The Crystal Serpent

Chapter Six: Through Bitter Rain

They set out again briskly through the trees. Robin knew his friends wanted to leave the smoke of Kalmar behind them as soon as possible, just like he did. It seemed to cling hatefully to one’s nostrils, like the smell of death itself–maybe the smell of something worse.

He hadn’t had so much as a morsel all morning, but at present he felt far more thirsty than hungry. Now and then they passed little streams or brooks winding through the valleys or down the hillsides, but these were all frozen and undrinkable. 

Robin tried to keep his bravest face on as he pressed forward in what he judged a southerly course. Without Petter, it was he who must lead–yet he felt sorely beneath that task. He tried very hard not to think of his family back in the city. Whenever he did, a painful lump welled up in the back of his throat. But he did not cry.

Why, oh why had the gods allowed this to happen? It seemed the cruellest fate in the world.

As for Morwald… if the old cripple hadn’t been killed by now, he must–and perhaps even worse–have been taken hostage. If so he would likely die anyhow, after the manner common to the Northlanders. It wasn’t pretty. Robin couldn’t hold back a sniffle. Morwald was the closest to a father he’d ever had, and to lose him too was still another grievous blow.

As they reached a fairly high hilltop, they found themselves looking out over a ravine, at the bottom of which a river eddied among boulders and fallen tree-trunks. The sound of rushing water which rose to Robin’s ears was sweeter than any music just now. 

He turned to the others and said, “You as thirsty as I am?”

They nodded but said nothing, and all lost no time in sliding down the side of the ravine to the rocky bank. There they dropped down upon hands and knees and stuck their mouths into the water, animal-like. It was icy cold, and very frothy. Robin drank, and drank, in rapid gulps–though he shivered badly all the while.

It was some minutes before the boys and girl stood up again, mouths and chins dripping. Robin felt stronger, though no less hungry; maybe more so. But the others’ eyes had brightened, and their faces looked less pale.

“The question is, how are we to reach the other side of this river? Whatever it's called, Merrik said, gazing over it with  doubtful eyes.  

“That’s a good question I, uh–I don't know,” said Robin. 

The river lay about fifteen paces from bank to bank, with no convenient stepping-stones in sight. He wasn’t a bad swimmer, though he didn’t know about the others. But these waters were flowing far too swiftly, and besides that were dangerously cold. He already felt half-freezing. 

“We shall have to find ourselves a bridge,” he said. “It’s easy. We can just make downriver till we do.”

“That might take us a while,” Kori grumbled.

“But it’s better than standing here, doing nothing,” Selka said. “And swimming across it is out of the question, for the gods’ sake!”

There was some argument whether to head east or west along the riverbank, but at last east was agreed to. At least they should feel warmer if they kept on the move, Robin thought. The sun had by now risen to her highest, yet it shone but dully through the veil of pearly clouds.

After an hour or so of fruitless search the rocky ground began to rise, and they came to the narrowest point of the river yet. Here, across a sort of waterfall lay the fallen trunk of a  tree–a huge, rough-barked spruce, almost all of whose spindly branches had been broken off. A dozen or so feet below, the whitewater crashed and foamed among boulders thickly grown with lichens. 

“Well! It isn’t a real bridge,” Robin called out above the breathless roar. “But it may have to do as one for us.  What do you fellows think?”

“Just as long as we don’t break our necks getting across,” Kori said, with a shake of his head. “A frightful fall, it is.”

“We’ll have to take it carefully,” Robin said. 

As a matter of fact he himself didn’t at all like the idea of crossing the river like this. It made him feel a little lightheaded, like standing at the very edge of a precipice.  Still, there was nothing else for it. 

Taking a deep breath, he took the first cautious step out across the tree-trunk–then another, and still another, arms held out on either side of his body for balance. The bark under his shoes was slippery from spray, but at least there was no ice or snow to beware of. “Easy does it,” he kept telling himself. 

Within a few heart-wrenching moments he safely reached the other bank. There he took a deep breath, wishing his hands weren’t shaking so badly, and called out to the others,

“Who’ll come next?”

“I will,” Selka said. “Since no one else was going to volunteer.”

Of the four she seemed actually least afraid. She crossed the river quickly, with the nimble step of a dancer–like those nomadic dancers as used to pass through Kalmar from time to time. Watching her, Robin couldn’t help but recall the wondrous sight of them upon a winter’s night under a sky shining with starlight, with half of Kalmar shown up to witness the spectacle; and a feeling of homesickness swept over him.  Kori and Merrik followed Selka at a much slower pace, with nervous glances at the water below. But they too made it across at last, without mushap. 

