Badgerblood: Awakening Page 11

  The mercenaries tied Kor’s hands in front and pulled him up on his knees. Kor didn’t resist. He couldn’t. Breathing was hard enough. Every ragged gasp was a torturous effort and he couldn’t tell where his old aches ended and the new ones began. But the pendant kept the spark of strength and resistance within him flickering.

  For a brief moment, Martt studied Kor, then drew his sword. Kor jerked as the blade swung down at his front, but the mercenaries held him steady. His shirt and vest sliced open, wooden vest buttons clattering to the ground.

  “You’ve been in more than one fight recently, so it seems,” Martt said, eyeing Kor’s bandages. He spotted the pendant poking out of them and plucked it free with the tip of his sword. As the commander leaned down for a closer look, Kor twisted away.

  “Rimak,” Martt said, looking to the scarfaced mercenary.

  Rimak kneed Kor in the back and the forester went limp. Tears welled in his eyes. Gripping Kor by the hair, the scarfaced mercenary yanked his head back and slipped a curved dagger under his chin. Kor drew a frayed breath and moaned. Every inch of him was aflame with agony. The stinging prickle racked his pores again, just like in his fight dreams. Fuzzy black lines quivered in his blurred vision.

  Martt leaned forward to study the carving on the pendant, his dark eyes reflecting ivory bone. They narrowed as his gaze flicked to Kor’s neck. “How did you get that scar?” There was surprise in the demanding tone.

  At first, Kor did not reply. Rimak pressed the dagger against his neck harder. “Answer the commander,” he said in a gravelly bass. The punched syllables and clipped, fluttered Rs of his Vahindan accent were strong, but not overpowering. The stench of rotting meat hung on his breath. With the smell came fear. It battered mercilessly at the strips of strength Kor clung to in his pendant.

  “I—don’t remember,” Kor said, unable to keep his voice from wavering.

  Martt stepped back, nodding at the scarfaced mercenary. Rimak let go and Kor collapsed.

  “And the pendant?” Martt asked. “Where did you get that?”

  As Rimak’s breath cleared from his nostrils, Kor felt his fear dissipate and a little of his defiance and strength returning. He pushed himself up with bound hands and glared at the commander. A bruise was forming on the man’s chin where Kor had struck him. At the sight, Kor felt a surge of satisfaction and the corner of his mouth twitched in a sneer. “I don’t remember.”

  “Pity. It would go easier for you if you did.” Martt tipped his head to one side and brushed the flaps of Kor’s vest and shirt with his sword. “Bit too tidy a job for you, isn’t it?” he said, appearing to admire the neatly wound bandages. “Looks like a woman’s touch.”

  Kor stared straight ahead, refusing to speak, but his frame stiffened.

  The commander seemed to notice. “You know the penalty for aiding criminals.” Planting his sword in the ground, he leaned against it. “Frankly, I’m surprised you came into the village at all.”

  Silence.

  “Give me a name and I may be able to convince the king to waive the penalty for your friends,” Martt said.

  Death, thought Kor. The penalty is death. That or the mines. There was hardly a difference. And the king could be talked out of neither. Not for their friends and certainly not for Peter and Kor. He lifted his chin and met Martt’s gaze with an impassive stare.

  Martt sucked in briefly, then said, “I suppose the fairies bandaged you up, then?”

  A sarcastic half grin twisted Kor’s mouth. “Who else?”

  Snorting softly, Martt sheathed his sword. “I’ll give you one last chance—speak now and your village fairy friends will be spared.”

  Kor held his peace.

  “Very well—if that is your answer,” Martt said, turning to mount his steed. He settled into the saddle and directed an order at the scarfaced mercenary. “Give me the pendant and bring the prisoner. Perhaps his presence will convince his friends to confess. And if not? Well…” He smiled unpleasantly down at Kor. “The king will want a word with our murderer anyway.”

  As the mercenaries reached for the pendant, Kor swung his bound fists like a club, resisting until Rimak kicked him in the stomach. The forester crumpled to the ground and the pendant was ripped from him. With its absence, every ache in his body doubled in intensity, and what strength he had left seemed to crumble at the edges. Only a weak, pulsing beat of resistance remained. The prickling in his skin returned with a vengeance and his pores felt raw with it.

