The Serpent in the Chasm

It was a long time ago that the lindworm Thrasir built its nest in the deep dirt of the Golden Forests, but it was not so long ago that humans first settled the village of Aldwyn.

At first, there was a silent peace, as the humans had not bothered the worm, and the worm had not revealed herself to them. But in time, the tiny collection of homesteads grew. They earned themselves a proper name and then a proper boundary, and such growth demands many things.

The village people began to clear the forests, and the white-barked branches and crisp, golden leaves fell to the forest’s floor. And with the beating of every profound rain and every tremendous storm of wind thereafter, the branches and leaves fell to Aldwyns’ River. In a short time, the forest choked, and the dam formed from its decaying beauty made a reservoir that flooded many acres. The river became a creek, and this creek became a trickle, and slowly, the slopes of the forests began to turn brown, then bald.

The villagers grew to love the new lake they had founded, for the flooding brought its shores far closer to their homes. Their washing could be done twice as often, their fishing could be done without a teamster, and the children could swim so freely they knew only merry.

When the hunger for wood subsided, it was replaced with a hunger for stone. Strong stone for a stronger foundation, impressive roads to ease their travel, and safe chimneys to heat their homes.

They began to dig, first into the mountains, where they hollowed out grand halls and left behind empty mounds and scattered fields of useless slag. These tremors grew so loud that the lindworm, buried and weary of the human world, was woken from her sleep. Fifty years she had slept, and fifty more she intended. But the sound of iron picking against white and flecked red stones was unbearable, and Thrasir’s resentment and anger built.

When she dragged her scaled body from her buried burrow, she found the forest around her had changed since the last time she saw it. The animals she protected were gone; the foliage had wilted, and thus, the bunnies and deer had left, and without them, the predators had run. A great plague of mice now infested her home, and fearing they might prey upon her clutch of eggs, she knew she had no choice.

As the miners began pillaging the under-earth, she slithered through the old forest to the maw. She coiled her body, and anger consumed her so much that she let out the mightiest of hisses that echoed through the halls of stone: “You soil my home with your thoughtlessness no longer! Leave before I make you and your children into dinner for my own! I issue this grave warning only once, humans!”

And with this hiss came gas, white as milk and so offensive in odor that each man who failed to hold his breath never regained his sense of smell. She whipped her powerful tail and pulled down the wood supports as they fled.

The attack was over as fast as a strike of lightning. Each miner was left alive, but their achievement was now buried beneath the weight of countless tons of rock. The stampede of fleeing men reached the town as the sun went down, and the light of their torches roused the people.

“A great beast attacked us. It must be dealt with!” One man declared.

“We aren’t leaving; this is our home!” Another yelled.

“How am I supposed to let the children out of my sight now?” A woman feared.

“The forest is barren enough! Now we’ve got to share the scarce meat we find with that thing?” Another howled.

The village elder called out, “Silence! Silence! A tragedy has happened, and we are acting hastily and without due consideration!” The villagers settled, and he spoke once more. “We must seek help, for this is beyond us. No warriors live among us, no shieldmaidens, and no great hunters. We will send word to Littleport, and surely, aid will be given!”

The fastest rider among them was selected and given their finest horse, and in four days, he returned, a second horse in tow. The man atop held his back gallantly; his folding plates of steel shone brightly among the golden leaves, and he bore the crest of an ancient house that many believed was no more. The crest of the noble house that once lorded over Littleport showed an island made of minted coin topped with a castle and crossed with sword and shield.

As they rode into the center of the village, the knight declared: “I am Ser Rainald of Littleport, and you need no longer fear! For your generous payment, I will handle this lindworm that assails you!” And, so elated that they would be in short order saved, every villager came from their homes and workstations and cheered the welcome befitting a warrior.

The elder, Tomas, greeted Ser Rainald, and the messenger helped him down from his horse.

“Along with your ready payment, old sir, I need a squire from your ilk. No knight of such fame and skill as mine should be without one.”

“But Ser,” Tomas replied, “We have no one among us that knows the way of a knight. This is the very reason we have called for your aid.”

And Ser Rainald replied, “And no aid you shall receive if I am to perform my duties squire-less.”

And so a lottery was devised by the elders and the respected folk of the village for one person to be chosen to serve as the squire. Each man above fourteen would cast their name upon a bark scrap, and Ser Rainald would make the draw as an impartial selector. That night, they all gathered at the center of town, and the lot was drawn, and the name Wyman was shown.

Wyman was a well-respected young man who had just married the miller's daughter, Agatha. While their marriage had been short, they wasted no time with pleasant things and found themselves expecting their first babe in a few months. The gathered men went silent as Wyman came forward to collect his lot.

