When I woke the next day, my head pounded, and my body felt strange, like I’d been stretched out and compressed again to fit inside a four-foot package. I lay on the moss for a while until only a dull pain lingered.
Beside me, the fire had gone out overnight without me noticing. I was cold, but not hypothermic like I might’ve expected. Was it an aftereffect of the ritual? Or something to do with the otter’s territory like I’d noticed yesterday?
Living in the Glen was proving to be full of hair-raising experiences. Between the poisonings, stabbings, and addictions, there’d been no shortage of seriously dangerous events. That said, I was reluctant to abandon it, and not just because of the ready supply of food and water.
The Glen had its own resident doctor, and even though her quests were dangerous, she at least had a stake in keeping me alive. Besides, if her territory really did have the effect of moderating temperatures, then the idea of surviving the winter was suddenly becoming a lot more feasible—assuming I hadn’t made contact with the town by then.
Before all that, though, we had to get rid of the flies. One step at a time.
The otter came to check on me mid-morning, and I nodded to let her know I was ready. She led me outside, and the air vibrated with the flies’ buzzing. They seemed particularly agitated today. Swarms of the little brutes swung around the turd as if on patrol.
The next step to getting rid of them was to gather the necessary materials, but the otter had already taken care of it. A pile of kindling and firewood sat by the cave’s entrance, ready for me to use. There was also a large frond, but it didn’t look big enough—not when I would be using it to fan a toxin away from me. I’d feel better with something with more surface area and length.
I found and lashed together pieces of cedar bark to create a three-foot-by-three-foot fan, which I then attached to a two-foot handle. I was testing the bindings when I saw movement inside the dragon’s turd. My heart nearly stopped—thinking it was another worm—but then I realized it was some fly eggs hatching. The turd wriggled with the larva.
Disgusted, the otter urged me to hurry up.
It took a while to light the first fire. Once it was going, though, I used a brand to quickly start a second fire near the turd. One step closer to chemical extermination.
The fly scouts came to check things out, but I kept my distance, coming closer only to make sure there was enough fuel on the fire and that it was burning down to embers as intended.
My nerves were so bad, every time the wind blew in my direction I unconsciously held my breath. My hands shook and struggled to untie the cord wrapped around the mushroom package. The knot refused to come undone, and I was just about to go get my knife when the wind shifted again, strongly blowing toward the turd. It was now or never, so I threw the whole package onto the embers.
Smoke rose. Just a wisp at first, but quickly turning into a stream and then a cloud. I held my breath and furiously waved the fan.
The swarm, alarmed by the thick gray smoke, buzzed angrily. The majority clung to the turd and fanned their wings to cool it—the same behavior I’d seen from them before—but a handful of scouts swung around toward me, only to fall out of the air. All across the turd, the flies dropped.
More frightening, the turd started to rapidly dry, the moisture sucked out of it. Larva spilled through the cracks, as dead as their fly parents. The grass yellowed and blackened in a cone ten feet beyond the turd. An ash tree cracked in two, and the wood grew seasoned in front of my eyes.
All it took for the flies, larva, and tree to die was about thirty seconds of exposure to the mushroom’s poison. That was a relief, because my arms were burning from the strain of waving the fan and my lungs felt like they were at the edge of bursting.
I dropped the fan and dove into the pool to swim underwater and emerge behind the waterfall. I came up gasping for air, very much hoping the water would shield the cave from any stray smoke. There, I would wait until the otter came to get me.
The time felt like it passed so slowly, but then the otter showed up looking immensely pleased with herself. Our plan had worked. She must’ve cleaned up too, because the fire, the ashes, and the turd were cleared away, the ground soaked as if by a heavy rain. All that was left were the items hidden inside the turd.
It turned out to be quite a haul:
- A human skull, part of a sternum, and a collection of bone shards.
- A pair of ivory dice.
- Ten large copper coins, four small silver coins, one large silver coin, and one small gold coin.
- A section of a shield folded onto itself, the metal torn on one end. A red stripe was still visible.
- A helm, dented on one side.
- Five sections of a chain shirt that had been ripped apart. The smallest piece was a two-inch-by-three-inch section, and the largest was a twenty-four-by-eleven-inch segment. The links were crafted from steel.
- A dagger, unblemished and sharp.