 After some cheering words and clapping of backs, they forced their way on through the forest. The river at their backs offered some safety from pursuit by the wildmen, but perhaps no more than some. If only, Robin thought, he had more knowledge of this terrain than Merrik! Maps weren’t something they allowed kitchen-boys to look at back at the castle, and he had never had more than a peek at the one in Lord Olav’s antechamber. At any rate, he could tell their way well enough by glimpses of the sun above. 

Of the time, though, he hadn’t the slightest idea. No churches lay near to announce the hour save the one in Kalmar, which of course had come under new occupancy. It seemed strange to think that its great steeple, with its two  silver-plated bells, might have fallen silent forever–unless the Ferastyrians fought back furiously. But what in the world could they hope to do against a dragon? Well, if today was any measure, very little. 

By now, a kind of weariness seemed to have fallen over the four children, and it wasn’t so much from exertion as from the mere, fierce heartbreak of that morning. Kori and Selka were lagging a few dozen feet behind. At last Robin and Merrik halted; and when the younger two had panted up to them, he said,

“What say we have ourselves some rest? I for one am ready for it.”

“So are we! More than ready,” the others said, nearly at the same time.

At least finding a resting place wasn’t much of a challenge. A little further on, they came to a cluster of spruces whose snowy branches arched to form the entrance of a low-roofed hollow–all but sealed off from the outside, like a burrowing beast’s dwelling. They crowded into it and settled down on the ground, prickly with fallen needles and littered with pinecones. They had no blankets, and could only huddle together for warmth amidst the desperate cold, but it was enough. To Robin the touch of other living, breathing people seemed a great comfort. They were alive, he was alive, at least for now. And they had each other, if they had nothing else in the world.

As he closed his eyes he felt more dazed, numbed, than anything over all that had taken place in the course of a day. He whispered a short prayer to the Winter God, then curled up a little closer to Merrik and Selka. He soon fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When Robin awoke, what he first noticed was how achingly cold he felt–and how stiff. Outside the hollow, the light seemed to have grown a little bluer, as it often does before winter evenings.

His friends were still asleep, and snoring–at least Selka and Kori were. He rose and stepped quietly out from the shelter. The wind had shifted to the northeast, and it was stronger than ever: an uneasy wind that rustled among the trees round about and set their needly boughs shivering. It seemed, too, a little warmer than it had been a few hours ago, though only a few more remained till nightfall. 

It seemed to Robin, as he stood there in thought, that they were in a desperate plight indeed. Their only hope was to make as quickly as possible for the nearest village. Yet they had no money–none at all–and so they might be left to beg or steal even if they did have that fortune. He didn’t like the idea, but wouldn’t decent folk show pity? 

He fingered the dagger by his side, and pondered Morwald and all that was left behind in ruins. The task given him seemed most silly, at the moment. “The faea are dead!” The words of Merrik rang uneasily at the back of his mind. “As dead as the Light of Eltherion.” 

What good reason did he have to believe his mentor was right? Maybe this really was a fool’s errand, and he the fool for accepting it. He drew the dagger from its sheath and gazed once more at the symbols upon its hilt and blade. As he traced his hand along the cold, hard metal, he felt the strangest tingling run up through his arm like a current of amber. For the first time, his dream from the night before flooded back to his mind. What might it mean? 

“All dreams have a meaning, but only those blessed of the seven gods can discern them.” So the castle’s chaplain used to say, in that lofty way of his. Robin knew he must not be counted among the blessed, then. 

The symbols were like wildflowers and curling vines and berries, carved with a finer silvercraft than he had ever seen. Just below the hilt lay what appeared to be a large, watching eye. Simple to look at–and yet not so simple, at the same time. It was as if he could hear faerie voices murmur to him out of this dagger, from a great distance; too great a distance for mortal to cross, maybe, least of all a mere kitchen boy not yet thirteen years of age. 

“What’re you doing, Robin?” came a voice behind him.

Robin thrust the dagger back in its sheath and turned around. Merrik was standing there with

“Just thinking is all. Aye, just thinking. We’ll all die if we carry on like this much longer–you know that, don’t you?”

“What so you take me for? A fool? Of course I know!” Merrik said.

Robin nodded. “We need to make for the nearest village. There we might find food and better clothes and… and perhaps someone can tell us how to reach Tavaron. No?”

“Unless the wildmen move faster than we,” Merrik said, kicking at the crusty snow. “They just took Kalmar, and there’s not much stopping them from taking the rest of the uplands.”