A few called for a redraw, as all knew of Wyman’s impending fatherhood, but it was Wyman himself who confidently dismissed such an action, saying, “Each man among us has just as many reasons to live as the next. We are friends, family, neighbors. Where there exists care for common threads between us, there will be fear to send that man toward death. But fear not, my friends—my family—my neighbors, because I am sure with Ser Rainald’s tremendous skill, I will never be in any danger.”

Tomas placed his hand on Wyman’s shoulder and smiled, silently praising the honor and courage shown. But Ser Rainald jealously lifted the elder’s calming hand from Wyman and declared, “A rousing speech from my squire, but we need no more of his words. Go along now to say goodbye to your wife and then return to my quarters. My armor must be cleaned, and my sword made sharp for the morning. And do not take so long that I become bored.”

When Wyman returned home, he shared the lottery outcome with his wife, who begged him not to leave. She assured him some mistake had been made and that the hands of fate had been twisted and extorted. He assured her no such trickery was afoot and that it was only a matter of foul luck.

He did not like Ser Rainald’s abrasive nature but could not argue that the man was of some renown. A family name, a crest, a horse he shared with no one.

“It is not skill or prowess that brings a man such fineries but the luck of birth, my love,” Agatha said.

“But one must have some to keep those fancy things,” Wyman countered, and Agatha hesitantly agreed.

“We have no sword shared between our families to give you, my love,” she argued.

“I should have no need for one with Ser Rainald’s sword to shield me,” he replied, to which Agatha again hesitantly agreed.

Wyman kissed his wife and held her belly soft on his hands, feeling the gentle thrumming of his next of kin. She held his hands tightly against her, nose sweeping his lips and whispering a prayer for his return. Wyman assured her the words would be heeded: a prayer for the spirits of the land and more a warning for himself.

He trodded to Ser Rainald’s quarters and spent the whole night listening to the noblest of snoring. His head ached, just as his hands did from the polish, and his fingertips had become stained with the black oils by first light. Without hesitation, the two set off the next day.

They wandered through the Golden Forest with a great appreciation for its beauty, to which Wyman was accustomed to, having been born in Aldwyn. But Ser Rainald had never ventured so far east of Littleport, despite the lands once falling under the domain of his House’s county. So new was such beauty to him that he took to a leisurely and unconcerned pace that was so calm one could not even hear the clanging of his chausses.

Such a pace irritated Wyman, who complained, “The situation is very dire, Ser Knight. Might we not proceed with a little less whimsy?”

Ser Rainald responded, “Who are you to hurry the inclinations of a noble knight along, squire? Dare you to mock me with your insubordination? I am so offended; I have half a mind to turn us around. And I would surely keep my fee for the insult you’ve caused me.”

Wyman apologized with a deep, disgruntled bow and assured Ser Rainald that such an action was unnecessary. With this threat abided, Ser Rainald proceeded. Soon, they crossed into the boundary between the pristine forest and the browning rot.

The white bark turned patchy and black; the golden leaves wilted and fell in an eternal struggle with their continued growth; and a great, unbearable smell hazed over the declining hillside, and no attempt to shield the nose from it provided relief. Ser Rainald looked about his family's former lands and took in their discretion, and an emotion overtook him—not grief for the loss of beautiful lands but rage over the loss of resources.

“Why does this hill bear so many bald spots? What caused this suffering?” He asked.

To which Wyman answered, “We needed the wood to build our homes; the soil to keep our fields; the water to drink and bathe; and the stone for prestigious roads.”

Ser Rainald responded suspiciously, “You stripped the value from this land, and none of it was given to your rightful lords? My family has been destitute over these years, and now I see why.”

“It was not anyone’s intention to bring ill tidings to your kin, Ser Rainald, I assure you. There is little to take these days; otherwise, we would repay you.”

“Your mine is still full. Otherwise, the lindworm would not threaten it.” The knight replied.

Wyman was careful with his retort, “Rock does not regrow, my lord, no matter how badly we wish it might. Perhaps if it did, we would not need your fortuitous intervention.”

The flattery was effective, distracting Ser Rainald from the succinct explanation of the natural order that would have otherwise offended his intelligence. The knight hummed to himself and his glory, basking in the praise he had received.

And he basked in this praise as long as his memory would allow without it fading or deluding, which was long. Long enough for them to reach the most abandoned and ravaged parts of the Golden Forest, where no gold was left to find and no whitebark existed. Rare were trees, and sparse were bushes. It took no time for them to arrive at the chasms and ravines that split the hills in two and diverted what little water made it past the dam.

“We are here,” Wyman warned as the two slowed and watched their footing.

