Then he felt it. Not the growth of thorns and tendrils, but a fresh breeze, blowing across them from the downs. Soft at first, but building steadily, picking up seeds and pollen and dew, turning into a rolling mist that billowed down into the battlefield.
This must have been what Brigid was showing her at the start of the battle. A mist filled with the Goddess’s power, just like the one Brigid called when they rescued their mother from the Gorm camp.
Podkin remembered how it had affected the enemy then, making them writhe and scream. This time it was even more powerful.
The mist was the breath of the downs themselves. It was filled with the scent of clover and buttercups, the breath of ants and beetles, the essence of the chalk itself and all the billions of tiny prehistoric creatures that had formed it. It was timeless and potent. To Podkin it smelt of long summer afternoons, basking in the lazy sun. To the Gorm it was like poison gas: choking, burning, stinging.
The armoured warriors stopped fighting to clutch at their throats and their eyes, roaring with pain. Some of them fell to their knees or rolled on the floor, suddenly opening up Podkin’s view.
This was his chance.
He sat up high on Crom’s back, eyes flicking over the toppling Gorm, trying to spot his quarry. There, by the machines? No, just another choking soldier. There, wrestling with those wolves? No again.
And then, just when it seemed Scramashank had vanished from existence, Podkin saw him.
He was standing in a circle of fallen Gorm. While his bodyguard had been overpowered by the mist, Scramashank was still upright, clamping his hands over his mouth. Podkin knew him instantly: those mismatched iron horns, that foot of twisted, jagged iron … they had him.
‘I see him, Crom!’ Podkin shouted. ‘Draw now! NOW!’
Soulshot creaked as Crom heaved the string back to his ear. Podkin watched him take a moment to focus, imagining Scramashank in his mind. But would that be enough? He had heard him, smelt him as he said. What if Soulshot needed more?
Quickly, Podkin summoned up every memory he had. Scramashank drawing his sword to kill his father, Scramashank at the battle of Boneroot, at the camp where Podkin cut off his foot. He remembered his voice, his flashing eyes, the evil sneer he gave every time he thought he was going to beat Podkin.
All those memories, all that terror he had felt and overcome – Podkin let it flood through him until he felt his little paws tremble with emotion. And then, when he almost couldn’t take any more, he reached out a finger and touched the taught bowstring.
In that moment of contact, he felt the bow leap to attention as if it had been waiting for him all along. Suddenly it knew its target. It had a purpose. It sang a buzzing song of joy, and Podkin could feel Starclaw and Moonfyre joining in, their power coursing through him like lightning through a copper rod.
He leant down to whisper in Crom’s ear.
‘Now.’
There was a thrum as Crom loosed the arrow.
Podkin watched it fly, a bronzed, sparkling streak, filled with the magic of his Gifts.
It swooped low over the heads of the rabbits, jinking left and right with a life of its own.
Scramashank was still standing amongst his fallen warriors, screaming at them to get up. His flashing red eyes flicked over the battlefield as if he knew what danger he was in.
As Podkin watched, he saw Scramashank catch sight of him up on the hill. The Gorm Lord’s eyes took in Crom, the empty bow, the look of hopeful glee on Podkin’s face.
And then he saw the flash of bronze heading straight for him.
Podkin thought he saw Scramashank mouth the word ‘no’, but he couldn’t be sure. The Gormkiller arrow was on him too quickly. It smashed into the centre of his twisted helmet – the thing that used to be the sacred Gift of Sandywell warren – and exploded.
Podkin saw the helmet fly apart, revealing – for an instant – the scarred, burnt face of the rabbit underneath. Then that flew apart too, with a wall of force that knocked every rabbit on the battlefield to its feet. Crom toppled backwards, taking Podkin with him, and as they fell Podkin felt twin electric shocks from Moonfyre and Starclaw, like little bolts of lightning on his skin.
He found himself on the ground, pinned under Crom’s head, but looked up in time to see the Gorm machines topple, crumbling into pieces as they fell. The Gorm themselves, already writhing on the floor, screamed louder than ever. Their iron armour crumbled and flaked, peeling off in withered strips.
