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Badgerblood: Awakening Page 10
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The Vahindan advanced with his confident, sneering grin. Peter backed away, angling toward his knife in the grass and limping badly. He glanced briefly at his leg. Blood soaked through a tear in his leather boot where the hakuma had cut him earlier. He looked to the trees and considered running for the forest. The stabbing ache in his calf convinced him otherwise.
He slid his arrow into the quiver on his back and slipped it over his head. Then he held the leather bag at a diagonal before him like a quarterstaff. A temporary defense.
Without warning, the mercenary lunged. He swung fast and hard, but Peter blocked every attack. The first few strikes shredded the leather in the middle of the quiver, exposing the arrows to view. The mercenary beat at the arrows with the hakuma. Splinters flew under the assault, the blade hacking through the bundle of arrows with relative ease. As the last shaft broke, the back strip of the quiver folded around the blade. Peter used it to grab the sword and yank. He stepped aside, letting the mercenary’s own momentum carry him past. Tearing the sword from the man’s grip with his hands protected from the blade by the shredded quiver, he swung the hilt at the back of his head. The mercenary fell, sprawling in the grass.
Peter took the sword by its hilt and flicked the quiver off the blade. “The word is seasoned.”
He stepped closer, intending to hook the beak-end of the sword lightly around the man’s neck and use him as a hostage. Before the blade could touch him, however, the Vahindan rolled over and kicked out, tripping Peter. The woodsman fell hard on his back. He lay, staring up at the sky, gasping. As the mercenary rose, Peter, still fighting for breath, groped for the sword. Panic seeped into his chest but he thrust it fiercely aside. No time. No time for that. But his advantage was gone. The mercenary kicked his hand away and picked up the blade. As Peter struggled to his elbows, the man set the sword tip on his chest and gave a slight push. With a groan, Peter collapsed back to the ground.
“Seasoned, then,” the mercenary said, smiling tightly.
The smell of rotting meat on the man’s breath accosted Peter. Fear squeezed his heart at the stench and he gritted his teeth against it. He’d drunk the drink that caused that smell. The stench and fear were nothing new. Still, it had been a while.
The other mercenaries limped toward him, some hunching with their injuries, all snarling. Most mercenaries in the king’s army were not as gentle, or inexperienced, with prisoners as the Perabon-born soldiers. And these men had a score to settle.
Shouldn’t have gone so easy on them, Peter thought, and braced himself.
14
Remember your blood, remember me.
Kor shot awake with a yell, clutching his pendant which had slipped from his bandages during the night. The bedsheet crumpled into his lap as he leaned forward in a sitting position.
“A dream, it’s just a dream.” He rubbed the pendant, seeking what comfort he could, clinging to its grounding reassurance. The injuries flared in his back and he groaned. He leaned left against the wall, closing his eyes against the ghostly hand and the fading voice.
The same nightmare had been tormenting him for years, ever since Peter had taken him in as a lad and fed him star of Perabon petals. It terrified him—the ashen fingers, holding aloft his bloodstained pendant, reaching out to caress his face—and he loathed the fear. He could never quite make out the features behind the hand, but the voice was the same as the beckoning woman’s in his fur-sprouting-fight dreams. Only, in this dream, the lady was dying. The nightmare usually ended with the same fading plea: Remember your blood, remember me. This time the dream had repeated the words over and over before letting him wake, and echoing behind them were faint calls to rise to your blood and find the girl.
He shuddered as a wave of guilt and fear washed over him. The girl was dead. Or rather, the woman in his nightmare was. And he couldn’t help feeling her death was his fault. The ashen fingers shivered ghostlike behind his closed eyelids. He rubbed the pendant and forced himself to breathe deeply until the fear and guilt eased. The pendant usually had that effect.
Kor cracked open his eyes and got to his feet. His head throbbed. He braced one hand against the wall and kneaded his aching temples with the other. A door banged open behind him and he spun, then groaned at the sudden movement. The millroom door, set in the wall between the hearth and Kor’s mattress, stood open. Chaff and grain dust wafted in through it.
