The Beasts of Grimheart

by Kieran Larwood

  And so they all stood, watching the grey smudge on the horizon get closer and closer until they could see the spiked, twisted metal forms of the Gorm themselves.

  *

  The sound of their marching was like thunder. Two hundred suits of thick iron plating, rasping and grinding as they stomped onwards.

  The ground shook. The air around them pulsed with the stink of hot metal and dark, poisonous energy. Podkin didn’t need the borrowed senses of the wolves to smell and feel it. His fur bristled all over, his ear flattened to his head. He felt the urge to run, or thump the ground in alarm, and recognised the old instincts of his species. He wondered if the other rabbits around him felt the same.

  ‘Podkin.’ Crom turned his head to call up to him. ‘What’s that screeching, churning noise?’

  It’s the Gorm army, turnip-head! Podkin felt like shouting, and then realised that Crom’s sensitive hearing must be picking out something else. He looked at the approaching enemy again and saw something hideous behind them: five of the forest-eating machines, rolling steadily onwards with those slave-filled wheels.

  ‘The machines,’ he told Crom. ‘The things that were tearing up the forest.’

  ‘Hern’s antlers,’ Crom cursed. He and Podkin were clearly thinking the same thing. If those constructions could rip through a forest of iron-strong oak, what would they do to rabbit flesh and bone?

  Still the Gorm army ground on. Closer and closer, until Podkin could make out the spikes and shards of their armour.

  The front line was made up of riders on giant armoured rats. Infantry came next, with spears and halberds hung with rabbit skulls and chopped-off ears. Behind were the wheeled machines, being whipped on by slave-masters, and up above circled a flock of iron-feathered crows.

  They marched until they were twenty metres away, then stopped.

  Up on the banks, all the rabbits in each tribe held their breath, tightened their grip on their weapons. Podkin could hear a low rumbling as all sixty wolves started growling, deep in their throats.

  The only other sound was the flapping and clanking of the Gorm crows as they circled overhead.

  And then the Gorm ranks parted. Something was coming through.

  ‘Scramashank,’ was all Podkin could say.

  Crom turned sideways, into an archer’s stance. He raised Soulshot, drawing the string back to his ear. The bow creaked. Podkin could feel the thick muscles in Crom’s shoulders tense.

  ‘If we can hit him now, this might all be over,’ Crom said, his jaw clenched with the effort of holding the bow.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Podkin. ‘I can’t see him yet.’

  He stared at the Gorm ranks. Through the gap came a giant rat, then another. The first was black-furred, ridden by a robed rabbit with a spiked iron crown. She didn’t look like any Gorm Podkin had ever seen, but clutched in one paw was a long jagged staff. Crackles of electricity played along its length, ready to call lightning from the sky to blow holes in the defence of the shield wall.

  ‘Mila. The witch,’ Podkin whispered. At the mention of her name, he felt Crom tense even more.

  The second rider followed, emerging from the ranks to stand next to Mila. This one, Podkin knew well. His rat was bigger than the others, his armour more warped and spiked, his helm topped off with mismatched horns.

  ‘I see him!’ Podkin almost shouted in Crom’s ear. ‘It’s Scramashank!’

  The Gorm leader was sitting high in his stirrups, his arms spread wide, gesturing at the force opposing him and laughing in mockery. His Gorm warriors were laughing too, waving their swords and spears in a show intended to terrify the tribes.

  ‘What is this I see before me?’ Scramashank bellowed. ‘Is this the best that—’

  ‘Now, Crom!’ Podkin shouted, slapping the big warrior on his shoulder.

  Crom pointed the bow in the direction of Scramashank’s voice and let fly the first Gormkiller arrow.

  It swished from the bow, a bolt of shining bronze. Podkin tracked it as it flew over the heads of the Dark Hollow warriors, crossed the space between the two armies in half a heartbeat, heading straight for Scramashank …

  … and then swerved in the air at the last instant, bending to the left and smashing into Mila the witch’s lightning staff.

  There was a sound like a thunderclap. A wave of invisible force burst out from the destroyed staff, knocking one or two Gorm to their feet. Podkin felt a sharp buzz of energy from Starclaw and Moonfyre at the same time. Something had happened to the Balance of power.

  ‘Did I hit him?’ Crom asked.

