The bard rolls his eyes. ‘I knew it would be like this,’ he mutters. ‘Can’t you just enjoy the lovely spring morning? The sky is blue, the snow is gone. Let’s make the most of it, shall we?’
‘But, sir, I really should know where we are going. I’d like to make a map of the route, for when I’m a wandering bard myself.’
‘Bards don’t make maps. They just remember things.’ The bard sighs. ‘But if you must know, we are going to the Festival of Clarion. It’s a gathering of all the bards from across the Five Realms. Happens every spring. There’s bound to be somebody there who’ll take you on.’
Rue actually squeals with excitement and starts hopping round and round the bard, almost tripping him up.
‘A festival? Of bards? For Clarion, the god of tales and music? Will you be performing? Will I be performing? Is it far? Can you teach me a story on the way?’
‘By the Goddess’s dandelion underpants, do you ever stop asking questions? The festival’s at Blackhenge, up on the downs, about a two-day walk from here. If it’ll shut you up for five minutes, I will tell you a story. But only if you promise to keep quiet!’
Rue presses a finger to his lips for all of ten seconds. Then: ‘Can I choose the story? Can I?’
‘If you must.’
‘Then will you tell what happens next in the story of Podkin? You told us about how he beat the Gorm Lord at Midwinter, but then we never heard the rest.’
‘Hmph,’ says the bard. ‘That’s because your friends wanted to hear about fire-breathing badgers and giant rat-ogres instead.’
‘But I didn’t. The Podkin story was a real one, something that was actually true. I would so love to hear more. Did he run away from his enemies? Did he stand and fight? How did he become such a hero? Why did they call him the Moonstrider?’
‘You’re asking questions again!’ The bard glares Rue into silence, then adjusts his pack on his shoulders. It is a real story, he thinks, and a good one for the little mite to start his training with. And besides, hadn’t he just promised his brother that he would pass on the tale?
He clears his throat, takes a deep breath and then carries on once more.
*
The bone-faced monster held her blade to Podkin’s throat, pushing the jagged edge through his fur and into his skin …
Oops, no – that’s much too far on. How about …
Podkin had experienced many emotions in his short life. Happiness, boredom, jealousy, terror – lots and lots of terror – but he didn’t think he’d ever been quite as lost and lonely as he was now.
Stop. Hang on a minute.
I’m forgetting that it was a good two months ago that you heard the first part of this story. You’ve probably forgotten some of it by now, if not everything.
Always start off a sequel with a quick recap. That’s lesson number one for you.
So. If I am correct, we left Podkin and his friends running away from their successful raid on the Gorm camp, didn’t we?
Do you remember the Gorm? Rabbits from the warren that was once Sandywell, who had dug deep beneath the earth, and uncovered a pillar of living metal that was part of the evil god Gormalech. That thing had once covered all the world with his toxic iron body, right up until the Goddess and her sister tricked him back underground.
Now he had returned, using the Gorm as his agents. They raided Podkin’s warren, forcing him, his big sister Paz and little brother Pook to run for their lives. The Gorm leader, Scramashank himself, was after them: trying to get his paws on the sacred magic dagger of Munbury, named Starclaw.
The little rabbits almost died several times (and Podkin lost his ear, of course), but a kind witch-rabbit named Brigid took them in. She sent them on to a den of vagabonds and runaways known as Boneroot, where they met a blind warrior rabbit called Crom.
His old abandoned warren, Dark Hollow, was where the rabbits ended up hiding, until they stumbled across the Gorm camp and its herd of prisoners.
In a daring raid, they saved their mother, and Podkin himself beat Scramashank by chopping off the Gorm Lord’s foot with Starclaw.
That just about covers it, don’t you think?
Well. Once all that excitement had passed, the rabbits somehow stumbled their way through the snowy forest of Grimheart, back into its murky depths where Dark Hollow warren was hidden.
The thrill of their success had been huge, Podkin was carried on rabbits’ shoulders, spun around and slapped on the back until he was dizzy. But the elation was short lived once the rabbits realised they now had many mouths to feed, and on Midwinter rations too.