“But I dare say they’re more likely to attack the larger cities first, west of here,” said Robin. “They’ve no reason to come through these woodlands just yet. But come, let’s waken the others.”

He walked back to the hollow. Selka and Kori were not at all happy to be woken, and both grumbled as they rose blinking in the sunlight. It made Robin wince to see Selka’s bloodied bandage, which looked uglier than ever. But there wasn’t anything he could do for her now–except to try to lead her to safety with godspeed.

The snowy ground grew rougher and rockier as the late afternoon began to turn to evening. More often than not they seemed to be going downhill. Kalmar lay in the midst of the highlands of Ferastyr, like an island of man-dwellings amidst a vast wilderness of climbing hills and piney forests and wandering streams. The villages were few and far between, but they were to be found. With luck.

The evergreens–pine and spruce and fir–rose larger but fewer in number as evening neared, and amongst the undergrowth Robin saw  some bushes bearing a kind of small blue berries. After a few moments’ thought he recognized them.  Whortleberries they must be. He’d seen them in the timber outside Kalmar a few times before, and remembered his mother call them by that name. 

“Hey! Let’s have some of these berries,” he called out as he halted in a clearing filled with the bushes. “Might as well, since we’re starving.”

“What if they’re… well, poisonous?” asked Merrik. “I’ve heard tales of folk dying from eating berries they oughtn’t. Or at least sickened.”

“Not these–my mother could tell you that. These are nought but whortleberries, and they’re safe to eat.”

Robin picked and stuck one of them in his mouth; it was frozen, and needed thawing on the tongue before it could be swallowed. But the taste was good–both sweet and tart, much like a wild blueberry. He picked several more, as his friends began to do the same. For a good quarter of an hour they remained there in the clearing, chewing in silence. The little berries weren’t filling, but at least they took some of the edge off Robin’s hunger. He only wished he had some way of carrying more with him; but of course he didn’t. 

On through the evening they plodded, till  daylight faded and the quiet of nighttime descended on the forest. No stars showed in the clouded sky, and of the moon there was only a watery glow; yet even now the snow upon the ground and trees did not altogether lose its brightness, so that they could see their way forward well enough.

It must have been close to the ninth hour when the wintry stillness was pierced by a distant howl–long, shrill,  fierce. It was followed a few seconds later by another, and then again several more, till a whole chorus had broken out and was ringing through the highlands. 

Wolves, of course. 

Robin felt his heart quaver. He had heard many stories of the huge ones that prowled these northern parts of Ferastyr, and even seen a few himself, and he had no desire to meet any more tonight. 

“Listen! Do you hear that?” he panted to Merrik, who had just walked up alongside him. “The wild wolves… they’re out and they’re singing!”

“They often do, about this time,” said Merrik, trying to sound unconcerned. “Almost sound pretty, don’t they?”

“I was thinking we should–well, perhaps we should get ourselves some weapons, lest they do come too near us. Don’t you know?”

So saying, Robin stepped over a fallen tree-trunk and grasped one of its branches, perhaps four or five feet in length and fairly straight. With a single swift movement he broke it off and hefted it in the air like a broadsword. 

“There–you see, now I have a walking stick as well as a cudgel,” he said. “Now we just need three more of them.”

“Aye. That’s a right good idea, Robin,” said Merrik.

Together they searched till they found and broke three more branches of like size and shape, and in a few minutes all four were armed after a fashion. 

Robin felt a little better as they went wearily on through the night, though the voices of the wolves grew louder around them. But they always sounded closer than they really were: Petter had told him so once, and Petter’s father was a hunter and trapper. Besides, Robin thought it unlikely for wolves to attack a group of four humans, even children, unless they were starving. 

One foot ahead of the other… on and on, through the endless night… sometimes slipping in the snow, or an unseen patch of ice, or on an upthrust rock or tree-root. Getting up again, shaking off the snow, pressing on. Sometimes blowing on chilled hands, always clutching arms to chest for warmth, any warmth at all amidst this merciless, gods-forsaken cold.

Two or three hours later they halted to rest once more, by which time they had all reached the point of collapse. They found shelter in a sort of cave beneath an overhang of rock, upon which a handful of pine-trees stood like sentinels. It wasn’t pleasant to settle down with the thought of the wolves still near at hand, armed or not.

As Robin lay there, feeling half frozen but drifting towards sleep, there came out of the far east a dull, deep rumble of thunder. The last conscious thought he had was that it might be about to rain. Rain! And all night long he dreamt of springtime, in a happier childhood far away from the horrors of this war he had never asked for.