  ‘No!’ Podkin shouted. ‘You hit the witch’s staff! Fire again!’

  There was shock in the Gorm lines. Scramashank was staring at the witch beside him. She was clutching her hand, screaming. Neither of them realised what had just happened.

  Crom grabbed a second Gormkiller arrow, nocked it, drew and loosed.

  ‘Scramashank! Think of Scramashank!’ Podkin yelled, but it was too late. The second arrow followed the first, heading for the Gorm Lord, then turning at the last moment. This time it hit the witch herself, knocking her clean off the back of her rat.

  You shoot with your body and mind, Hennic had said. Crom’s thoughts were filled with hatred and fear of the witch, Podkin realised. He couldn’t concentrate on anything else. The bow had seen Mila standing next to Scramashank and thought she was the target.

  ‘You hit the witch again!’ Podkin looked down to see only one Gormkiller remained. If Crom missed with that one too, all was lost.

  ‘I can’t help it!’ Crom shouted back to him. ‘What shall we do, Podkin?’

  But there was no time to decide. The Gorm had recovered from their shock. Mounted guards rushed forwards to shield Scramashank, and then the Gorm Lord’s voice could be heard again, screaming in rage this time.

  ‘Charge! Charge! Destroy them!’

  There was an echoing clank as all the Gorm levelled their weapons, and then they were upon them.

  *

  Podkin wanted to shout ‘Here they come!’ but all that came out was ‘Hyaaaaa!’

  All those bards with their stories of epic battles and heroic deeds had lied to him. This wasn’t exciting or noble or adventurous – this was just plain terrifying.

  There was a wild wave of snarling and howling from his right as the wolves leapt forwards, hurling themselves towards the charging Gorm. They met half of the oncoming enemy in the middle of the battlefield with a crash that threw wolf and Gorm bodies up into the air.

  The rest of the Gorm army continued, storming towards them like a surging wave of iron.

  ‘Fire!’ A yell that sounded like Paz. Spears, arrows and stones flew over Podkin’s head, pinging off the charging Gorm like a mildly annoying hailstorm. On they came, regardless.

  ‘Brace yourselves!’ came a cry from someone, and Podkin saw the warriors behind their shields lean into the wall of wood. A wall that now looked incredibly flimsy.

  An instant later, the Gorm crashed into it. There was a crunch of timber, splinters flew, spears snapped. For a brief moment the wall held, but then rabbits fell in two, three places. Spiked, armoured Gorm soldiers burst through the gaps, swinging swords, clubs and halberds.

  And then … chaos.

  Gorm were everywhere. Soldiers tried to hold them back, to find chinks in their armour, but there were none. They shrugged off the copper and bronze blades of the tribes, knocking brave rabbits to the ground.

  Wolves dashed in all directions. They leapt at the Gorm, bearing them down, but even their sabre-toothed fangs weren’t strong enough to pierce the iron armour. Podkin saw a few managing to tear off helmets to get at the flesh beneath, but most were pushed or knocked away, falling to Gorm spears and swords.

  From Crom’s back, Podkin looked around frantically, trying to spot Scramashank. But the Gorm leader had learnt his lesson. He must have dismounted and hidden himself amongst his men. Try as he might, Podkin couldn’t spot those telltale lopsided horns anywhere.


  Would Soulshot work if Crom just fired anywhere? Would the arrow somehow find its way to its target in all this confusion? ‘As long as the target is in range,’ Hennic had said. Did that mean just within firing distance, or in actual sight of the bow?

  Perhaps if they’d had a spare arrow they could try, but there was only one left. There could be no risk involved now. Podkin had to be absolutely sure he had a clear shot. If they missed with the last arrow … everything was lost.

  The Gorm were pressing into them, pushing them back up the hill.

  One came close to Crom, who lashed out with Soulshot, catching it across its metal face. The touch of the magic bow drove it back, screaming, and Podkin had a few more seconds to try and spot his target.

  He saw the Wardens sweeping left and right with their staffs. Clouds of insects swept over the Gorm, spiders crawled through cracks in their armour, biting with tiny poisoned fangs. Of all the tribes’ forces, they seemed to be doing the best, but even they were overwhelmed.

  Podkin looked back to where Paz and the others were still sending spears and arrows, as useless as they were, into the Gorm.

