The Beasts of Grimheart

by Kieran Larwood

  ‘I don’t think it does any—’ he started to say.

  Then it happened.

  From nowhere, into his head, his mind, came a flood of everything.

  Emotions, images, sensations, sounds, scents – incredible, overpowering scents – it all rushed into his brain, too fast for him to handle.

 

  Podkin reached his paws up to try and pull the crown from his head, to try and stop all this noise that was flooding in. But the thing wouldn’t budge and it all continued. Something else, something other was inside his brain, as puzzled as he was by what was going on.

 

  He could hear himself screaming, feel Paz’s hands trying to get the crown off as well. The thing in his brain was searching, trying to find him. Podkin had the sensation of four paws, claws sinking into soft forest dirt. His mouth was bigger, longer: wide and hungry and … fanged.

 

  ‘Stop!’ Podkin managed to shout. He fell to the floor, trying to scrape the crown off against the tree roots. There was hooting and barking all around him as the Wardens began to panic, but all he could think of was the thing in his head. It was so close to discovering him now, he could feel it narrowing its attention until all of its senses were focused on Podkin in a sudden moment of understanding.

  <(YOU)>

  Looking through the gaps in the Oakhenge, Podkin saw the sabre-toothed wolf from the forest. It stood by a tree trunk, staring at him with those knowing amber eyes. And yet – with a sensation that made his little head spin – Podkin felt he was looking at himself at the same time.

  Frightened rabbit/wolf/frightened rabbit/wolf. It was too much for him to cope with. With a final squeak he passed out, falling backwards into Paz’s arms.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Pack

  When Podkin woke up again, he was lying on the floor of the Oakhenge, his head in Paz’s lap. The Wardens were clustered around, bending over to peer at him and make concerned noises. He could also hear Pook shouting ‘Doggy! Doggy!’ He sounded very excited.

  ‘Podkin, you’re awake!’ Paz pulled him upright and gave him a squeeze. ‘What happened?’

  ‘My head …’ Podkin managed to say. ‘Something in it …’

  He turned to see where the wolf had gone and almost fainted again when he saw it only a few metres away, sitting on its haunches – actually inside the Oakhenge – staring at him.

  ‘Doggy! Doggy!’ Pook shouted again, tottering over to grab at the wolf’s furry paw and cuddle it.

  ‘Pook, no!’ Podkin shouted. ‘It’s a wolf, not a doggy!’ But the wolf just lowered its nose to sniff the baby rabbit, and then looked up to stare at Podkin again.

  ‘It’s all right, Pod,’ said Paz. ‘Rake knows the wolf. I think he’s friends with it.’

  ‘Du spakk mit der wulf?’ Rake was standing nearby, staring at Podkin with great interest. He repeated his question, pointing at the wolf, then Podkin.

  ‘Rake only speaks a few words of Gott,’ explained Mo Grim. ‘He is asking if you spoke to the wolf.’

  ‘Spoke to it?’ Podkin said. ‘In a way. I think it was in my head.’

  The noises and sensations had gone, but that was because the crown of Blodcrun was now in his lap. It must have fallen off while he was unconscious.

  Mo Grim said something to Rake in their forest language. There was an excited exchange of grunts, clicks and yowls.

  ‘Rake can tell the wolf knows you,’ said Mo Grim. ‘He can’t speak with it directly, but he senses you can. You two have a connection.’

  ‘What … what kind of wolf is it?’ Podkin asked. Never mind connections – the very thought that something wild and dangerous was staring at him so intensely made him feel like running for the nearest burrow.

  ‘Rake calls the beast Truefang,’ Mo Grim said. ‘He says it is the alpha male of a pack that lives in the Grimwode. The wolves here are different. Much bigger and more fierce. An ancient breed.’

  Truefang’s eyes didn’t leave Podkin for an instant. When Mo Grim had finished speaking, the wolf bent his head to the fallen crown and nudged it with his nose.

  ‘I think it wants you to put the crown on again,’ said Paz. Even she was trembling slightly. Podkin could feel her shaking against his back.

  ‘I don’t think I want to,’ Podkin said, remembering that awful flood of sensations. He was quite sure wolf thoughts and rabbit thoughts weren’t meant to mix. As if sensing his reluctance, Truefang nudged the crown again.

