If the Dark Hollow rabbits hadn’t seen the truth of this already, they might have laughed. Three children destroy the Gorm Lord? But, after all they’d been through together, it now made perfect sense.
‘Well, that’s not going to happen,’ said Enna. ‘Hennic is not going to let us have his bow. I know him better than anyone. Even after all these years he hasn’t changed. That stubborn, vain rabbit would rather his whole warren died than let a child of mine touch his precious Soulshot.’
There was much murmuring and cursing among the Dark Hollow rabbits. So much that at first none of them heard Podkin speak.
‘What did you say, Podkin?’ Crom asked, his ears sharper than the others.
‘I said, I can make him give it to us,’ Podkin repeated.
Lady Enna laughed bitterly. ‘No you can’t, Podkin. It doesn’t matter that he’s your uncle. There’s not a rabbit in the Five Realms who could make that rat-witted idiot give us the bow.’
‘I’ve had an idea,’ said Podkin with a sigh. The solution had come to him as he sat looking at the body of the dead crow still wrapped in his smouldering cloak. It was yet another task he didn’t want to do. Being a hero seemed to be all about doing things that anyone with half a brain would avoid. ‘Give me the crown please, Paz.’
Podkin got to his feet, still wobbling, and took Blodcrun from his sister. She stood too and, leaning on her arm, Podkin headed back into Silverock warren, explaining his plan along the way.
*
As they re-entered the longburrow, they could see the council was still going. Hennic and Agbert were both on their feet, each trying to shout the other down.
‘We can’t wait for more tribes!’ Hennic was yelling. ‘Two hundred Gorm is a lot, but it isn’t all of them. We have to strike now, while we have even half a chance. If we don’t, more reinforcements will arrive and everything will be lost.’
Podkin hated to admit it, but his horrible uncle did have a point. They had to attack the Gorm as soon as possible, but only once Hennic had given up the bow.
‘What do you want?’ His uncle had stopped shouting and turned his head to watch Podkin and Paz limp up to the chieftain’s table. ‘I thought you and your band of ruffians had taken the hint and left?’
‘We’re going,’ Podkin said, hoping his voice wasn’t wavering too much. ‘But first I wanted to make peace between us.’
‘Yes,’ said Paz. ‘We didn’t want to part on bad terms with you, Uncle. Perhaps we could drink a toast together?’
Hennic snorted and was about to say something nasty when he noticed all the Silverock rabbits were staring at him. As much as it annoyed him, he needed them on his side if he stood a chance of driving the Gorm out of his warren.
‘Very well,’ he said. He flicked his ears at a cupbearer, who brought two small drinking horns for Podkin and Paz. He set them on the table next to Hennic’s silver tankard, and filled them all with some golden mead.
Before Hennic could grab his drink, Podkin picked it up with both paws and held it out to his uncle, his eyes as big and innocent as he could make them. Hennic snatched the tankard from him with a grunt, too angry to notice that Podkin had dipped his cut finger over the lip and into the mead.
Hennic drained the drink, blood and all, and then slammed his tankard down on the table before Paz and Podkin had even taken a sip.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘We’ve drunk. Hop along out of here so the proper chiefs can talk.’
Podkin didn’t move. Instead he drew Blodcrun out from under his cloak and placed it on his head. His uncle stared at him in outrage, green eyes flashing as if about to shout, and then his mouth suddenly went slack. All the rabbits in the longburrow gasped.
But Podkin didn’t really hear them. His head was tingling and he was experiencing that strange sensation of looking at himself through another pair of eyes again.
Except being in a rabbit’s head was very different to being in a wolf or crow. There were voices, thoughts, words, everywhere. A babble of overlapping chatter that was Hennic’s mind talking to itself.
Podkin could feel his uncle’s powerful pride. Pride for his warren, his bow and his sparrows, but mostly a puffed-up sense of importance about himself.
There was a lot of anger too. Hennic felt the world was a very unfair place. Why didn’t he have more gold? More power? Why weren’t other warrens begging for him to visit? What was so special about Silverock and their stupid mead? Applecross and their disgusting cider?
