the mountain. We eat small portions of dried meat throughout the day.
We make camp at evening, in a large clearing off to the side of the path, down in a valley. We build fires and use pans to cook our flour, which we have mixed only with water to make bland little biscuits. I make several of them to eat the next day for lunch. We will not stop for meals.
The ground is hard and the night is cold.
The next day is much the same, but for the first half of the day we climb an incline, and the latter half of the day we descend the mountain. The path is clear and there’s a thin pine forest that coats the mountain.
The third day we break free of the mountains and into the foothills. A little after noon the small path converges with the main road; we turn right to head south towards Kera. Here the ground is flatter and there are not many trees, but it’s far from barren. There are boulders that lie strewn about like giants had been playing a game of marbles. Bushes and grasses grow, some of them tall enough that I can’t see over them. The river flows to our left, but we are walking upriver.
The river’s shore is rocky and speckled with tufts of tall green grasses. The water is clear and deep, and in some places is violent. Every so often a tree has somehow managed to take root on the steep rocky shore of the river. Past the trees, the peaks of the Wolfpack Mountains rise to our right.
The fourth day, my father slows down. He cringes as he gets up that morning.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“Don’t know,” he responds.
“Is it your arrow wound?”
Warily he removes the bandage. We find that the puncture in his skin is bleeding slightly, and has refused to close. It has become inflamed and is oozing a yellowish substance. The base of the inflammation appears slightly green.
“Infected,” he mutters.
I stare wide-eyed. “We don’t have the medicine to treat it,” I say quietly. “We won’t until we get to Kera.”
“I know,” he says softly.
“We need to move faster.” I hurry towards the Jarl, anxious to find help. “Is anyone here a healer?” I ask him. “There’s got to be someone that knows herbs and can gather.”
“What for?” he questions.
“It’s my father. He’s got an infection. Please, there has got to be someone that at least can slow the infection down until we get to Kera.”
“I don’t know,” he replies. “But you can ask around. I’m sure there is. But our best bet is to get to Kera as quickly as possible.” I go to leave, but he quickly adds, “I’m sorry. Best of luck to you.”
I only nod and thank him.
“Is anyone here a healer?” I shout. “Anyone?” Several soldiers look my way, but few respond. One raises his hand and says, “I am, sir. I’m not the best but I know a thing or two.”
“Good. Do you know anything of infections?”
“What? Who is infected?”
“My father. Please, you’ve got to help. I’ll help you gather plants, whatever you need. Just help me.”
He looks at me solemnly and says, “I’ll do what I can.”
Despite our best efforts, our pace hardly increases that day. Father is having difficulty, though he tries his best to keep moving at a steady rate.
That night I help the man, whose name is Gregory, to find a specific kind of plant he called, “Crownsail.” I’m not sure exactly what it does, but he chews some of it and places it on my father’s open wound. Father gasps as it makes contact and I hold his hand tightly.
“Come on,” I say. “We’re going to make it. We are.”
By the next morning his condition has worsened. He’s running a fever and wakes up in a cold sweat, which continues throughout the day. More than once he has to stop and rest. We fall slightly behind, but catch up by nightfall, when they have stopped and set up camp. Gregory does his best to slow the infection by draining out as much of the fluid as he can and washing it with boiled water from the river.
The next day he feels slightly better, though his wound still appears infected. He doesn’t have to stop and rest as many times; only for lunch, which still consists of bland little wheat biscuits. My hopes rise.
Just before midday, we come around a bend in the road and pass a large