There had been scarcely enough food when it was just Crom, the children and Mish and Mash, the acrobatic dwarf rabbits they had saved from Boneroot. There were now fifty more half-starved and wounded escapees to take care of, including Podkin’s mother and aunt.
To say that the rest of the winter was difficult would be an enormous understatement. Many of the Gorm’s prisoners were too weak or sick to survive on the husks of acorn bread and pine needle soup they were fed. When the snow and ice that cloaked the forest finally began to thaw, there was a new cluster of little gravestones in a clearing near the warren.
Of those that did survive, some chose to move on once they were strong enough. They headed south, down through the forest and into the warmer, safer realms of Orestad and Thrianta. Podkin wished he could follow them but, not even a day after arriving at Dark Hollow, his mother and aunt had both fallen into a deep sleeping sickness. They would wake just enough to take a little water or broth, before sinking back down again. Then, try as they might – with pleas, songs, stories or shouts – Podkin and Paz couldn’t get them to respond. Not even a squeeze of a paw or flick of an ear.
There were five other rabbits just as bad, and spooning broth down their throats was all Brigid, Mash and Paz could do to keep them alive. At first Podkin had been terrified, but Brigid had seen the symptoms before.
‘It happens sometimes, after a body has been hurt more than it can take,’ she told him. ‘These poor rabbits have been beaten, starved and left to sleep out in the snow for weeks on end. They’re not in the Land Beyond yet, but close – on the path – waiting for their meat and bones to mend. When they’re strong enough they’ll wake. You’ll see.’
Podkin was too scared to ask what would happen if they didn’t. Brigid’s grim face told him he wouldn’t like the answer.
The other surviving rabbits were refugees from all over Gotland and Enderby. Some were from Munbury and Redwater warrens, but there were also sables from Cherrywood and Ivywick, lops from Applecross, and brindle-furred rabbits from Stormwell and Hillbottom. Some came from tiny warrens Podkin had never heard of, like Toadleton and Muggy Pit. There was even a shield maiden all the way from Blackrock.
Most of them were still too weak to do much except sit by the fire. The longburrow of Dark Hollow had been turned into a kind of hospital, with bedding and blankets covering the floor. Brigid slept there, tending her patients throughout the night and day, with Paz almost constantly by her side, learning about the healing arts as she went. Mash, who knew some herbal lore from his mountain village, helped as well, while Mish led a group of survivors out into the forest every day to forage for food and scout for danger.
Pook spent all his time curled up next to his mother. During the day he sang her made-up songs in his little nonsense language, or quietly played with the scrying bones that Brigid had given him. Podkin was the only one sleeping in the little room they had taken over, and he found it very lonely. Especially at night when he woke, sweating and shouting, from a nightmare – which he did every night, at least once. Terrible dreams of grinding iron and armoured, red-eyed monsters. Of Scramashank, the Gorm Lord, and of his father standing before him with his silver sword, waiting to be cut down.
They were all aware that their enemy would be looking for them. If Scramashank had survived the loss of his foot, then hunting down Podkin would be his first priority. Luckily, they had seen no si
gn of any Gorm for miles around the warren. So far, at least.
The forest was almost impenetrably thick, with drifts of snow and ice blocking the pathways, but they all knew it was only a matter of time before the Gorm’s search would bring them into the forest’s heart.
Because of the danger, Crom, Mish and Mash had formed a war council along with Rill, the black-furred shield maiden, Dodge, a grey rabbit from Muggy Pit and Rowan, a tall sable rabbit from Ivywick. They spent most days bunched together in a corner of the longburrow, discussing tactics and whether they should flee south or stay hidden.
Podkin watched these meetings from his spot by the fire, seeing how Crom listened intently to the ideas of the others, nodding or disagreeing in his deep, brusque voice. He had slipped back into the role of a soldier – a captain or general, even – with troops to lead and weakened rabbits to protect. Not so long ago it had just been Podkin and his siblings for Crom to worry about. ‘My life and sword are yours to command,’ he had said. Now it seemed like Podkin was the least of his worries.