“Headache?” Eliker asked, crossing to the table and shrugging a sack from his shoulders. It plopped to the ground with a puff of flour and he waved it away. Kor shrank in on himself as the noise set his head pounding harder. The miller chuckled. “Lumbmilk will do that to you.”
Kor’s gaze flicked up. “Eliker…” He let the word hang expectantly.
But the man just lifted his boot to a chair to inspect a tear near the sole. “Your friend left a little bit ago,” he said, changing the subject. “Left your knife. It’s on the table.”
Suspicion knotted Kor’s stomach and he turned, easing his way along the wall to the window at the foot of his mattress. He jerked back the curtain, and winced as light streamed in. Dropping the cloth, he threw up his hand against the rays and shot the miller a glare. “It’s morning,” he said.
Eliker slapped dust from his boot. “How much do you know about her? The girl, I mean.”
Kor clenched his teeth, struggling to remain calm. “Eliker.”
His friend dropped his boot to the floor and lifted the other to the chair. “We think she’s a charmer. Worth keeping tabs on.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Kor fairly growled the words as he felt his patience slipping.
“Full charmers are rare, you know,” Eliker said, casually brushing dust from his other boot. “So rare that family members and charmers themselves don’t always recognize the—”
Kor threw up his hands. “Eliker!”
“Eh?”
“It’s morning,” Kor said, still glaring.
The miller dropped his boot to the floor and pursed his lips. “I may have made the bitki a bit strong. Too many tilly herbs will put you to sleep,” he said, spinning the chair around so the back faced the table. “Did you know that?”
Kor hobbled over, muttering about fickle friends, and snatched his knife from the table. “Should have left hours ago.” He jammed the blade in his boot-sheath. “Why did I drink the bitki?”
“Ask your friend. She convinced you.” Eliker patted the chair. “Now, sit and let’s have a look at your back.”
As Kor opened his mouth to protest, Serah burst through the front door. She slammed it and shot the bolt home, then spun and leaned back against it, chest heaving, eyes wide.
The miller’s carefree tone turned serious. “What is it?” he asked, starting around the table toward her.
“Soldiers.” The word was a breathless whisper as she turned her gaze on Kor. “They know you’re here.”
Kor pivoted, eyes on Serah as she ran to the mattress. “Here? But how—”
“Not here-here. The village-here.” She dragged aside the mattress and braided rug beneath it, scooping away dirt until a row of wooden planks appeared.
Kor ran a hand through his hair and glanced anxiously at the front door. “Where are they now?”
Barely pausing in her speech, Serah began prying up the planks. “North end. I checked our jerky, then went to see Merva. She’s been sick and her husband’s still recovering from that broken leg.” Kor knew the chatter kept her calm. “The soldiers were at their door, looking for you. They’re searching all the huts.”
Eliker took another step toward her. “Did they see you?”
She shook her head and Kor scanned the cottage. The dirty bowls from the night before had been cleared away. There was nothing to indicate his presence except the ruined, but now clean, clothes drying beside the hearth. He rushed over and eased into the shirt and vest, buttoning the latter as he headed for the open wooden millroom door.
“What are you doing?” Serah sprang to her
feet and leapt in front of him.
When he tried to go around, she thrust out her hands and clutched the doorframe. He sighed. “I can’t stay, Serah. Not this time.”
“If you go, they’ll catch you.”
“They’ll do worse than that to you, if they find me here,” he said, trying to gently pry her away from the door.
She hung on and gave her father a beseeching look. “Papa—”
“You should hide until this passes,” Eliker said. “They’ll have men posted everywhere.”
It was a weak argument. These days, soldiers were usually posted everywhere. “I’ll avoid them as I have in the past,” Kor said.
The miller tried again. “Badgers only have five lives, Kor.” It was an old Nalkaran proverb. “Don’t push your luck.”
“This badger has six,” Kor said. “I’ll be fine.”
There was a brief silence, then Eliker waved his hand at the millroom door. “There’s grass by the millstone—take it.”