Robin woke suddenly. Merrik was shaking his arm and calling out his name. For a few seconds he forgot where he was; why wasn’t he back at the castle, ready for another long day at the turnspit?

 He looked up at his friend and mumbled, “What’s the time? Don’t tell me Ivar is in a temper again.”

“Ivar? Good heavens, Robin, he isn’t here,” Merrik said. “The day is upon us, and it’s raining. We’ve all overslept, I fear–and you the longest.”

Robin staggered up and stared around him, blinking. Beyond the shelter, the world was shrouded in mist, and rain was falling. Already some of the snow had melted away, leaving bare patches of underbrush in places. It might have been the most cheerless sight of his life. 

“Aren’t you just wishing for some of the old gruel?” said Kori, and laughed–a pleasant sound such as Robin hadn’t heard in a while. 

Of course they had no gruel, nor food of any kind. He had known much hunger before, but seldom like now. Even more than that, though, he was thirsty–having not had a single drink of water since the river-crossing.

“Well, we’ve no choice but to keep going.” Robin took a deep breath. “Your arm, Selka. How is it?”

“Worse,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s been worse since yesterday, though I think the bleeding’s stopped.”

“At the first village we come to we’ll take you to a wisewoman,” Robin promised. “She’ll be able to help. I know it.”

Selka nodded. “But I can’t feel anything in the lower part of my arm, meanwhile.”

“We’re a-all wasting away out h-h-here, aren’t we?” Kori sighed.

“But not fully wasted away just yet,” Robin said, trying to sound stronger than he felt. “We’ll have to get used to walking in the rain, though. A little wetness never hurt anyone, as my grandma might say.”

He did not like the idea of leaving the cave’s shelter any more than the others did, but it was their only chance of survival. With their walking sticks in hand, they set out again. And for all their fatigue, they made better speed than yesterday thanks to the melting. It was much warmer, too, much to Robin’s  gratitude. 

All the same, he and his friends made a wretched sight in the gloomy drizzle. Their tattered clothes clung heavily to their goosebumpy skin, and their shoes squelched with every stumbling step they took. Like water-rats escaped from a flooded river, he thought bitterly. At least the water-rats weren’t starving. 

Sometimes he held out his tongue to catch a few of the raindrops in the air–never enough to dampen his thirst, though. Often he heard Selka whimper to herself some distance behind. Strong and tough girl as she was, her wound would only worsen until they found someone to treat it. If they ever did. 

By about the end of the first hour, the ground had begun to flatten. The trees that rose around them were massive, bigger than any Robin had ever seen, and between them lay broad patches of open ground where piles of grayish slush were all that remained of the snow. Once he even saw a handful of flowers, delicate and white, still blooming amongst the heather.

It seemed that they should be coming to more open country soon; and if so, perhaps there might be a village nearby. Robin did not say so aloud. Better not to falsely raise the hopes of the others: he had little enough himself. 

Merrik and Selka both let out cries of relief when they found a tiny stream–no more than a ribbon of meltwater, it cascaded down a grassy slope over ledges of moss-covered stone, settling here and there in dimpled pools. Robin said nothing. The four knelt upon the ground and lapped up the gushing water, or else scooped it into their mouths with their muddy hands. It left a bitter taste on Robin’s tongue, but he felt much strengthened–as if new life had been breathed into him.

They rested a while where they were, at the foot of one of the towering pines. Here there was a little shelter from the rain at least, though they were nearly too tired and drenched to care. Lying with his back to the tree-bark, Robin stared into the distance and wished for nought but a fire and a solid roof over his head. It felt like ages since he’d had either. He longed to be just a kitchen boy, back at the castle. His whole world from those days was gone, though, crushed like an anthill under a wagon’s wheel. There could be no building it back. 

A little further on they came to a rocky outcrop, at whose foot lay the bones of some wild creature–a bear, judging by the size. It must have been dead a long time, since all the fur and flesh had rotted away.

Somehow the sight made him think of Petter, who himself had a strength and heart that was almost bear-like. How long before no more was left of him than was left of this poor animal? Then again, the wildmen would be sure to bury him before that happened–if you could call it burying. Likely just cast his body into some hastily dug pit and fling a few shovels-full of sod on top. 

As Robin stood there, rain and tears mingled in his eyes blurring his sight. He heard the murmur of the others’ voices behind him, but their words rang hollowly through his head. A few moments later he turned away and mouthed,

“Come on. Come on, I said!”

For the next few hours they toiled on through the bitter rain. The undersides of Robin’s shoes were starting to wear through in places, and his blistered feet hurt all the more as evening drew near. He was half-starved, sick from cold and rain, with a worsening sore throat. 

