Dreamwalker's Bride - Chapter 209

Chapter 209: Long journey
Ford glared at the hot sun. After traveling for a month away from he mines, he was exhausted.

His fear that the Boss would demand Martin’s things, and then would somehow discover what Ford had taken, had overwhelmed him. He’d snuck out the night before Martin was to be officially declared dead.

No one had caught him, though with his crutch he was both slow and conspicuous. He had no way of knowing whether the Boss hadn’t sent anyone after him or if they simply didn’t try very hard to catch someone who had saved lives.

As Ford hobbled across the flats, he regretted his decision to leave very much. He had not had enough money for a horse, nor accommodations, nor a full set of camping supplies. Martin’s money that had seemed so abundant at first didn’t go nearly as far as Ford thought.

It was spring, so at least the nights weren’t deadly cold. He’d brought with him a bag slung over one shoulder containing some mining/cave equipment, his worn out blanket, a canteen, and food. He’d spent Martin’s money on most of them during the journey. The equipment seemed vital for exploring a cave, and everything else necessary for survival.

With the clothes on his back, it was all he had in the world. He didn’t even purchase a second set of clothes so he could stretch the money further.

Every coin was gone now.

He’d needed to take a ferry to cross the river, using up the last of the money. And now, he was penniless in a foreign nation, with a hand drawn map and a limited supply of food.

Not a terribly promising position.

He looked a terrible sight. His tattered blanket was draped over his head in a futile effort to stave off sunburn. Years in the mines had left him pale as a ghost, or so the ferryman had called him. The man had been half-convinced that Ford was the hobbling wraith of a drowned man, and thus given him a slight discount on the fare as he didn’t want to incur the wrath of a vengeful spirit.

Ford pointed out that he was more likely to avoid the wrath by giving a free trip, but the ferryman pled that he had a family to feed.

The man had also given him directions to Droth, which was fairly straightforward as the road apparently led that direction.

His leg ached. Terribly. Leaning heavily on his crutch, he continued forward. There were no other travelers along the way; even though a decade had passed since the war, there was not much trade between the two countries.

As the sun sank lower in the sky, Ford cursed it for its heat but dreaded the coming of night. It had been two days now since he’d left the ferry behind, with no sign of civilization yet.

Why did this kingdom fight a war over land they weren’t going to even use?

Scattered farms slowly seemed to appear in the distance, and he wondered at them. Was the land fertile? Were the people… happy?

He cast aside the unhelpful thought and continued on his way. Underneath his arm, where the crutch rubbed, his skin was raw, and bleeding.

If he weren’t careful, it might get infected. That would be incredibly unfortunate.

He grimaced, and moved onward. To stop would be to starve. He had to get somewhere. Find food. and water. and shelter.

As night fell, he resigned himself to sleeping in the middle of nowhere once again. There was a full moon tonight, which provided him at least some light to find his way. To keep hobbling along, or stop and give up for the night?

He wondered.

Utterly exhausted. Bleeding. Leg throbbing. He couldn’t keep going indefinitely. He would collapse.

Ahead, he saw a grove of trees and sighed with relief. At least under them he would have some small protection from the elements. They seemed like a mirage at first, far enough that it was as if he was making no progress towards them whatsoever.

When he finally reached their branches, he realized they flanked a road shooting off from the main one. The ferryman hadn’t mentioned a turn, had he?

“Just follow the road, you’ll find Droth,” He’d said, without elaboration. So where did this lead?

Ford decided that was a problem for tomorrow. Tomorrow, the day his food would officially run out, and he would have to resort to trying to catch crickets or other bugs to eat. The thought was distasteful in the extreme. It was odd, he didn’t hear any, unlike other places he’d slept.

Putting down his bundle, he lowered himself to the ground. A groan of pain escaped his lips. His stomach growled in response, and he drank some water and ate a little food.

He looked longingly at the last bit, but he would want that in the morning. He’d filled his canteen at the river, but that was also feeling light now.

Swallowing, he cursed this journey. His choices. His tendency to flirt with death as if she were some beautiful woman.

He pulled his blanket around himself and hoped the night would not be too chilly. The day had been hot, maybe that was a mercy in the end. He would rather not die of the cold.

Tomorrow might be the last day he tasted food. He intended to make the most of it.

His eyes closed. That was a pessimistic attitude. Hadn’t he cheated death already? Why should it take him now? Why, after surviving being buried alive, should he perish of hunger, or cold, or any other lesser threats to his health and safety?

“Ha!” The single, bitter syllable was thrown into the air to mock everything against him. He was nothing, but someday soon he would be something. Somebody. A rich man. A force to be reckoned with.

With those idle vows to himself in the moonlight, he finally released his hold on wakefulness and embraced the oblivion of sleep.