And there were some very deep and unpleasant feelings about his mother and her husband. Hatred wasn’t a strong enough word for it. Uncle Hennic loathed Podkin’s family and, here in his mind, Podkin could see that it all stemmed from the jealousy that divided them as children.
Why was Enna older than him? Why was she better at everything? How come she got to do everything first?
It made Podkin cringe. These were exactly the same feelings he used to have about Paz. In fact, he still did, sometimes. If it hadn’t been for the Gorm and everything that had happened after, would he have ended up hating his big sister like his uncle hated his? Would they have grown apart and turned into enemies?
But there wasn’t time to worry about that now. Making a silent promise never to resent his sister again, Podkin set about his task.
Remembering how he shared thoughts and memories with the wolves, Podkin reached out into his uncle’s mind. He pushed past all the pride and bitterness, right into the core of Hennic’s being. A spoilt little rabbit kitten was there: its paws curled around its precious things, terrified it wasn’t really good enough to deserve them.
Stop being so childish, Podkin told it. Stop whining and moaning, and take a look at this.
There was a kind of floodgate in Podkin’s mind. A door that blocked off all the worst feelings of terror and helplessness that the Gorm had aroused in him. Keeping it firmly shut was the best way he had found to deal with it, but now it all needed to come out.
Podkin opened it wide, kicked it off its hinges, and let everything pour into Hennic like an avalanche.
He showed him Scramashank standing off against Podkin’s father. He showed him Lady Redwater and her Gorm crows; let him feel the pain of his ear being sliced off. He gave him the feelings of pure terror when he fought the Gorm in their camp, and when they fled from them at Boneroot. He let him smell the poisoned-iron stink of the metal pillar at Applecross as it took over the body of Comfrey, the priestess.
Next, Podkin called out to Truefang and the other alphas. He opened up his mind, joining them all with Hennic. Sensing what Podkin was doing, they added their own visions of the Gorm. The smell of the forest burning. The sound of trees being torn into matchwood.
Finally, Podkin pulled out his freshest memories: those he had just taken from Gormalech itself. Hennic got a first-hand taste of what that iron monster wanted to do to the world. That, and the fear it felt towards Podkin, Paz, Pook and their Gifts.
We are the only ones who can stop it, Uncle. Podkin hammered the words home as if he was a blacksmith at an anvil. But we can’t do it without your bow. Soulshot doesn’t belong to you. Not really. It was a Gift to your tribe, and to all rabbits. You must let us have it.
Sensing he had done all he could, Podkin squeezed Paz’s hand. She took Blodcrun from his head, breaking the link with Hennic. Podkin juddered, and blinked his eyes back into focus.
The whole of the longburrow was staring in silence. Hennic was still standing on the other side of the table, swaying slightly, his eyes glazed over as if he was sleepwalking. His mouth hung open, a small trickle of drool spilling from the corner.
He stayed like that for a long time: long enough for Podkin to begin worrying he might have done some serious damage to his uncle.
Just as he was about to call for a healer, Hennic twitched. His ears jiggled and he blinked a few times, finally focusing on the little rabbit in front of him.
Podkin half expected him to start shouting again, or maybe to even reach across the t
able and clout him round the ear. Instead, Hennic collapsed into his chair, his eyes filling up with tears.
Still silent, he reached down and brought out Soulshot, laying the beautifully carved bow on the table. He looked again at Podkin, stared deep into his eyes, and gave a single nod.
Then, with a trembling paw, he reached out and pushed the sacred Gift of his warren across the table to his nephew.
INTERLUDE
Sythica clears her throat, making the bard pause in mid-flow.
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t mean to interrupt,’ she says, ‘but it seems to be taking a long time to get to this battle …’
‘It’s coming,’ says the bard, trying not to sound too annoyed. ‘This is the build-up. You can’t have an explosive final scene without a bit of build-up, you know.’