  ‘I think you’d better,’ said Paz. ‘You don’t want to make a two-tonne, sabre-toothed wolf angry, do you?’

  Podkin gulped and reached for Blodcrun. Wincing against the overpowering rush of feelings, he put it back on his head.

  – You. Small rabbit.

  It didn’t seem too bad this time. Perhaps because he was prepared for the unsettling feeling of seeing himself through the wolf’s mind. There was still the massive rush of thoughts and sensations but, if he didn’t think about it too much, it all swam together into something like language.

  Wolves didn’t speak in words, of course, but Podkin found his mind could take all the images and scents Truefang was transmitting, and change it into something he could understand. He was thinking in wolf.

  – Greetings, Podkin sent to Truefang

  – Greetings, the wolf sent back. He gave Podkin’s foot a lick.

  Podkin wondered how they could be talking to each other in this way.

  Something to do with the crown, of course, but how was it working? He could feel the question being sent to Truefang. The wolf answered with a picture: a scene of itself licking Podkin’s blood, back when they were fleeing Vetch.

  ‘My blood,’ Podkin said aloud.

  ‘What?’ said Paz. ‘Your blood?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Podkin. ‘That’s how the crown works! It lets you speak to animals, but they have to taste your blood first. Truefang licked mine when we met him the other night!’

  Mo Grim gave a cry of wonder and started telling the other Wardens. They all cheered as well – the mystery of their Gift had finally been solved.

  ‘Ask him what happened to Vetch,’ said Paz. ‘Did he eat him?’

  Podkin made a mental picture of the ginger-furred Vetch and sent it to Truefang. The wolf gave a rumbling growl and sent back a picture of the rabbit fleeing down the cart track to Silverock, his exotic cloak flapping behind him.

  ‘No,’ translated Podkin. ‘He escaped. Looks like he headed south.’

  ‘What about Crom and the others?’

  Truefang listened to Podkin’s thoughts, then sent back an image of an empty camp. The faint scent of Crom’s leather armour, mixed with wood smoke, lingered over everything.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ Podkin said. ‘The camp is empty.’

  ‘Did they go back to Dark Hollow, do you think?’ Paz asked. Podkin had no idea how to ask that question, he just felt a sudden rush of loneliness and longing for his friends. But that was enough for Truefang to understand. He sent Podkin a picture of the cart track again, this time shimmering with smears of different colours. It took Podkin a few moments to realise what they were.

  Trails? Scents? he asked Truefang, and the wolf gave a small huff of agreement. This was how the forest must look to a creature with such an amazing sense of smell. Anything that lived left trails of its passing behind on everything it touched. Trails that a wolf could read like a book. It was as if Podkin’s eyes had been opened to a whole new, invisible world.

  That track there was Crom’s. There were thick, heavy marks of scent where his feet had walked, and smaller ones on leaves and branches higher up where he had been brushing his fingers to guide himself.

  The shimmering silver markings were Yarrow’s. Podkin could smell the mix of patchouli and
lavender he liked to dab behind his ears. The other scents must be Dodge, Rill and Tansy. They were less familiar to Podkin, but he could pick up a trace of the nettle tea Rill liked to drink and Tansy’s burnt fur, singed from working alongside Sorrel at the hot forge.

  ‘They headed south as well.’ Podkin translated the image to Paz. ‘They must have followed Vetch’s trail.’

  ‘Maybe they thought he had us?’ said Paz. She sounded worried – upset at the thought her friends might have carried on without them.

  ‘They would not have been able to find your tracks,’ said Mo Grim. ‘Rake hid every mark you made. The trail of this Vetch would have been the only one left for them to see.’

  ‘I hope they caught him,’ said Podkin. The sudden rush of anger he felt made both Starclaw buzz at his side and Truefang curl his lip and growl.

  ‘Can we follow them?’ Paz asked. ‘I mean – now that we’ve rescued the crown for you, and discovered what it does … are we free to go? Or do we have to stay here …’

  She didn’t want to say ‘as prisoners’, but the thought was in her head. Mo Grim had said something about a war, but not when and where it was going to be fought. What if it was years from now? What if they had to wait for the Gorm to plough through all the forest until they reached the Grimwode?