“No time to waste,” Ser Rainald said, even as the light faded from his shiny armor and the glint left the steel of his sword. Darkness was mere moments away, and no fire or camp had been made.

“Dusk is here already,” Wyman warned.

“Then quit talking and light a torch. How else will I see to slay the beast properly?” Ser Rainald retorted. And Wyman listened, pulling a torch from the pack and coating it carefully in pitch to make its flame strong and lasting.

The two marched forward, down the hill and a depressed ramp carved by the lindworm's strong, writhing body. Loose scales and shed skin littered the thirty-foot-deep ravine, and as dusk faded to night proper, no light from the moon folded over the steep walls.

Not long thereafter, the air grew sour in its smell and swampy, with a humidness unheard of in the Golden Forest. A thick, milky haze loomed in the chasm as they weaved, snaked through the carved paths, and ducked beneath bridges of rock and tunnels. The torch's light grew weaker though the flame held firmly to the pitch. Then, they came to a great pit with a bed of logs, leaves, and pelts and knew it was the home of Thrasir.

But Thrasir was nowhere to be found within the pit and had instead spent her energy more wisely, disorienting the two, carving expertly through the rocks and creating blockades to ensure their path led here. Thrasir would strike as the humans descended, coiling her long body around them to cut off all escape. When the lindworm's jaw unhinged and its neck struck forward, Ser Rainald dropped his blade and grabbed Wyman instead.

Thrasir stopped, her eyes twitching and glaring past the torch a shaking and terrified Wyman held in his defense, focusing instead on Ser Rainald, who tried desperately to climb over her tail to no avail.

“Look there,” Thrasir asked Wyman, “... and see the coward who betrayed you.”

As asked, Wyman looked. He saw the sniveling knight who had so readily used him as bait. Thrasir used the tip of her tail to gently slide the fallen sword to Wyman, carefully judging the two and giving a choice to Wyman.

“He would have taken everything from you just for a chance to save his metal skin,” Thrasir hissed, “Take the payment for such a heinous crime.”

“I will not,” Wyman said through a hoarse, terrified voice. But his words held confidence and commitment. A morality that he would not break.

Thrasir was curiously satisfied with Wyman’s response, unslithering her body to allow Ser Rainald to run.

“I will let you both live, just this once. Leave my home.” Thrasir said, feigning a retreat deeper into her nest.

Wyman had frozen in place, feeling the danger alleviated from him. But Ser Rainald had concocted another plan, taking up his sword once more and whispering: “I cannot let you live and tell others what you saw of me.”

As he pulled the sword back and prepared to thrust, the scaled tip of the lindworm’s tail erupted from the darkness and pierced the metal plating of the knight’s armor. And as quickly as it emerged from the shadows, it retreated into them, taking Ser Rainald with it.

A reverberating crunch. The sound of metal clattering. And then silence.

Wyman dared not move despite his relief and his appreciation of the monster. His question now was simple: Am I next?

But he would not be, Thrasir had already decided. She revealed her dripping maw bathed in the torch's light and spoke.

“You and I must reach an agreement,” she demanded.

“Who am I to lead such a negotiation? Shouldn’t our elders do so?”

“Your elders pillaged these woods for half a century, boy. I have no reason to trust their word. But you,” Thrasir paused, “You have some honor to you.”

“I did as any man or woman from our village would have,” Wyman assured.

“But the knight?” The lindworm asked in turn.

“He was not one of us.”

Thrasir thought on this for some time and determined it was the truth, and her trust in Wyman grew once more.

“If you treat the forest poorly, it will have nothing left to yield you in time. Already, you have taken more than it can provide. You have choked it of water, disturbed its delicate balance. You will kill it, and me, and eventually, even if I am gone, you will kill yourselves.”

Wyman knew this much was true. He had seen it with his own eyes and thought of how the forest browned, disfigured, and suffered. He spoke. “Then I will bring your warning to our people, and we will heed it. I will tell them how Ser Rainald, our savior, betrayed us. And of how you, great lindworm, spared me. I should thank you myself first. For showing me the truth.”

“I wish to sleep. I wish to see my children grow old. Just the same as you and your kind. Care for the forest; it will care for you as I care for it. Do as I do and become a part of it. As I have, you will find a harmony that will last for endless generations. We are not so different, human, though you often think you are.”

So Wyman bowed and took Thrasir's words to Aldwyn, where he told his story. Many years later, his daughter would also tell the story to her children. They would look to where the lake once flooded over and see the stream instead, knowing the forest’s beauty was far-reaching beyond them and that Thrasir and her babies kept solemn vigil- not just over the forest, but over them as well.