“Papa.” Serah clenched her fists in protest, but Kor laid a hand on her arm.
“It’s better this way,” he said, gently but firmly. “If they know I’m in the village, they’ll be more thorough in their search. I can’t risk them finding me here.”
Slowly, Serah’s shoulders slumped in defeat.
Kor pulled her in for a side hug, wincing as her arm pressed against his injured back. “You, Eliker, and Peter are as close to family as I’ve got. I could never forgive myself if…” He left the thought unfinished and squeezed her tighter, then extended his hand to the miller. “I’ll return the grass when this blows over.”
“Don’t bother.” They clasped forearms and Eliker gave his familiar farewell. “May fortune favor you, lad.”
Kor grinned. “Doesn’t it always?”
Then he was gone.
15
Grain dust tickled Kor’s nostrils as he passed through the millroom. He scrunched his nose to ward off a sneeze and tucked his pendant into the bandages around his chest. In the center of the room sat a grindstone wheel with metal bars jutting out on all sides. The dirt under and around the bars had been packed down in a wide circle from years of treading hooves and feet. A bundle of dried long grass leaned against the grindstone. Kor picked it up, slipped his arms through two loops in the rope that bound the grass together, and adjusted the bundle on his back. Then he slipped out the miller’s back door.
The one-way alley behind the mill was so narrow he could almost touch the millroom wall with one hand and the neighboring hut with his other. There were no obvious signs of soldiers beyond the alley so he hobbled out and started down the path toward the tavern. He preferred moving quickly in a cloak and shadows to the grass-carrying, shuffling villager disguise. But his cloak was back at the hut and he wasn’t sure how fast he could go with his injuries. Besides, the bundle of grass would help him cross the shadowless open field between the village and forest without drawing too much attention.
Just before reaching the tavern, he veered right and cut through the huts. At the southwest edge of the village, he could see the tavern stables and the forest beyond. He leaned his shoulder against a wall to rest. The field between the stables and the forest was nearly empty except for three straggling, emaciated goats. Few villagers gathered or trapped in this field, and those who did were not out at the moment. Most villagers used the western fields closer to the coast. The land was not much better, but their livestock grazed more easily there than in the fields under the shadow of the forest.
While he rested, Kor scanned the forest border. The soldiers would be watching the trees directly east of the tavern where he usually entered and exited the forest, but he didn’t think they would be watching farther south as intently. Drawing a deep breath, he started out, angling southeast toward the borwoods in a meandering line. Once he reached the Timberland, he could double back along the river to retrieve his pack.
He hunched forward, shuffling and doing his utmost to look like just another downtrodden villager. In truth, he felt better and stronger than he knew he should—still weak, tired, and aching, but definitely stronger than the night before. More often than not, he ended up having more stamina than seemed natural for situations, particularly when he was injured. His hand found the pendant’s bulge beneath the bandages as its steady buzz of strength bolstered him.
From time to time, he stopped to pluck the long grass and what was left of the season’s dandyweeds. Villagers often gathered the long grass to dry for thatching. And dandyweeds were picked to supplement meals when they could be found. So foraging was not an unusual sight.
Kor dropped to one knee in a patch of dandyweeds, wincing as the motion aggravated his back. With a casual glance around, he plucked several of the lemon-petaled flower weeds. He pretended to scan the field for more while keeping a sharp eye on the ferns in front of the forest. A glint from the Timberland’s border trees caught his eye farther south than he had expected and he tensed as he made out the source. A sword poked out behind a tree.
Hiding behind the border trees now, eh? Despite the circumstances, Kor felt impressed. He stuffed the dandyweeds into his belt and held the long grass in his hands. He had expected the soldiers to conceal themselves in the ferns growing just outside the forest, but not behind the trees themselves. These were bold men indeed.
He shuffled across the field, making his way from dandyweed patch to dandyweed patch. Running now would alert the soldiers and minimize his chances of escape. Better to wait until he was closer to the forest. All the same, he slipped one arm out of its carrier strap. If the need arose, he could drop the bundle and run. Guilt needled him at the prospect of wasting it. Eliker and Serah had probably intended to use it to replace thatching on their roof and restuff their mattresses.