  ‘You must do as you wish,’ said Mo Grim. ‘Hern and the Goddess are leading you. If it is your will to follow your friends, then we will come with you.’

  ‘What about the Gorm?’ Podkin asked. ‘Don’t you want us to fight them?’

  At the mention of their enemy, Truefang snarled again. Podkin’s head was filled with a sudden rush of fury. It made his fur prickle, his teeth gnash. He could smell the stink of hot iron and the smoke of burning trees. The screeching and grating of metal filled his ears. The wolf knew the Gorm and could feel their wrongness much more keenly than Podkin ever had. In turn, Podkin found himself showing the wolf everything he knew about the twisted, poisoned rabbits. All the fear he had felt in running from them. The terror and the danger of battling Scramashank in the snow and on Ancients’ Island. It made Truefang want to fight and tear: a great, primal rage that was completely overpowering.

  Before he knew what he was doing, Podkin found himself on all fours, snarling and snapping. Truefang was doing the same. Even though the pair of them made a very comical couple, Paz found herself stepping back, pulling Pook with her. She could feel the anger washing off them in waves.

  Finally, Truefang and Podkin both raised their heads and howled at the sky. It was a piercing, haunting sound that echoed between the trees of the ancient forest around them.

  Almost instantly there came an answering howl, then another, and another. Thundering paws could be heard outside the Oakhenge. Moments later, a second sabre-toothed wolf came trotting through a gap in the woven trees, sniffing the air and staring at them all with its hungry amber eyes. It was followed by a third, and a fourth. Soon the inside of the henge was full of shaggy, furry bodies, jostling and snuffling. At least twenty wolves with every shade of dapple-grey fur. Young, old, male, female. Truefang had called the pack, and now they were there, ready for their alpha’s command.

  Podkin, having finished howling, felt the animal rage ebb away. He was still on all fours and had a dim memory of snapping his teeth and growling. It was a little embarrassing, at least until he noticed all the wolves that were suddenly surrounding him.

  Pack. Fight. Truefang sent him something that was more a feeling than an image. It was the sense of family and unity that his pack gave him. That and a hint of the wish he had to rip and tear the Gorm from his beloved forest.

  ‘What’s happening, Pod?’ Paz asked. She was clutching Pook to her chest and trying to ignore him as he made his own little growling and howling noises.

  ‘This is Truefang’s pack,’ Podkin said. ‘I think they want to help us fight the Gorm.’

  As if in answer, all twenty wolves raised their noses and howled at the sky together. The Wardens joined in – so did Pook – and the forest was filled with the sound for miles around.

  INTERLUDE

  Sythica raises a hand and the bard stops mid-tale, his head tilted up as if he is about to howl like a wolf himself. The bonedancers all turn their eyes to their Mother Superior, leaving Rue as the only one still lost in the story, still hearing the cries of the wolf pack as they fade into the quiet stillness of the forest.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ the bard asks. He is hoping this isn’t the part where he gets pushed backwards into the weasel pit.

  ‘No,’ replies Sythica. ‘Your tale is adequate. It is simply time for our ritual.’

  ‘Adequate,’ mutters the bard. ‘Thank you so much.’

  He watches warily as his audience of bonedancers all reach into the leather pouches at their belts and draw out a termite or beetle. They hold them up as an offering and, as one, reach across with their other hands to twist off the insects’ heads. The dead creatures are then thrown to the floor in a patter of shells and twitching thoraxes.

  ‘Well,’ says the bard, once the bonedancers have finished, ‘I must say that’s a relief. If you’ve all killed something today, then you probably won’t be killing me.’

  ‘I haven’t killed anything yet,’ says Sythica, making the bard freeze in mid-chuckle. She watches with a twinkle in her eyes as the bard gulps and blinks for a moment, then makes a gesture to her sisters. The bonedancers all stand and begin to leave the chamber in rows.

  ‘Is it over?’ Rue calls out, jumping from his seat and wringing his paws. ‘Don’t say it’s over! The story isn’t finished yet!’