  Groaning pitifully, Kor reached toward the pendant as Martt leaned down from his horse to take it from Rimak. The humble accessory was Kor’s only link to the past. It grounded him to reality, offering fortitude and comfort whenever the nightmares and fight dreams terrorized him. Without it, he knew from experience that the guilt and fear surrounding the dream-woman’s death would feel stronger, more real, and nearly overwhelming.

  “Give it back.” He forced the words out between labored breaths. “Please.”

  Martt ignored him and pocketed the pendant. Then he nodded at Rimak and rode back to the village. Kor shouted pleas, then insults after the commander until Rimak gagged him and took his boots. Escape would be harder to manage in bare feet. The mercenaries dragged Kor back to the village and continued their search for his accomplices.

  They started at the tavern, skimming through it, barely disrupting the place. The rest of the huts, they ravaged. When they finally barged into the mill, they repeated their declaration that Kor was a criminal. Those who confessed to aiding him would be treated with mercy. Any who did not and were found guilty of helping him would be punished with death. They dropped Kor to the floor and kicked him around, likely expecting to draw confessions from Eliker and Serah with brutality.

  Through the ordeal, Rimak watched Kor and the McPhersons closely. Kor’s head swam and his entire body throbbed with the abuse. Eyes glazed over, he lay gazing up at Serah and Eliker. In all the other huts, he had stared at the villagers. He didn’t dare break the trend now for fear of causing suspicion.

  When no one confessed, the other mercenaries tore the home apart. They ripped the sheet-door from its holding and spilled water and porridge over the dirt-packed floor. Ash and sparks were scattered from the fire. The two mattresses were piled in a heap beside the overturned table. Straw padding littered the ground. By the time they finished, the hut was in shambles, though the hiding spot and planks in the dirt where the hearth mattress had been remained undiscovered.

  The mercenaries ransacked every hut in the same fashion as they worked their way to the north side of the village. When it was over, they attached a rope to Kor’s wrist bindings and tied it to a horse. Then, as was the custom with criminals, they led Kor south through the village toward the tavern, and worked their way back to the northern end of the village again.

  Kor stumbled and fell, struggling to keep pace with the horse. Villagers stood in their doorways. The adults watched impassively as he was paraded past. Any display of emotion could condemn them. The younger children, however, buried their heads in their mothers’ skirts. Too many of late had witnessed their own kin marched away in the same fashion—most had never returned.

  By the time they reached the village outskirts on the north, Kor could no longer keep his footing and was being dragged behind the horse. Martt rejoined the procession there, and ordered Kor to be placed on a steed.

  Too exhausted to move, Kor lay bleeding into the dirt. He was covered in bruises and cuts. The knees of his pants were shredded and bloody. The bandages on his front were worn ragged and dirty, as were his vest and shirt. A pitiful mew of pain escaped him as the mercenaries dragged him over the back of a horse and tied him to it. Ropes cut into his back and the curve of the saddle dug into his ribs.

  As they began moving, Kor closed his eyes and tried to rest, but his head bobbed uncomfortably against the horse’s flank. It seemed ages before they finally entered Perabon’s castle grounds. Kor’s heart seemed to beat in time to the clopping of hooves
on cobblestone. He groaned and opened his eyes.

  They stopped beside a gray stone building adjacent to the castle. Soldiers, Perabon-born men judging by their gentler handling, pulled Kor from the horse and followed Martt into the building. Rimak was no longer in sight. Kor’s feet dragged behind him, thumping down a steep, dimly lit stairway. At its base, a hall opened into a square guardroom. Three guards sat sprawled around a table with their backs to the entrance. One had his muddy boots crossed and propped on the table. Another dealt out multi-shaped cards in preparation for a game of Shapes.