After he’d gone only a few paces more, a shout rent the air. The soldier Kor had seen hiding in the trees sprinted toward him. He was brandishing a curved sword, hooked at the end to resemble a hawk’s beak.
Vahindan mercenary. Kor dropped the gathered grass and the bundle on his back, and ran.
Soldiers spilled from the trees with blood-curdling screams, all carrying the beak-like hakuma blades characteristic of Vahindan mercenaries. Suddenly Kor understood their boldness in hiding behind the border trees. Vahindan warriors were noted for their fearlessness, strength, and resilience. They went places most never dared venture. Kor and Peter’s Vahindan friends were among the bravest men they knew. But their kuvvet, their honor, was unmarred with acts of horror. Kor did not believe the same of these or any of the other mercenaries in the king’s army. Mercenaries who, in his opinion, were some of the vilest, most dishonorable scum in all Caderia.
They were closing in from the north behind, trying to cut him off before he could reach the borwoods. The pounding of hooves sounded behind him in swift pursuit. Kor focused his energy on one last burst of speed. If he could make it to the trees and past the river, he would be safe. Even Vahindan mercenaries knew better than to pursue beyond the river.
Kor was almost to the trees when two round weights knocked against him, tangling his legs in rope. He fell and slid, tasting grass and blood. Quickly rocking back into a sitting position, he tore at the rope. Two heavy balls were attached to either end of it, making it harder to extract himself. The whinny of horses and stamping hooves sounded behind him as the pursuing riders fanned out. The mercenaries on foot ran straight toward him. Kor reached for the dagger sheathed in his boot just as a cold, steely point pricked the back of his neck.
“I wouldn’t bother,” said a silky tenor voice. “Hands up where I can see them.”
16
“Martt.” Kor gritted his teeth, hand hovering near his boot.
The king’s commander prodded Kor in the back with his sword. “Hands up,” he said again.
Kor flinched then complied, slowly raising his hands to his head. He watched as the other mercenaries raced toward him. Silk and leather sash-belts trailed out from their waists like tails.
Their black jackets all bore the emblem of the king: an image of a white hawk over the left breast.
As they approached, Martt rode around Kor, sword pointed at the youth, and put himself between him and the forest. He jerked his chin at Kor as the other men drew near. “Search him.”
The foot soldiers seized the forester, yanking him to his feet and patting him down. A Vahindan with scars covering his face and tattoos showing under the ends of his sleeves dug the knife from the sheath in Kor’s boot. He handed it to Martt as the commander dismounted. Martt slipped it into his white sash-belt then sheathed his own sword.
“This is a memorable day,” he said, standing before Kor. “Two of the kingdom’s most wanted outlaws, caught in one morning.”
Kor locked eyes with Martt in a fierce glare. This was not the first time he had endured the man’s presence, or his lies. The commander was a lanky, sinewy man with sharp, angular features. A hawk nose gave his narrow face an austere, authoritative look. Below his left eye, a scar marked the hollow cheek. It was unnaturally pale against the sun-browned skin. The commander rested his hand on the pommel of his sword and watched the mercenaries untangle the rope and balls from Kor’s legs. “My men caught Peter a little bit ago, just east of the village.”
“You’re lying,” Kor said, his voice stiff and low.
Martt tilted his head. “Am I?” His mouth slid up in an amused grin. “Feisty fellow, your friend. I was told he put up quite a fight before my men beat it out of him.”
Without warning, Kor broke free of the mercenaries holding him and lunged at Martt. He clipped him on the chin and the two tumbled to the ground. Before Kor could get in another punch, the scarfaced mercenary dragged him off Martt and threw him to the ground. The other mercenaries closed in, kicking the breath from him.
At last Martt intervened. “That’s enough.” He was on his feet again. A lock of black hair had fallen into his eyes and his gaze was hard, unsympathetic. “Bind him.”