It was nearly a week before Peter left the wagon for longer than it took to relieve himself. He certainly didn’t return to the roof to sunbathe. Marla and the caravan’s healer fussed over his injuries, but after two days declared he would be fine. His efforts at keeping a journal suffered, since he couldn’t really use his right hand. He still made his entries, but it had been bad enough using a quill dipped in ink, to add writing left-handed slowed him down immensely.
Even without going outside, though, Peter could tell that they had entered hillier country. The wagon tilted forward for a few hours, and then backward. Most of the swelling had gone down, and he was going a bit stir crazy, so up to the bench he went.
“Good to see you somewhere other than the bed,” Marla said as he thumped down beside her.
“I’ve had enough rest. My arm may not have, we’ll see later.”
“Fresh air is good for you.”
“Yeah, but falling off the wagon isn’t.”
Marla giggled. Peter rolled his eyes and looked to their surroundings. The trees didn’t close over the road here, despite somehow seeming even larger than they had on more level terrain. It was nice seeing more of the sky. Not much could be seen of the ground without leaning over the side at the moment, and it didn’t seem important enough to him to risk it. More dust was being kicked up by their progress than Peter remembered, leaving him wishing for goggles and maybe a mask. He didn’t mention it to Marla for fear of either having to explain or her rushing off to somehow procure them.
“We should reach the mining town tomorrow or the day after. Are you going to be up for continuing on foot?”
“My legs are fine. I should probably find a decent walking stick, but by the look of these trees I’ll have to whittle a log down to size.”
“Oh, there are plenty of ash staves among the trade goods. Would one of those do?”
“Probably a good deal better than what I would have made. How long does it take to get from this mining town over the mountain and down to the fishing village?”
“I’ve heard it can be done in three days, but most who have done it take seven.”
“We’re going to carry all our gear and seven days of food on our backs?”
“No, of course not.”
“Hunt and forage, then?”
“Maybe a bit, but the plan is to purchase a smaller pack beast that will have an easier time with the route than us.”
“I find it odd that the route to the capital isn’t travelled more.”
“Most sail around the cape. There are other, more travelled ways, but they are convoluted and take even longer. This is a messenger route. Every year the road goes a bit further up the mountain. There is even a proper trail started coming from the fishing village toward the pass.”
“Maybe I should have asked for a map so I can understand it better. I’m a bit spoiled by all the ways to travel where I’m from.”
“Are they more impressive than your zippers?”
“Some of the flying machines could easily make this whole journey in less than an hour.”
“Machines that fly? Sounds dangerous.”
“In my experience, less dangerous than a wagon caravan.”
“But to be up there, exposed, you’d be a target!”
“A target of what? Crossbows?”
“No, fool, dragons.”
“Oh. Sometimes I forget how different our worlds are. I hadn’t thought of dragons.”
“They spend most of their time napping, and most live in larger mountain ranges, but that’s why people aren’t keen on going over mountains.”
“Wouldn’t ships on the water be in the same boat?”
“Why?”
“Couldn’t a dragon just swoop down and sink them?”
“Why would it do that? Most of its prey would escape. They aren’t fond of deep water, either. Some say they can’t swim, others that their cousins are territorial.”
“Cousins?”
“Serpents. They aren’t seen much, at least by any who survive.”
“You’re talking about sea serpents?”
“Yes, though there are also lake serpents.”
“Oh.”
When the wagons stopped at a creek in a valley, Peter hopped down and hobbled to the water. It felt good to stretch his legs. A startled frog leapt into the water, and he smiled. A short way up the creek the bank gave way to a gravel bar, so he pushed his way through the trees to go have a sit. Just because he didn’t know what kind of rocks he was looking at didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the feel of the river-smoothed stones. Some of them had nice colours, too, especially when wet.
His play was interrupted when piece of wood that looked more like a spear haft than a broomstick landed in front of him, making that distinctive doing sound as it clattered and bounced on the rocks. He turned to see Marla up in the bushes and waved. Assuming the break was at an end, he took hold of the staff and heaved himself back to his feet. Peter wasn’t accustomed to using a walking stick, especially through the undergrowth near the creek, and found it rougher going than he had without it.
“Hey, you’re the one that I saw riding a mammoth, right?”
Peter stopped, turning to face the man who had spoken. It was a tinker. “Yes.”
“Was I imagining you carrying a sword, too?”
“I found one when I fell in a pond and chose to drag it back with me, yes.”
“Swords aren’t exactly a common sight in these woods.”
“I thought it strange, but I’ve heard of swords being hauled from rivers centuries after they had been lost.”
“I can’t help wonder what it might be worth.”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t gotten around to cleaning it, and the grip needs replacing.”
“You know how to clean a rusty sword?”
“Uh, I know a few ways, but I don’t have any of the equipment. Even if I did, it takes days or even weeks and wouldn’t be safe in a moving wagon.”
“Hmm. Wrapping it in rags soaked in soda ash might work. It’s a bit big for putting in a pot of vinegar or lye. I suppose you could wipe it with oil and rub a smooth river stone over it, but that could take you months. Or you could let me take it off your hand …”
“I’ve no intention of parting with it,” Peter shut him down. “It looks like we’re about to get moving again.” As he hurried away, he felt the weight of a few stones he had absentmindedly slid into his pockets thumping against his legs with each step.
