‘Except it doesn’t look like it’s really going to be defeated at the moment, which is a tragic shame. Our lovely Zarza here seems to be giving it a shot, though, which is why I am following her. One day, her tale will be famous, her name known by rabbitkind throughout the Five Realms … should there be anyone left alive to sing it, of course.’
The bonedancer stared across the circle at Yarrow with a look that could have wilted a radish. ‘I don’t want to be famous, singing rabbit. I just want to kill Gorm.’
‘And you are so terribly good at it, my dear.’ Yarrow sat back down and let Pook curl up on his lap. Podkin looked at the other rabbits to see who would speak next. Zarza was ignoring everyone completely, and all of his friends had their lips firmly closed. Well, if nobody else is going to say anything … he thought.
‘I am Podkin, son of Lopkin, once of Munbury. We’ve all come from Dark Hollow: a warren hidden in the middle of Grimheart forest. We’re on a quest to find the sacred hammer of Applecross so we can use it to—’
‘Podkin!’ Paz shouted, jumping up from her seat and grabbing him by the arm. ‘You’re not supposed to tell everybody that, you ferret-faced lump! Have you got turnips for brains or something?’
‘But they were all telling stories …’
‘It doesn’t matter! They could be Gorm spies, for all you know, and now you’ve blabbed everything!’
Podkin blushed crimson under his fur again. He had only wanted to join in. Was telling these rabbits so bad? What if they could help them find the hammer?
He looked across at Crom. The big rabbit’s face was like a thundercloud. Paz’s was just as bad, and Tansy was shaking her head at him. The new rabbits, on the other hand, were looking very interested all of a sudden. What had he done?
‘Tell us more about this hammer,’ Zarza said. Her grey eyes gleamed from the hollows of her mask.
‘I’d probably better not,’ said Podkin, and he sat down quickly, pulling his cloak hood up and trying to vanish from sight as much as possible.
‘Why don’t you tell us something?’ Paz asked, turning her glare on the masked rabbit. ‘What under earth is a bonedancer, anyway? And why is everyone so scared of you?’
Podkin silently thanked her for changing the subject.
Zarza stared back at Paz with those eyes like frosty granite. To her credit, she didn’t even flinch. Podkin got the impression that the bonedancer was smiling underneath her mask. ‘Are you scared of me, little field rabbit?’
Paz stood, hands on hips and chest puffed out. ‘No, I’m not. I’ve faced worse than you, even though I might be “little”. I’ve fought off Gorm more times than you have, I bet, and I don’t go around being rude to rabbits I’ve only just met!’
Podkin was surprised to hear Zarza chuckle. She bowed her head to Paz, and made a gesture with an open palm that looked like an offering of respect. It seemed to Podkin that his sister had passed some kind of test.
‘Apologies for my rudeness,’ Zarza said. ‘I’m sure your big friend can tell you all about my order.’
‘Bonedancers are hired assassins,’ said Crom. ‘Paid killers. The best in the Five Realms, if you can afford them. They come from a temple in Thrianta called Spinestone. Only women can join them, and they serve Nixha, the goddess of death.’
‘And only those who have risen to the rank of sister are allowed to hire out their skills,’ Zarza replied, continuing to stare at Paz. ‘I am but a novice myself.’
‘A novice?’ Podkin forgot he was trying to be invisible. ‘Does that mean you’re still learning how to kill people?’
‘Oh, I know all about killing, little one-ear. In fact, we bonedancers must kill something every day. The goddess Nixha requires it.’
Podkin gulped. ‘Have you killed something today then?’
‘Not yet.’ Zarza winked at him, making him huddle further into his cloak. Then she reached for a leather pouch at her belt, dipped her long fingers inside it and pulled out a little green beetle. As Podkin watched in horror, she twisted off the tiny creature’s head, then winked at him again.
‘That’s better,’ she said.
‘How cruel!’ said Paz, still standing in her toughrabbit stance.
‘If you became a bonedancer, you wouldn’t think so.’
