The tunnel had almost been the death of the six of them, though not in the way someone hearing about their epic trek through Silent Sweden might be expecting.
Sigrun’s curses had turned the air blue and Emil’s cheeks red when she’d seen the tunnel, but she’d tried to make the best of it, as she always did. Lalli had had to stay back in camp the night before, having nearly wrung himself dry fighting off an inquisitive giant that had been stalking them; the painful irony of Lalli’s saving of them throwing them into danger was like a dark cloud over the others.
“OK, guys,” Sigrun said grimly, “we’ll have to veer away from the tracks here and see if we can feel our way back later.” Because even I’m not fool enough to take us through a giant kill-tube that might have a train run through it while we’re in there. She didn’t say it, but they all heard it anyway.
The going had been even rougher than usual, because now they were winding their way through a maze of back-country routes, overgrown fields, and small woods as they skirted tiny towns and what seemed an endless supply of lakes of every size and description. So, not only had their route increased in length, but they were also making even slower progress, neither of which tended to improve Sigrun’s ever-grimmer disposition.
The little band hardly ever went across any of the lakes they encountered on the way; mostly Lalli would tell them, “There are things in there,” and that would be the end of it. A few times, though, they managed to find a small boat that wasn’t as unsound as most and get across the lake astride their path with only minor complaints from a motion-sick Lalli.
As the journey had lengthened, each of them had begun accruing little trinkets they’d found along the way, filling haversacks formerly loaded with provisions. Sigrun not only did not mind this (as long as it didn’t slow them down too much); she had amassed a fair-sized miscellany of her own. Emil had claimed knowledge of various things; knowledge that proved to be mostly spurious, though he had been either close or spot-on just enough times to cast doubt on whether or not his ignorance was as comprehensive as Mikkel asserted.
The nights were still the worst, though. Sometimes Emil saw Lalli twisting restlessly and knew that a grossling was near enough to disturb his friend’s dreams; sometimes the cats went intently still and focussed on something beyond the senses of the others (save only Lalli); sometimes, the group had had to flee through the night, tired though they were, because something had found them and was stalking their little camp. Of course, often the night passed without any such incidents at all, but every one of them was aware of how much greater the danger they were in was by night.
Fortunately, their actual encounters with grosslings had been few and far between—until the final one, the one that came just as they were about to rejoin the rail lines…