The wind had shifted to the east, so that they sometimes felt it against their faces while threading their way between stony outcrops or through long, twisted defiles. How hungry Robin was! His gut had been growling fiercely all through the day, and all the  more so as night approached. It was almost two days since he had eaten, save for that handful of berries last afternoon. Two days….

A pale evening light had begun to suffuse the deepening gray clouds to westward, through the rain, when the boys and girl stumbled to the edge of a plowed field. Its long, deep-cut rows had turned to half-frozen mud, with shiny pools of standing water here and there. Robin saw some broadleaf trees among the evergreens that skirted the field, all but leafless now. Wheat or rye must have grown here the year before, judging by the slender stubs of stalks left erect. But a field–it could only mean humans, and humans meant food, and warmth, and beds. 

As they gazed around them, amidst the soft pitter-patter of rain there came a sound of distant abbey-bells. Likely a good half of a league distant, to the southeast of where they stood now. 

“Hear that?” Robin said excitedly. “There’s a village over there somewhere, and it’s still in Ferastyr hands! It must be, for they’re ringing the good old bells.”

“It’s also the f-f-fifth hour,” Kori said. “Not too l-long till n-n-nightfall.”

“Can’t we reach the village before then?” Selka asked. 

“Of course we can,” Robin said. “Maybe we can even find a road to lead us there–there always has to be a road, doesn’t there?”

“But finding them isn’t always easy,” Merrik said. “Least of all at nearly dusk, in this wretched rain.”

“Least of all if we don’t start looking,” Robin returned. “We should head…” he lifted a hand vaguely to the southeast, “that way. You’re going to make it, Selka!”

He tried to sound comforting, but in his heart he didn’t know whether any healer could restore her wounded arm. It might have gone putrid or set with gangrene by now, under the bandage. If so, she would likely face losing her arm, though that of course was far better than dying. 

Across the field they forced their way through the thicket, amidst which they found what remained of a hay-barn–its sodden roof partly caving in one side, and grown over with tangles of lichen. Clearly it had lain unused for some years, yet the sight of it was cheering to Robin. It seemed cheering to the others as well, for in spite of their weariness their pace quickened a little–a very little. 

For a while the rain lessened, mercifully, though from the darkness in the eastern clouds it looked like still worse was headed their way. They had to–had to!--reach this village before night fell. 

The country around them grew ever flatter, and less rocky, with many fields and stretches of pasture. Still no houses, though, which was what they all most longed for. It was uncommon for folk to live alone, even in the tamer parts of the uplands. There was safety in numbers, went the proverb–or had been until these dark days. 

The last of twilight was fading through the trees when they came to what had unmistakably to be a road: little more than a trail, five or six feet across, weedy and overgrown in places by the heather. It led almost straight southwards, Robin judged. The wagon-wheel tracks on either side were now pooled with rainwater, but between those stretched a narrow strip of earth dry enough for the walking. 

“See what I told you?” he exclaimed. “There is a road, by the king’s bones. And it surely must lead to the village those church-bells sounded from.”

He didn’t feel nearly as hopeful as his voice sounded, but he was desperate to raise the others’ spirits. Though Selka was in far worse pain than any of them, Kori looked the weakest and the most forlorn. The boy couldn’t  stop shivering, and had a nasty cough. Once, he slipped and fell heavily on the road, soiling the knees of his tattered breeches. But he rose again and went on doggedly. The four of them were all filthy by now, in any event. 

The road led them through fields and copses, and across one wood-planked bridge over a stream swollen with meltwater. They paused for a good long drink, and Robin reflected not for the first time that there was nothing to make water so welcome as walking and sweating for hours in the wild. 

Darkness had settled over the land when the rain began to fall again, harder than ever. Wind rose up fiercely from the low mountains that rimmed the horizon to the east and north, bearing an icy chill that felt like it would devour you whole. With it came the savage cries of wolves, more distant than last night but perhaps even hungrier. 

“Just what we need now! Them!” Robin thought. He clutched his walking-stick tighter, without much reassurance. 

They were closing in on the village. They must be. Please, gods, may they be. At last they reached an open hilltop across which the wind tore without mercy; here, through the lashing rain he glimpsed the dark, squared shapes of houses nestled in the valley below. There were maybe three or four dozen, all told. Among them rose something else that he recognized after a few moments as a windmill, its four long blades spinning like mad in the gale. 

“There it is–there it is! We’re here!” he cried out at the top of his hoarse lungs.