And somewhere beneath the earth, Podkin was sure he heard a matching scream: one of rage and frustration and pain. Gormalech had put all his power into one gamble, and he had been beaten by the Goddess again.
After that, everything was quiet.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Afterwards
Podkin stood alone on the battlefield.
It was the morning after. All the other rabbits were still asleep in Sparrowfast warren, where they had spent the night.
They had gone there after the battle, Hennic and his tribe overjoyed to be home and free from the Gorm. There had been cheering and tears of relief, but Podkin and his friends were too numb to join in.
Sparrowfast was a beautiful warren, with a ring of wooden aviaries around the mound and delicate tapestries of birds in flight everywhere. The Gorm had splintered a few doors but hadn’t been there long enough to do too much damage.
Not that Podkin had noticed. He and Paz had found an empty room and collapsed on the bed, too exhausted and shocked to even cry.
Brigid. Gone.
With Crom’s help, they had moved the dead Gorm soldier and his broken armour to find their friend underneath.
Brigid, who had found them in the woods and saved them from the Gorm. Brigid, who had helped them rescue their mother, and had nursed her back to health. Who had guided them and helped them every step of the way, always with a kind word and a twinkle in her eye.
She’d been their mother when they needed one. She’d been their friend, their teacher, their guardian.
She looks so small, Podkin had thought, half expecting her to open an eye and make a comment about how she’d known this was going to happen and had dodged the Gorm blade at the last minute. Had she known? And if so, why hadn’t she moved? Why hadn’t she brought a shield with her? Some armour?
It was my time, Podkin. That’s just the way things had to be. He heard her voice in his head so clearly, for a second he thought she’d spoken.
‘Wake up. Wake up,’ Paz had said, taking hold of her paw. Podkin took the other. It was cold, limp, lifeless.
‘She’s gone,’ Crom had said, his voice as soft as Podkin had ever heard it. Looking up, Podkin had seen tears welling in the blind warrior’s eyes. ‘She’s in the Land Beyond. She’s there with her family. Looking down on us right now. She’d be so happy that we won. So proud of you both.’
‘No.’ He had only been able to whisper that word. A whisper, when what he wanted to do was shout. He wanted to scream at the Goddess how it wasn’t fair, how Brigid had only ever served her, how she didn’t deserve to be lying dead on a battlefield, covered in Gorm blood.
‘Come on, son,’ Crom had said. He had gently taken Brigid’s paws back and laid them on her chest before wrapping her in her cloak and lifting her from the ground. She was as light as a twig in Crom’s arms. ‘Let’s take her home.’
They had brought her into Sparrowfast longburrow and laid her before the fire, where all the Dark Hollow rabbits gathered to weep over her, holding each other tight in their sorrow.
And she wasn’t the only one to have died: Clary, the soldier from Munbury warren, Dodge, the councillor. Rabbits from Sparrowfast and Silverock, and some of the Dark Hollow warriors Podkin hadn’t even met properly yet. Wolves too: brown, black and grey puddles of fur lay motionless on the field amongst all the fragments of crumbling iron.
The Wardens had all survived, thankfully, but some were hurt. Cob and Vendra, in particular, had nasty spear wounds. They would have to go b
ack to the Grimwode quickly to heal.
And there were many Gorm.
Peeled of their iron shells, they just looked like ordinary rabbits. Well, perhaps not quite ordinary. Their fur was seared off in patches. Black veins bubbled all over them, and some had splinters and scabs of metal growing through their skin.
Many had died the instant Scramashank’s helmet exploded. Others were still breathing – shallow, pained breaths – or even trying to crawl weakly away. They left them there, for the time being. Nobody wanted to put their paws on the Gorm or their cursed metal.
They left that job until the evening, so Podkin heard. Rabbits from all three tribes had returned to the battlefield to build a funeral pyre. When they got there, they found fewer Gorm bodies than they had expected. Maybe some had managed to drag themselves off somewhere. Maybe Gormalech itself had reached up through the earth to pull them back down. Would they still be Gorm without their armour? Or would their own minds manage to reclaim their bodies? Podkin found he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not now. He couldn’t feel anything except a terrible sadness.