  He saw his mother, Mish and Mash shooting over and over again, knocking swooping iron crows out of the sky.

  Paz was with Brigid, holding up the sickle and trying to do some kind of magic. To his horror, Podkin saw a Gorm soldier break through the line of warrior tribesmen and charge at his sister.

  In slow motion he saw the creature raise its sword, swinging it back for a fatal blow. Paz had her eyes shut, focusing on her spell, unable to move out of the way.

  Before Podkin could even scream, Brigid stepped calmly in front of his sister, blocking the path of the blade. The Gorm stumbled, its sword arm clutched tight by the old witch-rabbit, its helmet pelted by smoking, blazing bullets from Mish and Mash.

  Podkin saw the thing fall, covered by rabbits with spears, pulling off its armour and stabbing at the body beneath.

  Paz was still there, eyes open now, screaming at something.

  Brigid was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Podkin! Where is he, Podkin?’

  Crom’s yells drew Pod back to the battle. Still no sign of Scramashank: just a sea of spiked metal bodies crashing into them in endless waves. Behind them were the clanking, grinding death machines – only a few minutes away from chewing them to pieces.

  ‘I can’t see him!’ Podkin yelled. ‘I can’t see him anywhere!’ Goddess, help me, he prayed. Father, help me.

  The Gorm were all over them, unstoppable, merciless. All around him, rabbits and wolves were falling like stalks of wheat under a scythe. He felt Starclaw buzzing at his side, but knew the dagger was useless against this enemy. Moonfyre was useless, Blodcrun was useless. Without a target, Soulshot was useless.

  Beside him, amongst the toppling remains of the Sparrowfast rabbits, Podkin caught sight of his uncle, sitting on his giant rat and yelling at his troops.

  ‘Fall back! Sparrowfast, fall back!’ Hennic yelled. ‘All is lost! All is lost!’

  None of his men could hear him over the deafening clangs of copper against iron, iron against shield and flesh, but Podkin did.

  He heard him and, with a sickening dread, he realised Hennic was right.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Final Blow

  On and on they came.

  ‘Move back, Crom!’ Podkin shouted. ‘Back, back!’

  Crom turned and ran up the hill, Podkin clinging to his neck. The tribes’ front line was now in tatters. The machines had reached the fighting and rabbits, wolves and Gorm were all trying to avoid their whirling, chopping blades.

  ‘Podkin! What’s happening?’ Crom came to a halt next to Pod’s mother. She was still firing arrows, trying to hit as many of the Gorm crows as she could. The things were swooping down, slashing and pecking at the fighting rabbits’ heads before flapping off to circle again.

  ‘We missed Scramashank,’ Podkin called to her, over the noise of battle. ‘We hit the witch instead.’

  ‘Why aren’t you shooting again?’

  ‘I can’t see him! We’ve only got one arrow left!’ Podkin looked down to where Paz was clutching her sickle, Ailfew. Tears were streaming down her face. ‘Paz! Are you all right?’

  ‘Brigid …’ was all Paz could say. She pointed to the fallen Gorm, beneath which a scrap of Brigid’s cloak poked out.

  Podkin gulped. He felt his blood run cold, felt his heart lurch in his chest. There was no way Brigid could have survived, but still … he wanted to leap from Crom’s back right then and pull her out, help her if he could. There might be a chance she wasn’t … But he knew if he spent even a minute doing that, they were doomed. Find Scramashank, shoot the arrow, he told himself. Then you can go to Brigid.

  ‘Paz,’ he shouted. ‘You have to focus. We need the power of the sickle. The battle is nearly over – we’re going to lose!’

  ‘Podkin’s right,’ said Crom. ‘There’s no time for this now. Use what Brigid taught you. See if you can clear a path to Scramashank for us.’

  ‘Yes. Right.’ Podkin watched as Paz took a deep breath, closed her eyes and began to focus again. He felt a rush of pride for his sister, then turned his eyes back to the fighting. Scramashank was still nowhere to be seen. Had the Goddess forsaken them? Was it really going to end like this?

  ‘Zah! Zah!’ From somewhere behind him he heard Pook shout. Yarrow was trying to keep him quiet but the little rabbit wouldn’t stop. ‘Zah! Zah!’

