The Crystal Serpent

Chapter One: The Kitchen Boy

It was the seventh day of winter, and fear was in the air.

Robin could feel it, thicker than the steam from the kettles simmering in the row of hearths which spanned half the kitchen’s length. Just an hour ago he’d heard two people speak in hushed tones about a rider–one that had arrived at the gates of Kalmar Castle before break of dawn. What his errand was remained unknown save to the Lord and his nobles, but it must be urgent. Even desperate. 

Near one end of the kitchen Robin stood before a fire-pit, turning a boar’s carcass on an iron spit. Slender and pale, with tousled hair the color of maple, he stood just slightly taller than most boys his age. He was not yet thirteen. Three years he had lived at the castle, working for the support of his weak, sick mother.

The wild boar had been taken yesterday morning by bowmen in my Lord Olav’s hunting party, dragged to the castle on a massive sled with much gaiety and laughter. Its flesh crackled over the roaring flames, dripping grease and bits of fat. Heatwaves beat at Robin’s face as he strained at the turnspit. Sweat had soaked through the kerchief wrapped around his forehead; his arms and back ached, and his eyes burned.

A feast was to take place at noon, the same as always at the end of the week after first snowfall. He couldn’t help but wonder if that horseman this morning might dampen the merry-making, but then who was he to ask such questions?

“You there! Spit-boy!” a rough voice called out above the clamor. “Is that boar done roasting yet? It’d better be, I tell you. I’ll not wait the day long, and neither will the Lord and Lady.”

It was Ivar, the chief cook. He was a heavyset man with jowls that made him look older than his forty years, and a bloodstained apron around his waist. He was slicing up onions at the moment, at lightning-speed. 

“Almost,” Robin answered, shooting a glance at the cook. “I think it wants a little more of the basting first, sir.”

“Is that so? All right already–just see that it’s done, and quickly,” Ivar said. “The feast is set to begin in but half an hour. No wasting time, you hear? Or else!”

“Aye, sir.”

Ivar grunted and turned away, but as he did Robin heard him mutter to the others near him what a “fine young turnspit’s ’prentice” they were blessed with. As if turnspits even had ’prentices. 

Knowing he should have done this some time before now, the boy stooped to pick up the long-handled spoon in the bowl at his feet. In this lay a thick dark sauce, which he started to spread over the pig’s carcass. It turned a yet richer color as he did so, and sizzled all the louder.

A mouth-watering smell filled the air and made Robin long for a taste of smoky meat. But of course such delicacies weren’t for him. No, the roasted boar would be served to the royal courtiers, and only them. 

As his large and rather soft blue eyes gazed into the fire, his thoughts drifted from the heat and noise around him. That rider–where had he come from? The question kept gnawing at his mind, like one of the kennel-hounds gnawing at a marrow bone. 

Was he a knight or lord from some further province of the land, or had he been sent by one? Two words Robin did remember from the men he’d heard speaking an hour ago, and they were “fire” and “banner.”

Exciting words, those, to someone but twelve-and-a-half years old and often bored half to tears. Whether they had a deeper meaning, of course, he didn’t know. His imagination ran wild with any number of might-be’s, but he quickly shook his head, knowing that he had his work to attend to and Ivar’s wrath to avoid. 

By now the pig’s flesh had darkened as it was supposed to, taking on a crispness that meant it was fully cooked. He breathed a sigh that was half relief, half weariness, then stopped turning the spit and wiped his forehead with a dirty rag from the table.

Robin felt a little heat-sick, as he often did after a morning at this fire. He only hoped he wouldn’t vomit, to the ridicule of some in the kitchen–of course no one wanted that. 

“Pig’s ready, master cook,” he called out, loudly enough to make himself heard across the kitchen. 

“Right on time,” Ivar said, with a scornful edge to his voice. “All right, then, let’s bring it over to my counter. At once.”

The man and boy took hold of either end of the iron spit and carried it across the kitchen–no easy task, as the carcass weighed well more than a full-grown man. But they managed it.

Just then there came a loud ringing of bells from Kalmar Abbey–nine, ten, eleven of them. An hour yet till noon, Robin thought. We’re right on time.

At the counter, they took much care in setting the carcass down on the silver platter lying there. In a few minutes it would be covered in many-colored wrappings and piled with leafy greens and berries, then taken to the Great Hall. 

“That’s all the more you’re needed for just now,” the chief cook grunted. “Off with you. Be sure to be back in my sight within half an hour. And don’t forget, there’ll be a good deal more turning work for you this afternoon.”

As Robin turned away, Ivar offered him a bowl of stew, which steamed and smelled of good strong venison. He took it quickly in his blistered hands, without a word. As a matter of fact he felt famished, having not eaten since the sun rose. 

Outside the kitchen, Robin breathed deeply of the cool air. Rustling strains of lyre and fiddle music floated from the doors of the Great Hall, to a most merry drumbeat. Music before feasts in Lord Olav’s court–that was the rule, and one of the few that didn’t bother him in the least. 