That sounded selfish, and Podkin hated himself for it. But he’d had a taste of being a hero, and now it seemed he was a useless child again. Paz was healing rabbits and caring for their mother – that was important. There must be something he could do too?
More than once he had wandered across and sat down at the table, only to find all their talk suddenly drying up, and every pair of eyes staring.
‘Yes, Podkin?’ Crom would say, somehow always knowing it was him, even though he couldn’t see.
‘I was just wondering if we were going to do some training?’ Pod would say, or, ‘Would anyone care for a cup of nettle tea?’
He could never quite pluck up the courage to tell them that he wanted to be included in the council, or at least have some special task or job of his own.
But whatever he said, Crom always replied with a weary, ‘Not now, Podkin.’ And he was waved away, as if he were just an annoying child, rather than someone who had beaten the Gorm Lord in single combat.
Perhaps Crom was tired from the worry of leading a band of starving refugees. Perhaps he actually would have liked to take Podkin out for a bout of training that would inevitably lead to more bruises and a bit of mild concussion. How often had Podkin’s father waved him away, just the same, when he’d had warren business to deal with? It didn’t make it hurt any less, though.
And that was why he felt so lost.
In truth, he was an annoying child, he supposed. There was nothing he could do to change it either. His magic dagger wasn’t needed for anything other than chopping wood, he had no skills because he hadn’t listened to a single lesson back in Munbury, and the last time he’d tried to help Brigid he’d only succeeded in spilling half a bowl of soup over his mother’s blankets. Paz had tutted at him, and carried on with her perfect spoon-feeding, while Brigid gently shooed him away.
So he sat in his spot by the hearth, watching Crom and the others arguing over tactics, feeling useless and very sorry for himself.
He laid a hand on the copper hilt of Starclaw, where it hung at his side.
Sometimes, when he was angry or scared, he could feel the blade hissing and fizzing with energy – almost as if it were urging him into action. Lately he had been feeling it more and more, as if it were becoming more alive, more powerful. But today it was just cold and lifeless. Even his magic sword couldn’t be bothered with him.
Not knowing what to do with himself, and not wanting to be around the others any more, Podkin took a lantern from the wall and headed off into the warren. Perhaps he could discover something interesting in one of the unlit, unexplored chambers. Perhaps it would be something that would help them battle the Gorm, and then he might prove himself useful again.
He headed up a tunnel that he knew led to the old smithy and armoury. He’d been up it once already when they’d all first come to Dark Hollow, looking for supplies and firewood. The warren had once been full of rabbits, with Crom’s father as the chieftain, but when Crom had decided not to take over after his father died, they had all packed up and left.
Podkin didn’t really understand it himself – something about the warren having a curse, and losing its chief being the final straw. But they must have expected the spell to be broken someday, Podkin thought, as they had stored everything away neatly, leaving stacks of firewood, torches and oil everywhere. He had tried to get the story out of Crom a few times, without any luck so far.
This part of the warren was unlit, and Podkin’s lantern cast flickering shadows over the packed earth walls. Here and there a dusty tapestry still hung, showing images of tall, stern, grey-furred rabbits, or pine cones, or even a shadowy horned figure, peering out from the depths of a woven forest. Hern the Hunter, thought Podkin, Lord of Grimheart. Each warren had a god or goddess they tended to favour. Most followed Estra, the Goddess herself. She was much friendlier and more beautiful and didn’t lurk about in shadowy woods, scaring people.
Past the entrance to the smithy was a grand doorway of carved wood, which Podkin knew opened on to a temple to Hern. There was also a library through there, according to Paz, but since Podkin couldn’t read, he wasn’t really interested. He carried on into the darkness.
Now the burrow got narrower, and the roof lower. There were one or two more doorways – most probably sleeping quarters – and then a steep stairwell, heading down to the next level.
Podkin stopped and stared. Had anybody been down there yet? He didn’t think so. The darkness was cold and hungry. It smelt damp and old and empty. Should he go down? Perhaps this sulking business was just silly, and he should head back to the longburrow and make himself useful.
Then the dagger at his hip gave a twitch.