‘I see,’ says Sythica. She drums her fingers on the arm of her throne. ‘And I can’t help remembering what you said earlier, about our order being part of the story?’
‘It is,’ says the bard. He tilts his head. ‘A small part.’
‘So they’ll be appearing in the battle then.’ There is a soft creaking sound as all the bonedancers lean forward together, eager for the answer.
‘They might,’ says the bard. ‘Look. You can’t just skip to different points when you feel like it. I’m trying to create an experience here. You have to go with the flow. Let the story take you with it, you know …’
‘Go with the flow,’ Sythica repeats. It’s clearly an idea she isn’t very familiar with.
The bard considers explaining further, then remembers he’s on trial. A trial that could very well end up with him receiving a guided tour of a giant weasel’s intestines. ‘The battle’s coming up next,’ he says. ‘Right away. I promise.’
A tiny clapping sound echoes round the hall, as Rue applauds with excitement.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Battle
Podkin was surprised at how much effort went into getting ready for a battle. When he’d heard tales before, from travelling bards or one of his unfortunate tutors, he’d imagined the armies had just marched up, arranged themselves into lines and got on with it.
Instead there had been hours and hours of talking and planning, late into the night. The Dark Hollow rabbits had been called back into the longburrow, and he and Paz found themselves right in the thick of everything, being consulted about each tiny detail.
Uncle Hennic, in contrast, had been almost silent throughout the whole affair. In fact, he looked as though he might take his rabbits and quick-march in the opposite direction. Perhaps I did too good a job on him, Podkin had thought.
Once everything had been decided, there was just enough time for a few hours’ sleep, and then their army was on the march, heading for Sparrowfast and the biggest fight of their lives.
It had been agreed that Hennic’s original plan was best. They had to strike at the Gorm before any more of them turned up. If they could manage to take care of Scramashank with the Gormkiller arrows, then it wouldn’t matter how many Gorm there were. The battle would be over.
If Podkin’s hunch was correct, that is.
There had been some talk of rabbits staying behind to look after the children, but everyone insisted on coming.
‘Every spear will be needed,’ Lady Enna had said, surprising her children most of all. ‘If the Gorm beat our forces, they’ll be upon us next and we won’t survive anyway.’
She didn’t even object when Brigid suggested Podkin should be the one to fire Soulshot. But good old Uncle Hennic did, however.
‘There’s no way he can pull the bow. It’s made for an adult, and a strong one at that.’
Soulshot had been resting on the table before him. Podkin plucked the string and hated to admit that his uncle was right. There was no way he’d be able to pull it far enough to shoot a daisy.
‘How does it work?’ he asked, hoping there was a magic trick to it.
‘You draw and fire,’ said Hennic. Everyone in the longburrow glared at him as one, until he sighed, ears drooping. ‘All right. You shoot it with your body and your mind.’
The assembled rabbits gave him a blank look. He sighed again and began to explain. ‘Usually, an archer stands before a target and aims. With Soulshot, you look at what you want to hit, and then think about it as well. Once you have the picture in your head, the bow will never miss. Wind, tired arms, bent arrows: it doesn’t matter. A perfect shot, every time. You could aim at a target in the middle of a thunderstorm and still hit the centre.’
‘And its weakness?’ Podkin asked, thinking of the flaws all the other Gifts had.
‘You have to focus completely on what you want to hit. If your concentration is broken, if you think of anything else by mistake …’
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. There was silence for a few moments as the rabbits pondered what to do.
‘Has anyone ever fired the bow with their eyes closed?’ Crom asked.
Hennic thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes. As long as the target is in range. As long as you hold a picture of it in your mind. The arrow will still strike. Why?’
‘Because if you don’t need eyes to shoot it, then I can draw the bow,’ said Crom.
‘I thought the one-eared child had to use it,’ said Hennic, through gritted teeth.
‘Podkin can ride on my back. He can see for me. Once Scramashank is in our sights, I can picture him in my mind. I’ve smelt and heard him well enough to do that. The bow will do the rest.’