  Kor’s head was pounding, but he took stock of the room’s setup as best he could. The guard table was in the center of the room. A shabby desk nestled up against the right wall. The wall opposite the entrance had a wooden door with a peep grate at eye level, so the guards could see into the room beyond. In the wall to his left sat a solid metal door with sharp studs on the front and another peep grate. The entrance behind him seemed his only route to freedom. But he would wait to make his attempt when there were less soldiers.

  The guards scrambled to their feet when they noticed Martt. They straightened their uniforms, hastily tucking loose shirt ends into their pants and readjusting sash-belts. Then they slapped their right fists over their hearts in salute. Martt acknowledged them with a curt nod and waved a hand at Kor.

  “Prison cell for this one, McNeetch.”

  The man with the muddy boots flipped through a ring of keys on his belt as he showed the group to the wooden door. It creaked open, revealing cells of prisoners lining the chamber beyond. McNeetch led them in. Through the bars of each cell gate, Kor could see prisoners huddled together in the far corners, trembling. All except one man, who stood isolated in his own cell, gripping a vertical bar in his gate with one hand.

  His proud gaze followed McNeetch. “Another prisoner to add to the collection, eh, warden? Planning to starve him, too, or are you feeding him the special—maggot bread and stew?”

  McNeetch raised a threatening hand. “Shut yer maw. You got your just dues, he’ll get his.”

  The man’s sneer melted into a clenched-teeth frown. “Be it the king’s justice to starve a man when he’s already paid the price for his crime?” His tone was muted with barely suppressed anger.

  “If the man hasn’t learned his lesson, yes,” said McNeetch.

  He fell silent as Martt turned to the prisoner. The prisoner raised his chin and brought his other hand up alongside the first. It was covered with red, blistering marks. LD—the king’s brand.

  “Have the prisoners been fed?” Martt asked the question without taking his eyes off the branded man.

  “All but the one, sir,” McNeetch said, nodding at the prisoner. “Kept yammering on about how bad the food tastes. Thought he would stop if he didn’t get any. Lucky clod’s going free tomorrow, anyway.” He glared at the prisoner. “He can find his own grub then.”

  “When we’re done here, feed him,” Martt said, looking at McNeetch.

  All eyes turned on Martt as the prison chamber fell silent. The warden gaped.

  After a moment, Martt cocked an eyebrow. “Well?”

  McNeetch stammered his compliance then led the group to the end of the room. The last cell was empty. The soldiers dragged Kor in and lowered him to the ground. They removed his gag and, at Martt’s command, took the dandyweeds from his belt. Kor lay on his side, watching as the cell gate clanged shut and Martt, McNeetch, and the soldiers disappeared from view.

  When the door to the prison room slammed closed, Kor pushed himself up on his hands and glanced around, shivering. His cell was identical to the others. Three stone walls and the cell gate shut him in. A chamberpot sat in one corner and a pile of straw lay in the other. Kor dragged himself toward the latter and flopped down in it. There was hardly enough to provide decent padding, but he didn’t care. As he closed his eyes, a stillness settled over the prison. Kor recognized it. It was the silence of sorrow and broken dreams, a silence heavy with fear.

  17

  Kor reached for the bone pendant as he woke, but his trembling fingers clutched only shredded vest. The pendant was gone. He curled into a ball in the straw.

  The nightmare often left him drenched in sweat and shaking; now the pendant wasn’t there to help soothe him. He ground his teeth. Time and again, he had tried to set this fear aside as he often did when faced with danger in the forest, but this fear was different. Instead of coming from a tangible threat, it seemed to come from deep within, like some terrible forgotten fragment of his past. Guilt racked him at the dream-woman’s death.

  “It was a dream, just a dream.” Kor closed his eyes against the images still hanging in his vision—against her ashen fingers reaching to caress his face, the bloodstained pendant, and her fading plea—

  Remember your blood, remember me. The echo in Kor’s mind shifted to a hissing snarl. You. You did this. She perished because of you.

  A stabbing ache pricked Kor’s flesh and he felt an ancient stirring ripple through his bones, like dust being blown off an aged tome. More images sprang to his mind, images of sickness, suffering, and death, scenes of waste and destruction. The ashen fingers returned and the guilt and fear increased.

