At one point they stopped and huddled together. The winds shrieked and tore at them, and only the support of Benjin and Barabas kept Catrin on her feet. Later the rains abated, and they were left to slog through knee-deep mud. It was excruciatingly slow, and their goal was just beyond their reach. Unburned trees loomed ahead of them, and they drove themselves onward as if that stand of ancient trees would be their salvation.
The rumble began so low that they thought it was the rains, but it grew louder until it became an ear- shattering roar. The ground trembled, and through the mist came a wave of death. It came from high in the mountains where the storm had rapidly melted the snow, and the burned-out landscape offered nothing to slow it. Nothing stood between the flux and them, and the flood gained momentum as it roared across the land.
'To the trees!' Barabas shouted over the clamor, and they tried to run, but the mud clung to them and made their legs and boots heavier and heavier. Each step was a struggle, but fear drove them, and as the massive wave crested the hills above them, they reached the first of the remaining trees. Catrin was about to discard her staff and climb when Barabas grabbed her by the waist and tossed her high into the air, far higher than she would have thought possible. Branches rushed toward her at alarming speed, and she latched onto one as she reached the top of her arch.
Barabas gave Benjin a boost to begin his climb, and Benjin was barely above Barabas's head when the flood reached them. It happened so fast that it didn't seem real. A wave of brown and gray rolled across the land and wiped it clean. It overtook Barabas before he could climb to safety, and Catrin cried out as he was washed away.
'Worry not, heart of the land,' she heard him yell as he was carried beyond her sight. The dryads continued to sing their farewell, and many of the trees succumbed to the deluge. The sight of the massive trees being washed away was awful, but the slow tilting of the tree they were in was terrifying. Catrin and Benjin climbed higher, but the mighty tree leaned farther, and the roiling flow grew ever closer. When the tree broke loose from the soil, it moved in a lumbering circle, slowly spinning in the current. Its top remained above water, though, and they huddled in the branches. Other trees and debris battered them, and Catrin used her staff to fend them off.
Cradled by the limbs, she sensed the dryad with her, protecting her in one last dying effort. Catrin sent her thanks into her physical bond with the tree, and she felt she could lend her strength to the dryad. Her energy poured into the bark and into the flesh of the tree. She was not sure if it was due to the effort of the dryad or pure luck, but they dipped into the roiling waters on only two occasions, and each time they were thrust back into the air.
As the flow diminished, the tree became wedged against a tangle of downed trees and vegetation that was knotted between a pair of hillocks. Catrin and Benjin held on to one another and lent each other warmth and strength as they waited out the flood.
When the waters receded, the landscape was nightmarish. What had been lush forest was now a wasteland, and not a single tree remained standing within their sight. Mud and rock clogged the valleys, and large sections of land had been ripped from their moorings, leaving huge gashes in the countryside. Benjin helped Catrin climb from the twisted mass, and they fought to break free of the mud.
Night closed around them, and they shivered in the cold air. No dry wood could be found for a fire, and they kept moving just for the sake of the warmth the activity provided. Catrin feared if they stopped, they would never rise again, and despite her nagging exhaustion, she pushed on, determined to live. She couldn't allow those who had died for her cause to have died for naught. She did not add Barabas to her mental list, for she felt he was still alive. It was not merely a foolish hope; she could sense him. She could not tell the direction in which he lay, though she had some clues about that, but she just got a general sense that he lived, as if he sent reassurance to her across the distance between them.
She and Benjin listened for anyone who might be in need of help, but the night was eerily quiet; only the sound of draining water disturbed the stillness. When morning arrived, it brought bright sunshine that seemed inappropriate in the face of such carnage. It almost seemed the sky should mourn the losses on the land below, but it acted of its own accord and blinded them with its glare. By midday, they found a hill that still bore trees, and they climbed to its top. There they built a small fire and tried to get warm.
Though no longer completely sealed with wax, the packs had kept out most of the water and mud. They shared some dried beef strips from Benjin's supply. Despair washed over Catrin as they ate. Even though they were alive, she felt lost. If Barabas did still live, it was doubtful he would find them, and they were now faced with traveling on their own. Benjin's presence was all that kept her from spiraling into a deep, dark depression, but he seemed to be struggling with demons of his own, and neither of them spoke for the rest of the day. No words seemed suitable for such dire circumstances.
After a brief respite, they descended into the mud once again. Despite traveling along high ground whenever they could, much of their time was spent knee-deep in the quagmire. Near dusk, they reached a broad river that was swelled beyond its banks and clogged with debris. It was there that the flood had reached its end, and Catrin could only hope the banks would hold, for beyond lay perfect rectangles of farmland, though few crops grew in the fields, and not a single soul could be seen.
Following the mighty river south, they looked for a place to cross but found none before darkness surrounded them, and they spent another night huddled in each other's arms. Catrin did not remember falling asleep, but she woke to Benjin's deep snores, and she let him sleep. Leaning her head against him, she enjoyed a few moments of peace.
When Benjin woke, they moved farther south, and not long after, a stonework bridge appeared in the distance. As they drew closer, it became apparent that the bridge was an engineering marvel. The river was not much more narrow there than anywhere else they had passed, and huge supports disappeared into the muddy waters. Catrin could not imagine how such a bridge had been constructed, and she stared at in wonder. The water was only a few hand widths below the arched bridge in places, and she wondered if the swelled river would simply carry it away.
A crowd of people was gathered near the bridge, and when they saw Catrin and Benjin, they came to help. Fear clutched Catrin and she looked at Benjin, who seemed to be torn, but then he leaned close and took the staff from her hands.
'They've already seen us,' he said. 'If we flee, they'll most likely alert the local militia… that is, if any militia still remains. It's too great a risk, I think. Let me do the talking.'
Catrin wanted to argue, every sense told her to flee, but the lure of warmth and food was too great, and her fatigue was too intense for flight. Thus, they moved slowly toward the approaching crowd. Upon closer inspection, she saw that the group was made up of the aged and the very young. Benjin leaned heavily on the staff as they walked, and his affected limp was quite convincing.
Covered in mud and ash, they must have been a remarkable sight. When they arrived, two men helped support Benjin as he walked. A girl of maybe four summers brought Catrin a flask of water that she accepted eagerly if not to quench her great thirst, then to wash the filth from her face.
'Yer lucky to've survived,' an elderly man said as he approached. 'From where d'ya come?' he asked, and Catrin immediately sensed his distrust. Her clean face made her age easy to guess, and that alone made her suspicious in their eyes. Catrin regretted washing her face, but there was nothing to be done about it now, and she held her tongue.
'We hail from northern Astor, but the fires drove us from our home, and the flood washed us here,' Benjin replied in a trembling voice, his accent thick with northern, rural qualities.
'Pardon my insolence, stranger, but why's this one not been conscripted?' the man asked, pointing to Catrin.
'My five sons and two oldest daughters are in the Northern Wastes, and I fear I'll never see them again,' Benjin said, his voice cracking and tears welling in his eyes. Catrin would have been impressed by his dramatics, but she knew he had an abundance of real pain to draw upon, and his tears need not be forced. The sight of his tears filled her own eyes, and her lip quivered as he continued. 'This's my youngest daughter, and since my lady-wife passed to the grave, she's all I have. Even the armies could not part her from me.' He said the words with conviction and stood with his chin high. He did not back down from the stares, and his fierce pride seemed to endear him to them.
'Many pardons, friend. I'm sorry fer yer losses, and yer welcome to join us, though we've little to offer. The armies have taken all we could give, and then they took more. We may be poor hosts, but we welcome you. I'm Rolph Tillerman,' he said as he extended his hand to Benjin.
