedancer. ‘I am Mother Superior. But you may address me by my official name: Sythica.’ She points a white-furred finger at Rue. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘My apprentice, ma— Sythica,’ says the bard. ‘He has nothing to do with this business, so perhaps he could just be allowed to leave?’

  ‘We know that.’ Sythica turns her attention to the bard again. ‘You are aware we have been offered a payment for your death?’

  ‘I am.’ The bard swallows hard, thinking of the weasel pit behind him and how painful it might be to get eaten alive.

  ‘And you know what you have done to warrant this?’

  ‘I think so,’ says the bard. ‘I told the wrong story in the wrong warren, I presume?’

  ‘You did,’ says Sythica. ‘At Golden Brook. At the chieftain’s wedding celebrations, no less. And it was a story involving us, was it not?’

  The bard winces. ‘Your order had a small part in it, yes.’

  Sythica nods. ‘It is for that reason we have decided not to carry out your execution.’ The bard’s heart skips a beat, until Sythica fixes her cold eyes on him again. ‘Yet.’

  ‘Yet?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ says Sythica. ‘We wish to hear this story that has earned you a contract on your life. You will tell it to us, exactly as you told it to the Golden Brook rabbits. We will judge whether it is offensive enough for you to die, and if the Goddess Nixha demands it, then die you shall.’

  ‘And if she quite likes the tale?’

  ‘Then you may go free.’

  The bard clears his throat in order to begin talking but Sythica gestures to the bonedancers behind him. They hoist him up to his feet again.

  ‘You will perform in the morning,’ says Sythica. ‘Until then you are our guests.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ says Rue as the bonedancers march them out of the chamber. ‘I’ve never been anyone’s guest before.’

  ‘I think she means “guest” as in “prisoner”,’ says the bard, although he doesn’t feel too bad about it. He has not only been given a chance at
saving his life, but to do it by telling a story.

  And telling stories is what he does best.

  They are taken out of the Hall, down a side burrow and into a simple cell. It has bare stone walls, two wooden cots, a washstand and a table set out with a simple supper of lettuce leaves and diced carrots. While they stand there, looking at their surroundings, the bonedancers leave, shutting the door behind them. There is a loud click as it is locked.

  Prisoners.

  Rue grabs a handful of lettuce and shoves it into his mouth, asking questions while he is crunching, spraying bits of half-chomped salad down his front. ‘Are they really going to kill you? What story did you tell? Didn’t Podkin meet a rabbit from Golden Brook warren?’

  ‘Vetch,’ says the bard. The last story he’d told Rue was about how Podkin rescued the sacred hammer of Applecross, meeting some new characters along the way. A bonedancer called Zarza, a bard called Yarrow, and Vetch – a rabbit from the richest warren in Gotland.

  ‘Yes, him,’ says Rue. ‘Was your story about him? The Golden Brook rabbits must have really hated it if they want to kill you for it. Who under earth could hate a story so much? They’re supposed to be fun.’

  ‘Some stories are told for fun,’ says the bard. ‘Some stories are told to pass on lessons. Some are told to help people think, and some … some are told to show people the truth. Not everybody likes being told the truth.’

  Rue frowns for a moment, and is about to launch into another volley of questions, but the bard has made his way over to one of the cots. His head is still groggy from the sleeping potion and now that his impending death seems to have been put on pause, his bones feel as heavy as the granite rock all around him. He collapses on the bed, asleep within seconds, and no amount of whisker pulling or ear flicking can wake him.

  *

  Some hours later, the cell door is unlocked with a loud clank and two white-robed initiates bustle in, refill the oil lamps, place jugs of water on the washstand and leave a breakfast of porridge on the table. They are gone again before Rue opens his eyes properly. From his tangled nest of blankets, he sees the bard, already up, sitting cross-legged on his bed with his eyes closed.

  ‘About time you were awake,’ he says. ‘Get yourself some porridge. We’ve got a long day ahead.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ asks Rue, yawning and trying to untangle himself. A whole bed without any brothers in it is a luxury to him and he doesn’t feel like leaving it just yet.

  ‘Unravelling the story,’ says the bard, his eyes still closed. ‘It’s been coiled up in my memory warren and needs straightening out before I tell it.’

  Rue remembers Yarrow, the bard from the last tale, talking about a memory warren. The place where he stored all his stories and poems.

  ‘You’ve never done that before.’

  ‘I’ve never had to save my life with a story before,’ says the bard. ‘At least, not since that unfortunate incident with the giant rabbits in Orestad.’ He opens one eye to look at Rue. ‘Never tell a giant rabbit the tale of Jen and the Beanstalk. I learnt that the hard way.’

  Rue just has time to gulp down a bowl of buttery, oaty porridge before the cell door opens again. This time there are three masked bonedancers there, ready to escort them back to the Hall.

  ‘Off we go!’ says the bard, hopping down from his bed. His eyes shine bright green, and Rue notices he has repainted the blue swirls on his fur with fresh dye. He’s actually looking forward to this, thinks the little rabbit. He isn’t scared at all! Rue himself is terrified, and he’s not the one with his life at stake.

  Gazing at his master with new-found wonder, Rue follows him out of the cell and down the tunnel.

  *

  The Hall of Trials has changed overnight. Tiers of benches have been brought in, turning the place into a kind of amphitheatre. The seats are filled with row upon row of bonedancers, all sitting motionless and impassive, like a collection of carvings. Rue estimates three hundred or more: probably every occupant of Spinestone. Enough assassins to kill the whole of the Five Realms.