  Finally, Podkin spun round. ‘Pook! Paz is trying to concentrate! You need to be quiet!’

  Pook was pointing up to the top of the downs with a chubby finger, his face beaming with excitement. Podkin followed his gaze and saw something that made his heart leap.

  All along the ridge of the downs were rabbits, black-robed with masks of bone. Pook had been calling out ‘Zarza’, the name of the bonedancer assassin they had befriended on their mission to find Surestrike. But there wasn’t just one Zarza. There was an army of them.

  ‘Bonedancers!’ Podkin shouted. ‘The bonedancers are here!’

  As if his yell had summoned them, the dancers began to spill down the side of the downs, rushing into the battle like flowing ink. Their black-and-grey robes billowed out behind them. They leapt and twirled in somersaults, eyes flashing behind their masks of bone.

  A cheer went up from the battered tribes as they watched the bonedancers sweep into the Gorm. Up, over and around they spilled, lashing out with their curved swords and sending showers of darts into the tiniest of gaps in the Gorm armour.

  For the first time in the battle the Gorm began to fall back. It filled the tribes rabbits with new energy. They pulled together, slamming up shield walls and trying to push forwards themselves.

  ‘Well met, earless one.’ Podkin looked away from the fighting to see a bonedancer standing before him. From the grey eyes and patterns on her mask he recognised Zarza, his friend.

  ‘Zarza!’ Podkin had never felt happier to see someone in his life. ‘How did you know we needed you?’

  ‘Later,’ she said. ‘Now I must fight. I leave my sister here to keep you safe.’

  She beckoned a second bonedancer over, this one wearing white robes and, surprisingly, no mask. She was a young, white-furred rabbit with blue eyes and a heart-shaped patch of grey fur on her nose.

  ‘This is Syrena. She is a novice. Her mask is yet to be earned.’ Zarza clasped wrists with her sister before bowing to the rest of them. ‘Die well.’

  Then she turned and somersaulted into the fray, lost in the mass of fighting, clashing bodies.

  ‘I’d really rather not die at all,’ Yarrow began to say, but was interrupted by a piercing shriek. Three Gorm crows swooped down from the sky, metal beaks open and talons grasping.

  Syrena spun to meet them, cutting one from the air with her curved bronze sword. The other two dodged: one headed for Yarrow and Pook, the third swerved around Syrena’s blade, doubling back to hook its claws into her neck. Sy
rena screamed, reaching up to strike at the thing as it pecked with its beak, aiming for her eyes and throat.

  ‘Take that!’ Yarrow shouted, bringing his spear up just in time for the crow to impale itself on it. Pook fell to the ground in the scuffle.

  Podkin looked across to where Syrena was struggling with the bird. Could he get Crom to shoot it off with Soulshot? But then their last arrow would be gone. What if his mother shot with her bow? She might hit Syrena …

  Just as he was panicking over what to do, there was a ping as something whacked into the crow’s metal body. Ping! Ping! Ping! Little rocks were flying at the bird, making it lose focus. Podkin looked down and saw Pook, a grim expression on his chubby face, hurling the carved bones Brigid had given him. Ping! Ping! Ping!

  The crow turned its head to scream at Pook. It was enough for Syrena to get a grip on the bird’s neck. With a wrench and a twist, she threw the broken thing to the floor. She was bleeding from several scratches, but none were serious. Pook had saved her eyesight, maybe her life.

  She reached down and picked up one of his carved bones, held it up to him and nodded her thanks, before tucking it into her robes and readying her sword. More Gorm were coming.

  Podkin turned his attention back to the battle. With bonedancers, wolves and forest Wardens, the tribes seemed to be holding their own for a moment, but it wouldn’t last long. The Gorm machines were moving steadily forward, heading towards the reassembled shield walls of Dark Hollow and Sparrowfast. If they hit them, everything would be over.

  But where was Scramashank? With the scores of fighting bodies everywhere, it was impossible to see. He needed something to clear the way, just for a moment.

  ‘Paz? Are you going to do something with Ailfew?’ he called to his sister, thinking her magic could be their only chance.

  ‘Soon,’ was all she said. Her eyes were still closed, her jaw clenched. Podkin imagined she must be calling on the roots and plants below the downs to grow up, like she had on Ancients’ Island. But what was taking her so long?