Paz had no reply to that. Had she just been made an offer? Or was Zarza simply teasing her? Podkin couldn’t work out which it was, but somehow he couldn’t imagine his sister in a bone mask, swishing swords through the air. Then again, it might actually suit her very well, especially when she was in one of her early-morning moods.
Soon after that, they packed away the remains of their meal and prepared to leave. As they were tucking their supplies neatly into their packs, Podkin noticed Zarza drawing Crom aside for a quiet word. The urge to find out what they were saying overcame his fear of the masked rabbit and her sharp sword. He started to edge a bit closer.
‘Curiosity killed the rabbit,’ warned Paz, looking up from her packing.
‘But what are they talking about? Do you think Crom is going to hire her to kill the Gorm?’
‘What’s he going to pay her with? Pine cones?’ Paz shook her head. ‘I bet she’s wanting to know about the hammer. You really should learn to keep your mouth shut.’
‘And you should learn to … to …’ Podkin was still thinking of something horrid to say when Crom finished talking and came over to them.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘It looks like we’ve got some travelling companions. They want to come with us as far as Applecross.’
‘But Crom!’ Paz raised her voice as loud as she dared. ‘They’re just after the hammer! They heard what Podkin said, and now they want the Gift for themselves!’
Crom shrugged. ‘Maybe. But I know a bit about bonedancers. They’re not interested in treasure or booty, apart from their fee, of course. Novices like Zarza have special quests to do before they can become proper sisters of the order. Zarza’s is to do as much damage to the Gorm as possible. I think she’ll be very useful to us.’
‘But what about the others?’ Podkin asked. ‘How can we trust them?’
‘Yarrow’s just after a good tale,’ said Crom. ‘And as for that Vetch … well, I trust him about as far as I can throw a giant rat. We’ll have to put up with him, though, if we want Zarza’s help. Mentioning our mission might have been a good move after all, Podkin.’
Before anything else could be said, the blind rabbit walked off to ready the others, leaving Podkin lost in thought and Paz quietly seething. Dusk had fallen, and the sky above the wood was filling with the flitting shapes of hungry bats snatching plump moths out of the air. Podkin looked out on to the open plains between him and Applecross warren. Plains he was now about to walk through in the dark, with a group of rabbits that might be waiting for the perfect chance to knock him over the head and steal his magic treasures. He clutched Starclaw tight and felt it judder in response. Moonfyre was still pinned inside his jerkin, pressing into his fur. Could he use it to jump through a shadow, right back to his mother’s side in Dark Hollow warren?
But the night sky was blank and cloudy, the moon nowhere to be seen.
INTERLUDE
It is morning, and the bard wakes to find a pale spring mist filling the little valley where he and Rue camped for the night. It has coated his blanket with dew, and little droplets like diamonds hang in his whiskers.
He had told his tale until well after sundown, sitting by the fireside with Rue staring up at him with twinkling eyes, much in the same way that he had once stared up at Yarrow on a darkening evening, in a little wood a long, long time ago.
Not that Rue knew that. The little rabbit was just lost in the story, his face warmed by a crackling fire, the cold, empty darkness of night at his back. Just the way stories had first been told, before things like warrens and hearths were invented.
Groaning at his stiff joints, the bard shrugs off his blanket and stretches out his creaking limbs. Rue is still sound asleep: just a twit
ching nose and the tip of a speckled ear poking out from his nest of cloak and blankets. How cute, thinks the bard, surprising himself with his paternal feelings. But they don’t last long.
He wonders how best to wake a little rabbit up. Throw some water over him? Give him a good kick? In the end he builds up the fire and starts to make some porridge for breakfast, banging the pans together as loudly as he can.
‘Is it morning?’ A muffled voice comes from the blanket-nest.
‘Yes it is, you lazy lump. And we have to be off if we want to make the start of the festival.’
The Festival of Clarion. All the noise, the bustle, the songs and the stories. It has been years since he last went. Was that the year Ogbert the Bold won the High Bard’s cup for his ballad singing? Or was it when his friend Finwald ate those spicy Thriantan radishes and couldn’t speak for a week? He’d been to so many now, they all blurred into each other. Mostly he remembered there being far too many rabbits for his liking. All the bumping and jostling. The singing and shouting, the drinking and feasting.