Everything was washed clean by the water, as if the turd and the mushroom had never existed at all. I sat among the items, not caring if my pants got wet.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the skull. “It was probably a horrible way to die. I hope you don’t mind, but I could really use these things. I’m in a troublesome situation, you see, and in over my head. If it wasn’t for the kindness of strangers, I’d be dead.”
I waited, in case the skull responded, but it didn’t. To be honest, that was a relief, because I wasn’t sure what I would have done if it did.
I found a quiet place between two elm trees to bury the bones. The light dappled the ground, and a breeze rustled the leaves. A flowering bush added color and fragrance to the air. Obviously, I didn’t know the details, but I assumed the soldier must’ve died violently, fighting the dragon, and it was important to me to give them a peaceful grave. I had no clue what ceremonies or rituals they’d want, but I felt I had to do something.
I worked the ground with my digging stick—a new one—and the metal shield, using it like a shovel. Once the soldier’s bones were covered over, I closed my eyes and prayed to Meliune, the Goddess of Compassion, to let them find peace and move on to wherever souls were meant to go. Then, before I could think too hard about the usefulness of the metal, I stamped the shield into the ground as a grave marker.
The rest of the loot went into the cave for now, and as a bonus I had found a hickory tree and an elderberry bush on the way back from the gravesite. The elderberries were tart and the hickory nuts bitter, but each provided nutrients I wouldn’t otherwise get. My pantry had expanded! The tyranny of plums and fennel was officially ended.
After, I was still hungry, so I speared three fish for our lunch, including one of the little orange ones. It tasted like a cross between chicken and macadamia nuts. Weird for a fish, but delicious.
There was also the purple lichen I’d collected on the way to the Meadow of the Evil Death Mushrooms. That probably wasn’t the place’s official name—there may not be one at all—but it’d do. Anyway, the otter looked blankly on when I took the lichen out. I mimed that I’d heard a giant creature knock down a tree to eat it, but she just shook her head. She unceremoniously tossed the lichen onto the campfire.
Oh well. Not everything was going to be useful. There just happened to be a giant creature in the forest with a penchant for lichen.
It was mid-afternoon by the time we finished eating and I felt ready to tackle the loot. The otter, gone all lazy, spread out and lay on her back. She made tiny woob woob woob noises when she snored. I’d never wanted a video camera so much in my life, and I listened while I examined the soldier’s things.
The coins were stamped with images and writing: a tower, an eagle, a man’s face, and a woman’s face. The writing was nothing I’d seen before. I set the coins and the dice aside for the moment. They weren’t immediately useful, but I hoped they would be once I made contact with other people—people who hopefully wouldn’t threaten me with spears and magic snakes.
The helmet was dented but intact. It would make for a good pot, useful for gathering fruit and nuts, making soup, and mixing ingredients. Never underestimate the power of a metal pot!
The ripped mail was more of a dilemma. I really needed a pouch to free up my hands and still carry things, and the largest piece of chain mesh would make a decent one with the right cordage. I wouldn’t be able to use it for anything liquid, but it’d work for everything else. The other option, though, was to cord all the pieces together into a patchwork chain shirt. It would have significant gaps in protection, but it’d be better than nothing, which was what I currently had.
So, utility or defense? Wait, is that even a question?
Without defense, I wouldn’t live long enough for utility to matter. The decision to jury rig a chain shirt made, I got to work.
The largest section of mesh went on my back to protect against anything sneaking up behind me. The remaining pieces looked like the four largest Hawaiian Islands, and I strung them together with braided cord; the Big Island covered my heart and the other islands circled counterclockwise around my torso.
It took a while fiddling with the arrangement of cords, but eventually I found a pattern that securely held the pieces in places. Then, the mail transformed from a tabard into a shirt when I laced up the sides. Putting it on, I felt like a post-apocalyptic raider.
Last, but certainly not least, there was the dagger: nine inches of steel set in a polished bone pommel and decorated with a leaping hart on one side and hunting dogs on the other. It was beautiful, but also clearly a tool of war.
The wood from the split tree looked useful, so I walked over to test the dagger on it. I chopped out a length of ash for a new spear and pried it loose. The blade was sturdier than I expected, not bending at all, and the edge stayed keen no matter what I put it through.