*
The towering funeral pyre stood on the field amongst the fragments of armour that still lay everywhere, a mountain of bodies, wood and leaves. They would burn it tonight and stand to watch the smoke rise up over the downs. And then tomorrow they would go home: back to their proper lives, without having to live in terror any more.
Podkin couldn’t even imagine what that would be like. Fear of the Gorm had become a part of him over the past months. It was as natural as breathing. Could it really be finished? Was he really able to be a normal rabbit again?
His thoughts were interrupted by a distant howl. He looked up to see Truefang, Nightclaw and Deadeye, with their packs gathered around them. They were hovering on the edge of the battlefield, keen to be back amongst the cool darkness of the forest.
Podkin thought of putting on Blodcrun and asking them to stay for the funeral ceremony, but what would wolves understand about that? Their brothers and sisters were gone, they were left. That was all. That, and the fact that the forest was now safe.
Podkin was surprised they had stayed around this long. He raised a paw in farewell, and watched them turn as one and lope back to Grimheart.
Alone again, Pod began to wander amongst the scraps and shards of metal. Here and there was a puddle of dried blood, buzzing with little flies. He walked past cracked helms, crumbling shoulder plates, shattered fragments of swords and daggers.
They had already found what was left of Mila the witch’s lightning staff. It was just a twisted copper stick now, blackened and burnt. Podkin had offered it to Rill, as it was once the Gift of her warren, but she refused. It was now in his pack, next to Blodcrun. Two more Gifts for his collection. Now he had six. Half the Gifts that the Goddess had given. Is there any point to having them now? he wondered. Why am I even out here looking for more?
He didn’t know. It just felt like something he should do.
Podkin brushed his toes through the grass, turning over the bits and pieces of iron. Some of them crumbled into dust as he nudged them.
He walked past the heaps of wood and metal that had been the fearsome tree-tearing machines. They had managed to free the slaves after the battle. The poor, half-starved rabbits were now in Sparrowfast longburrow, being treated with the rest of the wounded.
All except one. The pyre-builders had found another body inside one of the broken wheels. That of a scrawny, ginger-furred rabbit with burnt and blistered skin around his neck.
Vetch.
The traitor had run back to his masters and been rewarded by getting shoved into a treadmill. The hard work had killed him, that or the shock of the explosion. Podkin probably should have felt happy that he got what he deserved, but he didn’t. It just added to the weight of sadness already pulling him down. What a waste of a life. And all for the sake of a bit more gold.
Podkin looked up at the pyre where Vetch now lay, along with Brigid and everyone else. He hoped things would be better for them all, wherever they were headed next.
Just as he said his little prayer, his foot bumped against something solid. There in the grass, resting on his toe, was a chunk of copper. The edges were blackened and jagged, but Podkin could make out a bit of rim left at the bottom, as if it had once been part of a pot or bowl. He bent to look closer, and noticed two more pieces nearby. He felt Starclaw give a little buzz and, underneath their coating of soot, the copper pieces twinkled in response.
Carefully, Podkin gathered them up and held them in his paws.
‘Are you … were you … the Gift of Sandywell?’ he said, mainly to himself. He thought the shards might have glimmered again in answer, although it was probably just the sun peeping behind a cloud and bouncing off the metal.
Podkin scanned the ground again, looking for more fragments, or some trace of the Gorm Lord. Some of the skulls from his belt, his black iron sword … anything. But there was nothing left except a circle of flattened grass.
*
That night the rabbits of Dark Hollow, Silverock and Sparrowfast all gathered on the field again, this time in a ring around the pyre.
Chief Hennic came forward with a blazing torch. Podkin thought he might say something pompous – try to take credit for the victory, perhaps – but he just bowed his head and lit the wood.
Paz clutched Podkin’s hand on one side, Crom on the other. Pook was cuddled up in his mother’s arms, with Yarrow beside her. Mish and Mash were there, and Zarza and Mo Grim. Everyone who had been a part of Podkin’s life since the Gorm invaded his warren.