‘I can’t wait to see the festival. Is it fun?’ Rue’s voice is full of innocent excitement.
‘Oh,’ says the bard, trying not to sound too fed up. ‘It’s wonderful. Simply glorious. Especially if you like lying awake until four in the morning, listening to several hundred drunken bards all trying to sing different songs at once. Now be quiet and eat your porridge.’
*
They set off soon after, breathing in the heavy, cold air of the mist, working their way up the hillside until they are above it – a ghostly white blanket laying across the grasslands as far as the eye can see.
The trek up the steep downs has kept Rue out of breath, but as soon as they pause at the top, blinking in the sudden sunshine, the questions start.
‘So,’ he says. ‘Bonedancers. Is there really such a thing?’
‘There is,’ says the bard, leaning on his staff, trying to get his breath back. Rue doesn’t hear him mutter, ‘Unfortunately.’
‘What, still? In real life?’
‘In real life,’ says the bard. He gestures off to the east. ‘Over there, past the grasslands and the swamps, their temple still stands.’
‘And people can hire them? If they want somebody killed, I mean?’
The bard nods and shudders. He scans the wide empty downs around them, as if checking for something, then pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders. ‘Let’s stop talking about this, shall we? We really should be getting on.’
‘Why don’t you want to talk about it?’ Rue asks, but the bard has already started walking. He skips after him, pelting the old rabbit with questions, but the bard’s lips are firmly closed. In the end they walk in silence for a while, watching as the sun slowly burns off the mist around them, gradually revealing the land beneath like a Bramblemas Day present being unwrapped.
It is getting near to lunchtime when Rue stops them with a shout: ‘Rabbits! On the path before us! Do you think they’re going to the festival too?’
The bard squints against the sunshine. There are two rabbits up ahead, cloaked, with walking staffs and packs. Could be simple travellers, but on this day and going in this direction, they probably are bards, heading for the festival. The bard pauses to draw his hood up, pulling it down over his eyes.
It soon becomes clear that the two figures are waiting for them. As they get closer, Rue spots the dyed fur and tattooed ears that give them away.
‘Bards! Real bards!’ he squeaks.
‘What d’you think I am? Chopped parsley?’ The bard pulls his hood down further. He was hoping to slip into the festival un-noticed, lost amongst all the noise and bustle.
‘Well met, fellow travellers!’ One of the figures waves. It is a female rabbit, young, with brindled fur and only a feather or two tied to her staff. Newly trained then – nobody the bard has ever seen before.
‘Well met,’ he replies, keeping his eyes down.
‘A fellow minstrel!’ The other rabbit speaks. This one is older and he has a harp slung over his shoulder. The bard thinks he recognises him from somewhere. A springtime in the past, perhaps. ‘Are you heading for the festival?’
‘Yes!’ Rue hops up and down. ‘Are you going too?’
‘We are,’ says the lady rabbit. ‘Shall we walk together?’
‘Oh,’ says the bard, ignoring Rue’s excited squealing. ‘We would only slow you down. Besides, we were just about to stop for lunch. I am sure we’ll meet you again, at the festival ground.’
‘That’s a shame,’ says the elder rabbit, nodding towards the bard’s bead and feather-covered staff. ‘We were hoping for a chance to trade stories. Especially with one so experienced as yourself. Haven’t I seen you before? You aren’t Wulf the Wanderer, are you?’
‘Me?’ says the bard. He notices Rue staring up at him, ears twitching away. ‘Oh no, not I. I’m just from a little warren in Enderby. I don’t usually make it to the festival, what with my bad legs, but my little lad wanted to see it so …’
‘Funny,’ says the elder rabbit. ‘I could have sworn you were him. Your voice even sounds the same.’
‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ says the bard, coughing and spluttering a little. ‘You must be mistaken. I could never hope to be as renowned as Wulf. Didn’t he win the High Bard’s cup once or twice?’