Goosebumps rose all along my arms. Magic. It had to be. If the patchwork chain shirt was cool—and I thought it was—then a magic dagger was how a legend might begin.
I brought an ash stave back to the campfire, and sat and thought for a long time. I could do a lot with a magic dagger.
For the first time since arriving in this world, I slept soundly during the night. There were no worms or flies to worry about, and I was getting accustomed to thinking of the cave as home. It also helped that I didn’t have to keep the fire fed overnight. I still did for comfort’s sake, but the urgency was gone, which helped me rest more peacefully. That was good, because I planned for a busy, busy day.
First, I spent the morning hunting for materials: wood of various shapes and sizes, more bark for cordage, and pine resin. I also found two stones, one shaped like a dinner plate and another like a shallow bowl.
When I came across the bowl, I danced a jig. There was already a way for it to be useful.
Back at the glen, I gathered leftover charcoal from the previous night’s fire and ground the pieces into powder with a rock. When that was done, I started a fire and heated the pine resin in the new bowl.
It was the first step in making pine pitch, a natural glue crafted from a mixture of pine resin, charcoal powder, and filler, for which I used ground dead leaves. Once the pitch was ready, I set it by the fire to keep it soft and warm.
Next, I brought out the dagger to examine it. The morning light reflected on the blade and danced across the stone and water. I flashed it around to make sure it caught the otter’s attention. When I saw her looking my way, I grinned and began to work.
A hefty branch shaped like an elbow turned into an adze. I split one end with the dagger and smeared the gap with pitch. Then I wedged a flat piece of knapped flint into it and corded the wood to keep it secure. I swung the adze against a log, and it cut and shaved the wood.
Next, I split a curved branch lengthwise. It was about a foot long, and I carved a gap in the middle of both halves. After that, I coated the gaps with pitch, placed a piece of knapped flint between them, and reassembled the two halves. I finished the draw knife by lashing the pieces together. Now, I could shave wood more finely by holding the blade between two hands and ‘drawing’ it toward me.
I now had all the tools I needed for the afternoon’s projects. I glanced at the bone spikes left over from the worms, and the stave of wood scavenged from the split ash tree.
But first, lunch. My muscles ached, especially my back from being hunched over. I stood and made a show of stretching, not letting go of the dagger. Instead, I waved it in the air, making sure the otter saw how beautiful and useful it was.
Over the course of the morning, she’d made her way across the pool in stages and came closer each time to watch me make the tools.
“I bet the dagger will make quick work of lunch too,” I said, smiling.
The otter’s brows lifted. Considering? Dubious? Both?
My little landlord was a hoarder with an already-demonstrated interest in useful tools. I planned to take advantage of that. Not her—I’d never take advantage of her. No, it’d be a fair trade I propose, for something I desperately wanted. Magic.
I’d spent a lot of time thinking through the idea. The world was dangerous. It was like being dropped in the middle of New York City without knowing anything about the culture and technology—except in my previous world, the consequences of mistakes weren’t usually deadly.
Let’s say the worst happened: You get hit by a car, and when the police arrive, you panic and assault them. Now, you’ve been hit by a car and shot, and are bleeding out on the ground. But the ambulance has already been dispatched. The strange creatures who wounded you also saved your life.
It didn’t always work that way—I understood that—but in general, you could recover from your mistakes. That certainly wasn’t the case in this world. Here, a single mistake could cost you your life, and the only reason it hadn’t cost me mine yet was because of Dr. Otter’s healing magic.
I needed that magic to cushion the blow when I made mistakes and give me the opportunity to learn from them. It was the same question as with the chainmail: defense or utility. And again, defense won.
First, though, I was going to work the hell out of the dagger. I was a great fan of utility, so I planned to wring as much use from it as possible before trading it away.
For lunch, I speared a couple of perch. The fishing spot I’d found earlier was proving to be reliable. I was also grateful it was in easy view of the Glen and didn’t require traipsing through the forest and risking random encounters with the creatures living there. Although, I did detour through the brush to find a place to take care of my body’s necessities.
On the way back, I was lucky enough to wander into a patch of yellow squash. They weren’t my favorite—the squash was going to be bland without salt—but I’d count any new food source as a win.
Back at the glen, the dagger made quick work of gutting the perch, and I staked them both next to the fire. I cleaned the stone plate and put the squash on it to bake.