Podkin couldn’t help his breath catching a little at this idea. It would mean he’d be right in the thick of the fighting, for a start. He looked to Brigid and his mother for approval. They both nodded.
‘That’s settled then,’ said Crom.
Podkin gulped. This was perhaps the most unpleasant task of all. But if Brigid thought he’d be all right … he looked to the witch-rabbit and was shocked to see tears in her eyes. Was something going to happen to him? Or to one of his family? Podkin moved to speak to her, but there was a sudden bustle as the tribal chiefs started placing wooden blocks on the longburrow table, mapping out the movements of their forces. Podkin was jostled this way and that, and when he found his balance again, Brigid was gone.
And so the rabbits were all given places. Warriors at the front, everyone who could hold a spear or bow at the back. The wolves on one flank, the Wardens on the other. All would fight for as long as they could, for as long as it took for Crom and Podkin to shoot down Scramashank. The rest was in the paws of the Goddess.
*
At daybreak, they set off.
They made a very strange procession: all the rabbits of Silverock, Sparrowfast and Dark Hollow, accompanied by the giant Wardens and a huge pack of wolves.
They headed to the Razorback downs, then turned west, keeping to the steep banks of the hills. When they faced their enemy, they wanted the advantage of the high ground.
Finally, when they were halfway to Sparrowfast warren, a small bird came fluttering out of the sky and on to Hennic’s outstretched paw. He took the tiny scroll of parchment from its leg and read out the message.
‘The Gorm know we are coming. They are marching out of my warren to meet us.’
‘How many?’ Crom asked. ‘Where are they coming from?’
Hennic shrugged and scowled. ‘That’s all it says. The message scroll is tiny.’
‘Can you send another back?’ Lady Enna asked. ‘Can you ask for more details?’
‘I can try,’ said Hennic. His hatred for his sister seemed to have been overtaken by his new-found fear of the Gorm. ‘Although it’s likely my scout is dead already.’
‘No time,’ said Mo Grim who had walked over to see what they were talking about. ‘The enemy approaches.’
The Warden pointed a finger towards the horizon, where a grey smudge could be seen.
The Gorm army, marching steadily towards them.
*
‘Shield wall!’ Crom’s voice was loud en
ough for the whole company to hear. The trained warriors were quick and efficient. Silverock, Sparrowfast, then Dark Hollow, formed into two lines, one behind the other, then locked their shields into formation, poking their spears through the gaps. From the front, all that could be seen was a long wooden wall, coloured in bands – silver, sky-blue and black – and painted all over with bees, sparrows and pine cones.
The Wardens lumbered over to their side, lining up with their staffs ready. Eight fearsome giant rabbits filled with the rage of the forest (Pocka, having been left behind the wall with the archers).
Podkin, sitting atop Crom’s back just behind the Dark Hollow shields, put Blodcrun on his head again. He used it to call to the wolf alphas, signalling where they should gather with their packs. Through them, he could smell the iron stink of the Gorm already, wafting towards them in a stinging, invisible cloud. The wolves wanted to rush towards it and attack immediately. Podkin had to show them over and over again where he wanted them to go, filling his thoughts with pleas and desperation, until finally they gathered on the right flank with much snapping of teeth and growling.
Through it all, Podkin could sense his uncle’s mind, lingering at the edge of his thoughts, full of fear and resentment. At least the link to Gormalech had completely broken when the crow died. Just thinking about it made Podkin shudder. He took the crown off his head as soon as he could and stowed it in his backpack.
He wished there was time to speak to Brigid about her tears, and to give his mother and Paz a final hug, but everything was happening so quickly.
Behind the warriors, the rest of the warrens gathered themselves in a loose formation high up on the banks of the downs. Bows, arrows and spears were given out. Some had slings and stones, and Mish and Mash had their blowpipe and catapult ready. They stood next to Paz, who was being given a final lesson from Brigid in how to use the sickle. Yarrow had Pook on his back; Lady Enna was holding a longbow, one arrow already nocked. Even Pocka had a spear. Everyone was ready to fight for their lives.
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