Robin had always had a liking for being alone, much to the annoyance of some others at the castle. “You’d be better off in a monastery, lad,” they had told him sometimes. He tried his hardest to ignore them. Then again, he’d rather be in a monastery than a castle any day of the week, if it meant away from the kitchen.

A winding stair led to the cellars, where sacks of grain and bundles of dried vegetables crowded the walls along with rows of wooden casks, from which came the fruity scent of ale. But there was one corner here where Robin liked to sit alone, free to think or read in peace, away from the bustle of the castle. 

As he settled cross-legged on the ground he heard a burst of cheering  and laughter from the Great Hall. What would it be like to be a part of such festivities, and not just to watch them from a distance? He wondered that, as he had often wondered before. 

“Robin!” a boy’s voice spoke out of the darkness, near him.

“The King’s bones! What are you doing here?” Robin swore, nearly dropping his bowl. “Merrik?”

“Thought you’d be coming,” the boy answered as he stood up from behind some storage sacks, a smile on his freckled face. “I was waiting for you. I had… well, something to tell you. Something I thought you’d better hear.”

“Really? And what’s that?” Robin felt a little annoyed at his friend for the intrusion. “And how long have you been here? It must have been dull waiting.”

“Not very long,” Merrik said. “I’ve my own work to mind, like everyone else. In fact, I shall soon be headed back up.”

The scullion’s work was to wash dishes, scrub floors, shine tables–more or less anything too menial for the other servants to do. He was also the one who had to clean the lavatory, which meant he usually carried a foul smell about his clothes.

“All right, then, get on with it. Tell me,” said Robin.

Merrik glanced this way and that–as if worried someone might hear them, though they were alone. “I only learned of it second-hand myself, I admit. So I can’t say much for certain. But—”

“Oh, will you stop talking in circles?”

“A rider showed up outside the gates this morning. Robin, you should have seen him! His tunic was in tatters, his horse badly spent. I was there with Heile, washing the linens, and so I eavesdropped as you might say.”

“You make a habit of that, I’d noticed before now. But about the rider I already knew,” said Robin. “I heard some fellows speaking of him, though I never learned his errand. You did?”

“He was from Hansted,” Merrik said.

“So?”

“It’s fallen, Robin! Fallen, just like that!”

The ground seemed to tremble under the boys as these words were spoken. Among the villages of the Ferastyr uplands, Hansted was among the smallest, yet still with a garrison under its liegelord. It lay just six or seven leagues northeast of Kalmar, about two day’s journey in summer. 

“Are you joking?”

“You think I’d tell an untruth about something like this?” said Merrik, folding his arms with a trace of self-importance. “The man said they were attacked  by  savages–many of them. Maybe hundreds. The village was taken in less than an hour’s fighting.”

“Ah! That’s no surprise, against so many.”

“Aye. But I haven’t yet told you the worst of it, you see.” Merrik’s voice sank to almost a whisper. “Before them comes something else, a great winged creature. Its roar is louder than thunder, and its mouth breathes fire–like from one of those mountains in the far east. Such fire, Robin, as you’ve never seen. It took the men of Hansted by surprise. There were many fallen, the horseman said.”

Robin felt a strange tingle in his chest, such as usually only happened to him when standing at a great height. He looked up sharply at Merrik.

“Well, it must be a dragon, of course. A dragon! But none has been seen in Ferastyr in many years. That’s foul news indeed.”

“No creature to be taken lightly.”

“Lord Olav has been told all this? He must have been.”

Merrik nodded. “What I know he knows, and likely a good deal more. He spoke alone with the fellow who brought these tidings–Selka told me.”

“Selka?…”

She was one of the scullery maids, a plucky eleven-year old girl who was better at spying on the nobles than anyone he knew of. Often she would pass along what she had heard to the boys, by whom she was well valued for her stealthy ears. 

“Heaven above,” Robin said at length. “If it’s a dragon coming, we’re all in for it! I mean….”

“It’ll be coming. You mark my words on that–and in just a few days, more likely than not. Dragons take no prisoners, as they say.”

Robin said nothing.

“So there it is,” Merrik said. “But I must leave you now. Mistress Ilse will be fit to be tied if I’m out of her sight much longer, of course–you know the way she is. But maybe I shall see you again before the day’s over?”

“Maybe. Goodbye, Merrik.” Robin waved as Merrik walked away.

He was left alone again. His bowl of venison stew lay in his lap, almost untouched. He began to eat ravenously, one spoonful after another. 

Lord Olav should be close to panic with such an army nearly upon his gates, he thought. Should, but was he? The feast carried on as if nothing had happened. This couldn't last much longer; surely by the morrow, the marshalling of men-at-arms would begin.

Kalmar Castle was large and strong, enclosed by a courtyard wall and a wide, deep moat. But against a dragon, if there really was one… could even the castle be much defense? That seemed a doubtful wager. But Robin also knew Merrik might pass ill-founded rumors along from time to time, so maybe it was better to not make a judgement for now. 

Robin wished his family were far from Kalmar–they hadn’t always been here. For most of his life they’d lived in a smaller village some fifteen leagues westward, in a little cottage with ivy that grew and climbed beautifully around the windows and up the chimney.