The otter soon joined me, her eyes moving between the grilling fish and the dagger. Since we had time, I invited her to investigate the tools I was making while we waited for the fish.
I showed her how each worked, and she invented hand signs—paw signs—we could use to describe them. She was feisty about it too. When I wanted a turn at making up a sign, she patted my arm like I was a child and shook her head.
The otter was most curious about the parasitic worms’ bone spikes. I’d kept them thinking they’d make good weapons—stilettos. Each spike was about a foot long, thin as an ice pick at the tip, and flared to an inch in diameter at the base. Below the base was a natural tang another four inches long, which had been buried inside the worm to keep the point stable.
The fish weren’t quite ready, so I sorted through my wood pile, looking for pieces with the right dimensions. I found a couple of ash and one hickory that I could trim down for the stilettos’ hilts.
I started by shaving the stray bits and bark from the hickory piece, and split it lengthwise. The otter watched intently as I then used the dagger’s tip to dig out space for a tang. Hickory was a hardwood, and the work took a delicate hand. The fit had to be tight, or else the ‘blade’ would jiggle. I couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity to show off the dagger’s value to the otter—hopefully encouraging her to want to possess it.
We stopped when the fish smelled like they were done. The perch were as delicious as I’d expected. Unfortunately, the squash turned out as predicted too: bland. The otter didn’t care for them, and neither did I. I still ate them though.
After lunch, I tested each of the tangs against the half of a hilt I’d carved. All of them were too big, but that was okay—removing wood was easier than starting over because I’d gone too fast and whittled too much. Once the fit was good, I repeated the process and made the other half, then smeared both halves with pitch, fit the tang inside, and lashed it all together.
The result wasn’t pretty—everything about the stiletto was crude—but it’d work in a pinch. I noted for the next one, though, that I should sand the wood before assembling the pieces. As it was, I now had to undo the lashing and scrape a porous stone over the hilt to make it more comfortable to grip.
Still, my demonstration had been effective. The otter was fascinated by the process, from start to finish.
“This is good, but all it can do is puncture.” I put down the stiletto and picked up the dagger. “This, on the other hand, can both puncture and slash. It is both a weapon and tool.”
The otter couldn’t understand my words, but I hoped she’d find meaning in my tone of voice and the way I gazed fondly at the dagger.
The otter looked at me, her expression dubious. She gestured with her paw. The intent and attitude were easy to read: Come on. Out with it. What do you want?
I immediately plopped down opposite her and put the magic dagger on the ground between us. Then I made a bowl-shape with my hands and put it next to the dagger.
She looked confused, and hesitated before pulling a stone bowl from her fur pocket and placing it where I had gestured.
Through the otter’s invented sign language—it really came in handy for these extended conversations—I asked for permission to pick up the bowl, which she granted. I filled the bowl with water and brought it back to where we were sitting.
Now came the hard part.
I picked up the magic dagger and mimed cutting myself. My fingers made explosions to show blood spurting out. I grasped the imaginary wound and grimaced. Picking up the bowl, I hurriedly wriggled my fingers over the water and poured it onto the wound. I let my face ease in relief.
The otter looked me up and down, still looking confused. It was obvious I wasn’t injured and didn’t need her healing.
I gestured toward her and wriggled my fingers. I gestured to myself and repeated the motion, but only the first part. Then I repeated it over and over, each time steadily adding more, until I was able to do the whole sequence—until I ‘learned’ how to cast a magic spell. Then I moved off by myself and pretended to be working a piece of wood with the dagger. I accidently cut myself, but instead of panicking, I wriggled my fingers over the water to cast a healing spell and splashed it onto the imaginary wound. Satisfied, I went back to work.
The otter’s eyes were thoughtful. She seemed to understand that I wanted her to teach me healing magic in exchange for the dagger. She even invented a sign to represent magic, a paw raised perpendicular to the chest, digits spread.
I repeated the sign to show I understood, then returned the bowl to await her decision. After a while, I realized it was going to take a while and went to look for stones I could use for sanding wood.
When I came back, there was doubt in the otter’s eyes, and something else. Possibility?
On my phone, I received a notification for a new mercantile skill:
Barter increased from 0 to 3. |