  Sythica turns her masked face to the little rabbit. When she speaks, her voice is almost kindly. Or, at least, slightly less threatening than usual. ‘It is not over, little bard. We are just stopping for lunch. You will be led back to your chamber to eat.’

  With that, their bonedancer escorts reappear and shepherd Rue and the bard back to their cell. Someone has already put out a simple meal of dandelion leaves and diced radish for them, and once they are inside, the bonedancers shut and lock the door, leaving them alone.

  Without saying a word, the pair of them sit down on one of the beds and begin sharing out the food.

  They eat in silence for a while, crunching leaves the only sound. The bard is just beginning to wonder why Rue is being so quiet when the little rabbit suddenly bursts into tears.

  ‘Rue!’ says the bard. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘They’re going to kill you!’ Rue wails. ‘They hate your story and they’re going to throw you in the weasel pit!’

  ‘Now, now,’ says the bard. ‘Don’t … um … cry.’ He hasn’t had much experience with emotional children. Thinking he should do something, he pats a hand on his apprentice’s shoulder. Rue instantly throws himself into the bard’s arms and begins to dribble tears and snot on his shoulder.

  ‘You’re going to be torn to pieces! The weasel will chew off your ears and suck out your eyeballs!’

  ‘All right, all right!’ says the bard. ‘Less of the blood and gore … you’re starting to make me nervous! Look. Nothing’s going to happen to me – I think. They seem to be liking the story fine.’

  Rue pauses in his sobbing to look up at the bard with red-rimmed weepy eyes. ‘No they don’t. They think it’s rubbish. All they do is sit and stare. I haven’t heard one laugh or cry or anything.’

  ‘That’s true,’ says the bard. ‘But they’re different from any rabbits you’ve met before. I’m pretty sure they like my tale. They haven’t walked out on me at least. I’ve had much worse audiences than this, you know.’

  ‘Really?’ Rue says. It’s quite clear he doesn’t believe a word of it.

  ‘Oh yes,’ says the bard. ‘It’s when they start throwing things that you have to worry.’ He gives Rue another shoulder pat for good measure. ‘It’ll be fine, you’ll see.’

  ‘But aren’t you worried? Aren’t you nervous?’

  ‘Well,’ says the bard, ‘I have to ad
mit I am a little nervous now, after you brought up the eyeball-sucking thing.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Rue looks as though he is about to start crying again.

  ‘I was joking!’ the bard says. ‘Although it’s true – I am a bit nervous. I always am when I have to perform. Every bard is. You wouldn’t be any good if you weren’t. Admittedly, your life isn’t always at stake, but even so it’s hard to speak out in front of a group of rabbits you don’t know. What if they laugh at you? What if you forget your words or stutter? What if you trip over your feet and land on your face?’

  ‘All bards get nervous?’ Rue asks.

  ‘Of course. But then you start the song or the story and soon you’re lost in the performance. You can see the audience looking up at you. You can see them captured by the spell you’re weaving. And then it’s over and you get the applause. Maybe even a mug of ale. That makes it all worth it.’

  ‘Except the bonedancers haven’t applauded you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And all they gave you was some water and some vegetables.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And they’re thinking about feeding you to their weasel.’

  ‘That too.’ The bard sighs. ‘Thanks, Rue. You really know how to build a rabbit up. Trust me, though. It’s going to be all right. I promise. Now, finish your lunch before we have to go back.’

  With a few more sniffs and snuffles, Rue climbs off the bard’s lap and starts eating again. The bard watches him, hoping that it is going to be all right. The Goddess would be looking out for him, after all, wouldn’t she? He offers a silent prayer, just in case.

  A few minutes later their door is unlocked, and the bonedancers lead them back to the Hall.

  *

  Sythica and the ranks of bonedancers are already there, sitting motionless in their semicircle around the Hall’s edge.

  The bard takes his place centre stage, trying to ignore the skittering sound of claws on the stone floor of the pit behind him. Rue has hopped into his place on the end of the front bench, and is looking at him with those big, worried eyes. The bard feels the urge to run, screaming, back to his cell, but manages to swallow it down and instead gives his apprentice a wink. This is what he does best. He’s done it a thousand, thousand times before. He’s going to be fine.