His father he had never known–whether because he was dead or gone, Mother had never said. He had one younger brother, Leo. Back then Robin had spent most of his days tending his mother’s herd of sheep, among the grassy hill-country on the outskirts of the village. How pleasant that life had been! 

He had always liked to hear the sound of sheep bleating and baaing, or to feel their cottony wool under his fingers, or to watch the newly-born lambs sidle up to their mothers for milk–eyes full of wonder and curiosity.

The family used to have a herding dog named Bella, and Robin loved her like a friend; yet there had been no choice but to give her away when Mother fell ill. That was when they’d made the journey from Soundess to Kalmar, and when he was sent to the castle. Mother had needed the money, and so here he had been ever since.

But now there might be an army headed this way! It seemed like all the fury of mountainfire was about to be unleashed on the land of Ferastyr, and there was nothing in the world he could do about it. 

On his way back to the kitchen he passed two brightly dressed pages carrying a huge cake of white marzipan to the Great Hall. It was shaped like a castle, with towers and parapets and banners, and topped with a sprinkling of bright red cherries. 

He all but drooled at the sight.

Kitchen boys almost never had a taste of marzipan, but they looked at it often enough. The pages kept their eyes fixed straight ahead as if Robin didn't exist–of course they counted him a lesser. He shook his head and walked into the kitchen, where he was greeted by no more than a half a glance from Ivar. 

“Ah, there you are. I was worried you’d left for good, Robin. Well, you’d best make yourself useful. Give the lads a hand washing all those dirty dishes. There’s a mountain of ’em in the corner.”

“Aye, master cook.”

“And also, they MUST be fully dry before they’re put away. I won't have the cupboards smelling to heaven, do you hear?” 

“I hear,” Robin said the words through gritted teeth. Plague take him, why was the man such a churl? Maybe all masters were that way. 

Much as he disliked dishwashing, it was far better than broiling alive at the turnspit for hours on end. Three wooden tubs lay on a table at a corner of the kitchen, filled with sudsy water. Robin pulled up a stool next to two boys, Petter and Coby, and grabbed a dishcloth. 

Many of the pots and pans were coated in thick grease, such as could only be loosened with much scrubbing. There was also an unending pile of dishes, crockery, and utensils pouring into the kitchen from the Great Hall. It was always so on feast days.

Petter sat on another stool next to Robin and helped with the washing, while on the other side of the table Coby (who was Merrik’s younger brother) stood drying and stacking the cleaned dishes. Robin counted them his closest friends along with Merrik. But they couldn’t speak to each  other in the kitchen, lowly servant boys as they were: it was against the Rules. 

There was much Robin would have liked to say to them now, if he could.

At the back of his mind the words of Merrik were still ringing: “The enemy will be coming for Kalmar soon….” Would the boys be called on to join the men in the defense of the city? He wondered.

That was when he noticed Ivar talking to Tabita, quite loudly.

“Yes, yes!” he was saying. “So far as I know the army is for real. And the dragon as well. It’s not a question of plowman’s gossip any longer.”

“Save the king!” she said, over the mass of bread dough on her table. “What are we to do? If Ferastyr has been attacked, the common folk must bear the brunt of the horror, as always.”

“Wait, and hope for a cunningman,” the cook said dryly.

“Haven’t had one of them more cunning than a donkey in years, that I recall,” said she. 

“If only the Knights of the Emerald Crown were yet alive,” an old woman named Kiel put in. 

“But they’re not.” Ivar shook his grizzled head. “And if Kalmar comes next, I dare say we're city enough to withstand two hundred. The dragon, though….”

“We can’t expect help from the King,” Tabita said. “Not in so little time. We’re sitting at least two weeks' ride from Tavaron in summer. But this is the snowy season.”

“And all the roads frozen,” the other woman put in.

“You’re right–they are,” Ivar said, in a more somber tone. He raised a wineskin to his lips and took a quick, nervous swallow. “We’re lucky to be here in the castle, I say. What can dragon’s fire do to us here?”

Over the kitchen a near silence had fallen. In Robin’s mind, the shadow of the dragon seemed to rise up over the castle of Kalmar, dark and vast as a thundercloud. He looked at his two friends, trying to go about their  work as if they’d heard nothing. But of course they must be thinking hard about all that had been said, too.

And what about Mother? Robin pictured her lying in bed with a nearly dead fire burning in the hearth, coughing up blood. Apart from rare visits from her sister, the only soul in the world she had to care for her was Leo, and he was six years old.  Even apart from today’s foul news, he didn’t know how long she had to… well, live.

Robin fought hard to hold tears back, as he went on scrubbing the dishes. He didn’t want the others to see him crying, at almost thirteen–no, no, they mustn’t see. 

He thought that he really must talk over all the news with Morwald tonight. This old man was tutor to the Lord’s two children, and also a friend of Robin’s–one of the few grownups in the castle who didn’t count it beneath him to talk to servant-boys. In fact, it was for him Robin knew anything at all about the history of this land, the land of Ferastyr.

The kindly man tended to keep late hours, and if there was someone who might speak words of wisdom at such a time, it was him. 

For now, Robin sighed and went on with his dishwashing.