“Why would you keep that rusty piece of junk?” Marla asked, hurrying beside him.
“I’ve always wanted a sword. I don’t really know how to use one, but that doesn’t matter. It will likely be decorative.”
“A decorative sword? I know nobility have been known to decorate swords so heavily they are impressive on display, but a forgotten relic of one meant for battle?”
“Again, we’re from different worlds. I don’t know how to explain the appeal where I come from.”
“I grew up in a guardhouse, weapons were in racks for practical purposes.”
“You grew up in a guardhouse?”
“Oh, I suppose it never came up. I insisted Father let me be your guide. He scared off all my potential husbands and his men treat me like a servant. I think most of them forget I’m his daughter.”
“Didn’t know that, but it explains a lot.”
“I have taken this route to the Capital, though, I swear!”
“I hadn’t thought you may not have until you said that.” Peter laughed, but now he was starting to get a bit worried.
Peter spent the rest of the day and most of the next cleaning up the sword. He quickly discovered most of what he had thought to be rust was a layer of silt and algae. Underneath, the layer of rust was little more than a patina. Still, he dutifully rubbed it with some lamp oil, then scrubbed it with his river stone until his hands cramped. It started taking a bit of a shine, and aside from some nicks in the edge, the blade looked pretty good.
That night, as he wandered a short way from camp, seeking quiet, he thought he heard someone nearby. Peter turned and looked, pausing and listening, but never saw more than little birds. He picked a mossy boulder and lay down, stretching his back. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing.
“Bently hasn’t forgiven you yet,” a childish voice said uncomfortably near his head. He jumped before opening his eyes and his forehead collided with something that felt suspiciously like another forehead. “Ouch! What did you do that for?”
“You startled me! You weren’t there a second ago. Why would I need Bently’s forgiveness?” The words had barely made it out before a thought made itself known; a thought Peter suspected was correct.
“Just because those poor fellows you killed weren’t from his pack doesn’t mean he liked witnessing their slaughter.”
“I’m pretty sure they were looking to do at least as bad to me, but how should I know.”
“Well, I understand that, and so does he, really. He knows better than attack a mammoth and was angry with them for doing so. Still, I thought it best if he waited further away.”
“You really have been watching me, then?”
“Of course! I said I would. Riding mammoths is fun, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t particularly enjoy it, myself.”
“Why are you walking funny and carrying a big stick?”
“I’m still sore. I sustained some injuries.”
“Oh, yes. I don’t see why no one has healed them yet.”
“We’ve been working on it, but these things take time. An injury like what happened to my shoulder can take half a year to fully heal.”
“No, silly, like this!” The dryad slid shockingly cold hands through the neck of his shirt and gripped his shoulder. A sensation like mild electrocution spread around the muscles and faded. “Better?”
Peter was about to say no, but realized it actually was. “How did you do that?”
“When people are hurt, you heal them.”
“A kind thing to do, surely, but not everyone can.”
“Why not?”
“Magic is funny like that.”
“Oh, right. I can do the rest of you, too, if you’d like.”
“I’d appreciate my knees and ankles, but the rest will be fine.”
“You’re no fun.”
“People keep saying that, but I beg to differ.”
She giggled as she repeated her little miracle on his legs. “Oh, I brought you a gift, too.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“It’s not something I’m good at, but I made this for you. Bently wasn’t happy, but he’s much quicker to forgive me. Especially since it wasn’t me who killed it.” A neatly folded bundle of fur tied with ribbon dropped to the rock next to him.
“What do you mean?”
“I took one of the wolf-bears you killed and cleaned it’s hide. It should keep you warm up in the mountains.”
“Oh, uh, thank-you.”
“I should go before Bently starts worrying.”
“Okay, goodbye.”
Peter picked up the bundle and his staff, and headed off before she could say anything else. After only a few steps, he started to doubt the wisdom of not having her work on his back, too. He felt like he could walk all day.
“The dryad found you again?” Marla asked before he could even say anything.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“For one, you have something you didn’t leave here with. Secondly, you’re obviously walking a lot better. I suppose you let her get her hands all over you?”
“No, she looks too childlike for me to be comfortable with that. She surprised me with my shoulder, and I let her work her magic on my knees and ankles in case she decided to call on Bently.”
“Oh. Sorry. What’s the gift?”
“The fur of one of the wolf-bears I killed protecting the mammoths.”
“Really? Why?”
“She says it will keep me warm in the mountains.”
“It’s the middle of summer and we’re going over this one mountain. We don’t even have any reason to go near its peaks.”
“I don’t know, I didn’t ask. Hopefully she doesn’t know something we don’t.”
“What?”
“Like divination. Can dryads see the future?”
“I doubt it. I’ve never heard of anyone managing anything better than a random guess.”
“Good.”
“Let’s get some sleep. We’ll likely be in town by noon tomorrow. After that the going will be tougher.”
“I’m not looking forward to climbing a mountain. It’s something I always wanted to do in theory, but reality is something else entirely.”
Marla laughed and shoved him toward the bed.