‘Seven times,’ says the rabbit. ‘I saw him perform, once. He had the same staff as you and everything.’
‘Really? What a coincidence.’ The bard makes a show of putting his pack down and looking for something inside it. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse us, my poor tummy is in need of feeding. We would offer to share, but we don’t really have enough to go round …’
‘Don’t worry.’ The elder rabbit frowns down at the huddled back of the bard, digging around in his pack. ‘We’ll be on our way. See you at the festival.’
‘Yes, yes,’ says the bard, not looking up. ‘See you there.’
The two rabbits leave, heading along the eastward path. Rue watches them with sad eyes.
‘Why couldn’t we have gone with them? They might have taught me some songs, or how to play the harp.’
‘Harps are for show-offs,’ says the bard. He spreads a blanket on the floor and starts laying out wooden plates and packets of food. ‘Learn to tell stories properly first, then you can start farting around with instruments.’
‘He knew you, didn’t he?’ Rue puts his hands on his hips and glares at the bard. ‘He kept saying you were Wulf the Wanderer, and you kept pretending you weren’t.’
‘Rubbish,’ says the bard. ‘Come on, have some lunch.’
‘Have you really won the High Bard’s cup seven times? Why wouldn’t you tell him who you were? Are you trying to hide from somebody?’
‘Aaah!’ the bard shouts, making Rue jump in the air. A long silence follows while the bard tugs at his beard and Rue tries not to cry.
‘Look,’ says the bard eventually. ‘I’m sorry I shouted, but you’re just asking too many questions. Come and have some lunch, and perhaps I’ll continue the story of Podkin for you.’
‘All right,’ says Rue, quietly. He sits down on the blanket and puts some smoked parsnips on his plate. His questions will keep for later.
‘That’s a good rabbit,’ says the bard. He sighs, as if relieved. ‘Now. Where were we?’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dancing
The strange party left the copse of trees as darkness fell, heading northwest to Applecross – nine huddled shadows in the gloom.
Zarza led the group at a swift pace, Paz trotting behind as close as she dared, itching to ask about her mysterious order. She finally managed to catch a moment to whisper, ‘What you said about becoming a bonedancer …’ She had to hop and skip to keep up with Zarza. ‘Can anyone be one?’
‘Interested, are we?’ Zarza kept her gaze forward, but sounded amused.
‘Not really. Well, just curious.’
From his place back in the line, Podkin could see his sist
er’s ears twitching. That only happened when she was embarrassed.
‘Only women can be bonedancers,’ said Zarza. ‘First daughters, usually. The bravest and strongest are selected. There are tests.’
‘Tests?’
‘I think you would do well.’
Zarza strode on then, outpacing Paz, who fell back to where Podkin was walking, a smug grin on her face.
‘I think you’d make a great bonedancer as well,’ Podkin said.
‘You do?’
He waited for her grin to grow even bigger. ‘Yes, sis. With one of those masks on all day, no one would have to look at your stupid face.’
Podkin skipped out of the way, but not quickly enough to avoid a flick on his good ear. It stung like a wasp; perhaps she would be a good assassin after all.
Pook had left his usual spot on Crom’s shoulders, and was now riding on Yarrow, the bard. Podkin could hear them quietly singing to each other. Yarrow would whisper the first few lines of a song, and Pook would warble them back in his little nonsense language.
‘Ooh ooh, boo bah, eegy eegy ooh.’
Crom hadn’t said anything about this new arrangement, but he was stomping a bit more than usual. Could he be jealous? Podkin scurried up to walk beside him, just in case, and was rewarded with a brush of the big rabbit’s fingers across his head. Neither of them needed to say anything.
The other rabbits followed behind, Mash bringing up the rear. Vetch, wrapped in his exotic cloak, sidled up to Podkin at one point, giving him a nervous smile. His golden eyes kept darting to the dagger on Podkin’s hip.
‘I must say, that is an unusual weapon you have.’ ‘It was my father’s,’ said Podkin. He didn’t want to be rude, but thought it best that Starclaw remained a secret, at least until he knew more about these new rabbits.
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