Podkin nearly jumped out of his fur. The lantern in his hand swung, making shadows leap and whirl up the walls. Did Starclaw want him to go down?
It twitched again.
‘All right, all right, I’m going,’ Podkin said, not liking the way his voice echoed through the chambers below.
He took a deep breath and tiptoed down the stairs.
*
Podkin emerged into a wide chamber, with three doors along the far wall. This part of the warren seemed much older than the level above. His lantern light glinted upon layers of cobwebs, all coated in dust. The earthen walls looked crumbly in places, and here and there a patch of damp had sprouted mushrooms. There were carved pillars around the chamber’s edge, worn and splintered. He could make out more pine cones, and some other rabbit figures, but it was as if time had blurred and smudged them. No one has been down here for years, he thought. It made him feel a bit guilty, like he was sneaking into someone’s secret hideaway.
After a few moments of watching the dust motes swirl in the lantern light, Podkin took a deep breath and stepped into the chamber. His feet crunched on the gritty dust that covered everything, leaving telltale footprints of his presence. Being a rabbit, dark underground rooms didn’t normally bother him much, but this was exactly the kind of place you would expect to be haunted.
A quick look behind these doors, and then back to the longburrow, he told himself, trying as hard as he could not to imagine the restless spirits of long-dead rabbits that might be lying in wait for him.
Two of the doorways looked plain and uninteresting, but the third was surrounded by more ornate carvings, and made of thick oak. Some kind of temple? He lifted the copper ring set into the centre and pushed.
To Podkin’s surprise, the door swung inwards quite easily. He stepped through to find another large space, this one dominated by a stone statue of the Goddess, with an altar table before it.
She had been standing watch down here for a very long time. There were empty bowls and plates on the altar: the last offerings of food the Dark Hollow rabbits had made, long ago rotted into dust.
A slow, dripping sound came from somewhere in the temple, and Podkin could smell the damp. The walls behind the statue of the Goddess were badly cracked – crumbling eve
n, in some places.
Podkin was about to leave and try the other doors, when something caught his eye in the shadows behind the altar. A deep black hole in the ground, edged with fresh sodden earth. Had something tunnelled up from below? Podkin remembered the way the Gorm had burst up from beneath and into his warren, and felt a sudden surge of terror squeeze the breath from his lungs. But no, there were no mounds of soil around the hole. The ground had fallen in, not been pushed out. This was a collapse of some kind. Damp earth and time had done this, not Gorm.
As he walked forwards to investigate, he felt Starclaw twitch again, and then buzz with pent-up energy. Was there something important down there? Was this where the dagger was leading him?
He reached the altar, making the Goddess’s sign as he passed, and then edged towards the hole, not trusting the apparently crumbling floor.
When he was close enough to peer into the hole, he lowered the lantern, sending golden beams down into the chasm. There was something down there. It looked like more stairs, heading lower into the earth, with some kind of room beyond. A secret chamber? Was it something Crom knew about?
Starclaw was zinging away like a mad thing now, and Podkin knew he had to go down there. On his own, though? That would be stupid. What if the damp earth gave way and he was buried? Nobody even knew where he was. He’d probably starve to death by the time they noticed he was gone.
He needed help, and there was only one rabbit he could ask. Crom and Brigid were too busy, as were Mish and Mash. Pook was too little, so that only left … Paz.
As much as he hated the idea, he was going to have to ask his sister for help.
CHAPTER THREE
Shade the Cursed
Paz was tending to a comatose rabbit when Podkin got back to the longburrow. It was one of the Applecross lops – a male, he thought – although it was difficult to tell. The poor creature had great bare patches of skin all over his head where his fur had fallen out. His eyes were gummed shut, and his mouth hung open, wheezing rattling breaths. You could see every bone of his skull, and here and there were half-healed gashes and purple mottled bruises where he had been beaten. Podkin felt very sorry for the creature, but it also made him feel queasy to stand so close. It could easily be him lying there – or Paz, or Pook – if they hadn’t found that secret passageway and escaped the warren when the Gorm invaded. It might be him yet, if Scramashank ever got hold of him.
The Gift of Dark Hollow Page 2