The road south was quiet. The fields gave way to scrub, scrub to thin woodland and woodland to forest. The driver spoke little, and when he did, it was for practical things. Like, where to find the water.
I didn't mind it too much. He wasn't openly hostile, and he wasn't hired for his talkative nature. He had other advantages to offer.
The wagon had a faint glow. The driver was using perception magic. As far as magic was concerned, it was not considered complex. But the ability to cast it continuously was a real talent. Father must have paid well to hire someone like him. It was just another reminder of what I had lost.
The magic was subtle. It made the wagon difficult to notice, unless we did something dramatic to draw attention to ourselves; most creatures would ignore us. It was the best way to travel if you couldn't afford a set of guards. I was touched that my father had planned my exile so thoroughly. It would have been preferable if I could have stayed with Old Nan, but Father knew best. I hope my grandparents are accepting and kind.
To pass the time, I imagined myself running in the forest as we drove past them. I had always enjoyed the forest. It was quiet, no whispers or sideways glances when I entered the room. This forest carried a scent that just felt natural, with hints of oak and damp soil, along with something sweet I couldn't name. I was enjoying my daydreaming when I was distracted by rustling in the undergrowth
"What—" the driver shouted as a boar the size of the wagon came rushing out of the woods. Its black hide shone in the sunlight, and its tusks were the size of my torso. The horse jerked violently, causing the wagon to shake. I was thrown against the side of the wagon and hit my head on a wooden post, almost knocking me out.
I watched as it moved with terrifying speed, giving the driver no time to react. The boar slammed into the panicking horse's side. The sound was sickening; the only way to describe it was wet.
The tusks tore through hide and flesh. The horse was separated into two halves, and blood sprayed across the wagon and my face. I used my sleeve to wipe my face and watched as the driver, who had been holding the reins, was thrown against a tree. The thud and sound of bone breaking echoed on the road. The imprint of blood on the bark left no doubt. He wouldn't be getting up again.
I scrambled to get off the wagon, grabbing my bag. The boar charged again, and the wagon exploded from the impact. Wood flew everywhere, and I saw a suspicious package fly out from under the wagon. It was small and wrapped in paper. It caught on a piece of debris and ripped open. The scent of rotting flesh hit my nose. I knew at once what the package was. Monster bait. It was an alchemical recipe used when hunting low-level monsters. That explained why the driver's magic hadn't worked.
I would need to process why that was attached to the wagon later. First, I had to focus on surviving. I raced to the nearest tree. After finding a quick grip, I attempted to race up the tree, but the boar was quicker. The tusk caught my right leg. I screamed, and pain shot up my spine.
I renewed my efforts to get as high as possible in the tree. Finally, I got above the boar and out of reach of its task. The boar soon lost interest in hunting me and headed back towards the package. Ripping it open to eat what was inside. Confirming it was the monster bait that had attracted the boar.
I stayed in the trees for hours, until my arms and legs went numb, watching the boar gorge itself on the driver and all the food supplies in the wagon. Eventually, it chose to wander back into the forest.
Getting down from the tree was agony. My leg ached with each movement. I spent the first two days, feverish and shivering in the wreckage, waiting for anyone to pass by. I filled up a canteen from the wreckage and used the rest of the water to clean my wound. By the third day, there was a gnawing ache in my stomach that no amount of willpower could ignore.
It had been four sunsets since the attack, and hunger had grown unbearable. I had to forage for some food. This forest was unfamiliar to me, but still close enough to the forest of Southmarch that I could use my training.
Is that Inkar … or Ukar root? I asked myself.
One would kill me; one I could eat. I brushed the red clay off with my trembling hands to get a better look. The shade of the surrounding trees made it difficult to see the details. I felt the bark, hoping to get some clue. Was that a nodule or a bump?
"Remember Quart. Nodules for the belly, bumps for the grave," I remembered Old Nan's advice.
I took a risk and bit down into the wooden root, and my teeth met with stubborn resistance, but it finally gave way. The nostalgic taste of wood and something sweet hit my tongue. It was Inkar root, so no grave for me today. Well, at least not from the root. My stomach welcomed its first food in four days with no complaints.
I looked down at my leg, the wound had started to fester, a map made of purple, red and yellow hues covered my shin. That was never a good sign. My only hope was to find some Elieve mushrooms.
Elieve mushrooms grew only on the tallest trunks and were large, flat and orange. Usually, making them easy to spot. The only thing that rivalled their healing power was their foul taste.
Normally, climbing the tree would be easy. Halflings were born for the trees, and I had done my fair share of climbing. I wasn't as nimble as other halflings – my human blood made me heavier and bulkier. But even that wouldn't have normally held me back, but the throbbing in my right leg would make it impossible in my current situation.
But I also knew that if I didn't do anything, I would die in this forest. I wouldn't even make it to full adulthood, let alone become the great man I promised Old Nan I would become.
It hadn't taken long, but I had found my target. It sat about fifteen meters off the ground, on the side of an old oak tree. A large Elieve mushroom. Walking had become nearly impossible and climbing moreso, but I pulled myself up, my hands scraping across the bark.
Pain was temporary. I could handle pain as long as I survived. I started the climb, one hand after the other. Using my left leg to anchor my body weight. I felt the bark bite into my thigh; some more blood started to ooze from the friction.
I followed a rhythm: hand, foot, pull, hand, foot, pull. Over and over again. I finally gained enough height that I could reach for the mushroom. One handful was all I needed, but my limbs betrayed me in that moment. They protested the torture and gave up. I had no choice. I had to use my right leg. I growled in pain. My breath came shallow and sharp, and I tried to forget the torture I was putting my body through. I leapt, fingers just grazing the edge of the mushroom.
Before gravity won its battle, I fell with a thump. I couldn't feel anything. I wasn't sure if that was good or bad, but the Elieve was not with me. It was hanging on by a thread, dangling off the side of the tree. I tried to stand, but nothing followed my commands, my legs didn't move, and my left arm refused to bend. All I had left was my right arm.
I felt around for anything to throw, and my hand found something smooth. I dug at it blindly as I couldn't turn my head to see, but eventually a fist-sized stone emerged from the red clay. I threw the stone with all the might I could muster. I missed the mushroom by a lot, but hit the tree, causing it to vibrate. The mushroom shook but held firm.
I dragged myself across to where the stone lay. My vision blurred. The effort of moving felt like walking in knee-high mud. I mustered up the energy and tried again. This time it fell. Finally, target acquired.
The orange, fungus felt softer than expected, like my old pillow at home. My hand was shaking and unsteady. Even lifting it to tear a piece off was exhausting. The smell was earthy and reminded me of the alchemy laboratories of home. For a moment, I thought of the Alchemist explaining how each ingredient held different parts of magic and how combinations with a binder could improve their effects.
I had no binder to use, no solvent to turn the Elieve into a potion. A potion would have been the optimal solution, but I remember tales of old adventures using Elieve in its raw form. I pressed the piece in my hand onto my festering wound, squeezing out the juice as best I could. The pain was immediate and intense. I screamed, my good arm was trembling, but I forced myself to continue. After what seemed like an hour but was more likely seconds, I ate what remained. The taste was foul and bitter, even worse than the potions my father used to make me drink.
I tried to focus on memories of eating sweet things to remove the foul aftertaste, but it didn't work. Eventually, I couldn't keep the exhaustion at bay any longer and lost the battle to stay awake.