  There is a raised wooden dais in the Hall’s centre, ready for the bard to stand and tell his story. Rue notices that it backs on to the pit, from which a gnawing and squeaking can be heard. That doesn’t bode well, he thinks, but the bard doesn’t seem to notice. He strides on to the stage and stands proud, looking around at his audience and smiling.

  It’s all a show, Rue realises, as he is led to a space in the front row. This confidence must be part of the act. Who would believe a story from a stuttering, shivering bard? Even so, to stand there, unarmed, unprotected, in front of the scariest collection of killers in the Five Realms, with nothing but a tale to save you … the bard must have whiskers of solid steel.

  ‘Good morning, bard,’ comes the clear voice of Sythica. ‘I believe you have a story for us.’

  The bard bows elaborately to the imposing figure on the throne before him. ‘I do indeed, Your Excellency. Shall I begin?’

  ‘Please do.’

  Rue watches every faceless mask turn to the bard. Three hundred cold, merciless stares. Three hundred priestesses of death who have yet to kill their daily victim. He swallows hard and mutters a prayer to the Goddess, then another to Clarion, god of bards …

  Please let it be a good story, please let them like it …

  ‘Well,’ says the bard. ‘This is the tale I told at Golden Brook warren. The tale that might possibly get me killed. It is the true story of a legendary battle. One that you might have heard of. The Battle of Sparrowfast …’

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Tale Begins

  Like squares of a patchwork quilt, as many stories are, this tale is just a piece of a bigger one, but I hope it’s entertaining all the same (unless, of course, you happen to be from Golden Brook).

  All rabbits have heard of Podkin One-Ear and his struggle against the Gorm. All rabbits remember those dark days when warriors wrapped in poisoned iron marched out of the north and tried to wrench the whole Five Realms apart, so that their god, Gormalech, could consume it all.

  Young Podkin, his family and his friends had already started to fight back against that evil. They had rescued Surestrike, the hammer of Applecross, and used it to forge three Gormkiller arrows. They had found Moonfyre, the lost brooch, and saved the dagger, Starclaw. With Ailfew, the magic sickle of Redwater, taking their tally of Gifts to four, they had found a home at Dark Hollow warren, deep in Grimheart forest, and were planning their next move.

  They were a rag-tag bunch of soldiers, farmers and survivors from all of the Gorm-ravaged lands. They had escaped by the skin of their ears, come through a tough, snowy winter, and were not yet safe by any means. The Gorm were still about, the Gorm could still find them. What could a tatty, helpless rabble do against such a hopeless threat?

  Podkin and his big sister Paz were on the war council, helping to make those very decisions. It was something Podkin had wanted for a long time, but he was still only eight summers old, and he was finding all the long meetings and discussions a bit hard to follow.

  There were so many different personalities and different ideas to listen to. Crom, the blind veteran warrior, was strong yet cautious. Rill, the shield maiden, was fierce and keen for war. Dodge, the grey rabbit from Muggy Pit warren, was all for fleeing, and Rowan, the sable-furred councillor, changed her mind like the wind. Between them all, it was difficult to decide on what to have for breakfast, let alone how to defeat the Gorm.

  In the meantime, their warren was steadily growing. Podkin’s first idea as councillor had been to send out Mish and Mash, the acrobatic dwarf rabbits, to find all the refugees and survivors that had been eking out a living on the forest’s edge.

  They had been very successful in discovering little makeshift scrapes and shelters, and bringing their occupants back. The number of rabbits at Dark Hollow had swelled throughout the spring. Forty, then fifty, and now sixty or more rabbits were living in the warren, making it almost as noisy and
bustling as the homes they had all been forced from in the months past.

  Feeding and caring for all those mouths was not an easy task, and being partly in charge of it all had opened Podkin’s eyes to just how difficult a chieftain’s job must be. He often thought of his father, killed by Scramashank the Gorm Lord, and marvelled at how he had made the whole thing look so easy.

  Paz, on the other hand, seemed to be taking to it like a duck to water, which Podkin found most annoying.

  ‘What about a night attack?’ Rill said, one morning council-meeting. ‘We could use Moonfyre to jump into a Gorm camp, shoot Scramashank with the arrows, and then jump out again.’

  ‘Not a good idea,’ said Paz. ‘We would have to know where their camp was for a start, then we’d have to know if Scramashank was actually there. We’d have to have a decent bow to fire the arrows, and Podkin would have to be the one doing the jumping, which wouldn’t be safe.’

  ‘I’ve done worse than that before,’ Podkin said, puffing out his little chest. ‘I’m not scared.’

  ‘I’m sure Mother wouldn’t agree to it,’ said Paz, with a flick of her ears.

  Podkin looked across the longburrow to where his mother was sitting, helping some other rabbits patch armour and sharpen weapons. They had rescued her from the Gorm last winter and she had spent a long time in an awful sleeping sickness. It was so good to have her back with them, but unfortunately she was making up for lost time by trying to wrap Podkin up in angora wool and keep him out of each and every danger.

  ‘It’s not up to her,’ said Podkin, not sounding very convincing.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to be the one to argue with her,’ said Crom. The other council rabbits nodded their heads and made frightened noises.

  Great, Podkin thought. I’ve faced off the Gorm Lord twice, fought my way through all sorts of impending doom, and now everybody’s worried about what my mother might say.

  ‘If we’re not going to attack,’ said Rill, thankfully changing the subject, ‘then what’s the point of us being here? We can’t just hide in the forest and wait for them to go away.’