They all watched the flames lick up the sides of the pyre, turning it into a pyramid of blazing orange light. Smoke and showers of glowing sparks poured up and up, blowing over the downs and on into the sky.
As the pyre began to burn down, some rabbits turned and headed back to Sparrowfast warren for the night’s feast. But Podkin and his friends stayed until the very last log had collapsed and there was nothing but blackened ashes.
Only then did the tears come. Paz wrapped Podkin in her arms, and the two of them cried for a long, long time.
*
Dawn the next morning was the start of a new day, but also the start of a new life it seemed to Podkin.
All the fighters were heading their separate ways. The forest Wardens, propping up their wounded, were the first to go. Mo Grim bowed low to Podkin and Paz.
‘You will always be welcome in the Grimwode, Chosen of Hern,’ she said.
‘Your crown,’ said Podkin, pulling Blodcrun out from his pack. ‘You should take it back.’
Mo Grim shook her head. ‘It is yours now. Take good care of it.’
She squeezed Podkin’s shoulder with a grip that nearly crushed him, and then turned to Chief Hennic. From a pouch at her belt, she produced an acorn, which she gave to him.
‘Plant this in the ashes of the funeral pyre,’ she said. ‘It will grow into a big, strong tree. For us all to remember.’
‘To remember,’ he repeated.
The Wardens all smiled and bowed to their new friends, then turned and lumbered back to the forest. Pocka looked back over his mother’s shoulder, waving tearfully to Pook, who was most upset. First his wolves had left him, now his giant best friend. Lady Enna tried to mop his eyes and stop him from crying so loudly.
Next, the bonedancers prepared to leave. Zarza and her sister walked up to where the tribal chieftains stood, carrying something wrapped in black cloth.
‘Paz and Podkin,’ Zarza said, bowing before them as Mo Grim had done.
‘How can we ever thank you, Zarza?’ Paz said. ‘Without you, the battle would have been lost.’
Zarza shook her masked head. ‘I think it was you two who won the battle. Yet again. All we did was give you a little time.’
‘I’m sure that isn’t true,’ said Podkin, blushing beneath his fur. ‘You were all amazing.’
Zarza bowed her head again, then held out the wrapped object to Podki
n. He pulled back the cover to reveal an oval mirror set into a carved wooden frame.
‘You asked how we knew to come,’ Zarza said. ‘This is what told us. Godseye, the mirror of Spinestone.’
‘Is it a Gift?’ Paz asked. Podkin knew it was already – he could feel the familiar buzz of power running through it.
‘It is. Sometimes it shows things that are happening in other places. We have never understood how or why it chooses to do so. It showed us the Gorm marching a few days ago, and you preparing to fight them.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Podkin. He looked into the glass, but saw only himself looking back.
‘It is for you, Gift-Bearers,’ Zarza said. ‘It will be a great loss to our order, but it is clear you are meant to have it. All the Gifts seem to be making their way to you.’
‘Thank you,’ Podkin managed to say, a bit overwhelmed. To be responsible for so many precious treasures …
‘But we don’t need it, do we?’ Paz said. ‘The Gorm are gone now. The Balance has been restored …’
Zarza shrugged. ‘Who knows what the future will bring? And who is to question the will of the goddesses?’
Bowing again, she turned to leave. Syrena, her sister, bowed too, and blew Pook a kiss, which stopped him from crying, at least for a moment.
With the bonedancers marching behind them, Zarza and her sister made their way back towards the downs, on the other side of which was their temple.
And that meant it was time for the rabbits of Silverock and Dark Hollow to leave too.
There was much clasping of wrists and slapping of backs. Nothing brings rabbits together like fighting for their lives with one another. Even Uncle Hennic looked a little sad at saying goodbye.
He stood before Lady Enna for a few moments, both waiting for the right words to come. In the end they clasped paws and nodded. Perhaps they’d never be friends but at least they had come some way along the path.
The Beasts of Grimheart Page 14