  Kor rolled to his knees, pressing his head into the straw and stone beneath, trying to banish the feelings. “I didn’t, I didn’t.”

  The woman’s gentle but urgent voice returned, combining the words from his fight dreams with those of the nightmare. The voices from the dreams were the same, but he felt somehow that the individuals were different.

  Rise, Kor. Remember your blood, remember me. The woman’s ghostly pale hand holding the bloodstained pendant reached out to caress his face. Find the girl. Charm will bring victory. The words from the dreams churned together and a third face flickered in his mind, then melted away again before he could fully see it. The last phrase and the strangeness of the new face cut through his fear.

  Charm will bring victory. The words reminded him of what Eliker had said: “We think she’s a charmer.” Len. Kor took deep breaths as he willed himself to think about her. Len is a charmer. It didn’t mean much to him beyond the sense that Eliker and Serah approved of her. After all, he barely knew the girl. But thinking about her distracted him from the fear and guilt. It was almost like having the pendant there, or Peter.

  At the thought of the woodsman, Kor’s heart sank again. As a young lad, Kor had often awoken from his nightmare, clutching his pendant and sobbing. Then Peter, with his tangled locks of black hair and full beard, would be at his side, consoling him with a tale.

  If he was captured because of me… “Stop,” Kor said fiercely, interrupting his own thoughts. “Peter can take care of himself; he’ll be fine…” He’ll be dead. The thoughts raged against each other.

  They were enemies, Peter and the king. Kor and the king, too. But Peter and the king’s rivalry went as far back as the woodsman’s days in the army. If he was caught, they would kill him. Peter, who for so long had denied the king’s law and refused to pay taxes. Peter, who had taken Kor in as a boy and nursed him back to health. Peter, who had taught him how to be a man. Peter, who would die because of Kor.

  Kor buried his hands in his hair, clutching his head to drive it all away. Upon entering the dreary prison chamber, he hadn’t seen Peter among the other captives. Still, it was likely the king had cells elsewhere. Kor groaned. “It’s just the nightmare, nothing more.”

  He hated the way the dream left him feeling as vulnerable and raw as the first night he’d had it in Peter’s hut. It was worse now without the pendant. He tried to block it out and recalled the illuminated tales from Peter’s book—The Scarlet Cloak, The Silver Rose, and The Badger, the Borlan, and Man. Everything Kor knew, he owed to Peter, but the stories offered something the woodsman could not—escape from the terrors that plagued his nights and escape from the fear of his forgotten past.

  Perhaps the key to it all lay in facing the nightmare and the dreams, accepting them, not running. Pe
ter had always said that—Maybe then you’ll remember. Isn’t that what you want?

  “No.” The response was barely a whisper. Kor had never known how to explain his fears of the matter to Peter. It was likely the perceptive woodsman already understood them. Kor muttered them aloud to no one in particular. “What if my past is as bad as my nightmares? Or worse?”

  Kor sat up and plucked a stalk from the pile under him. In the grime of the stone floor, he scratched a title: The Badger, the Borlan, and Man. The story was one of his favorites, second only to The Silver Rose. The old tales were originally Nalkaran, but had been part of Perabon culture for centuries. Reciting them usually eased him back to asleep again after the nightmare. As he recited, he drew. The pictures were poor imitations of the paintings in the books, but they served their purpose. They distracted him from the terror.

  The Borwood Timberland was a massive forest, sheltering creatures large and small, harboring light and darkness.

  A man and a woman roamed free in the trees. Their love, once separated by kin, was united by the heart of the forest. The heart gave each the gift to change form when it pleased them and the choice of what shape to take—woman chose badger, man chose borlan. Their new skins gave them strength to heal their own injuries, the potential to evade death.

  In addition, each was entrusted with the responsibility to balance the power of the forest’s heart, a power separate from their form-changing gifts. To the woman was given care of visions and dreams, light, and the healing of others. She could infuse spirit and light into creatures and plants.

  With his portion of the power, the man molded vessels for the spirits. He manipulated darkness to complement her light. He balanced the wisdom of her dreams and visions with nightmares of warning. And he purged the weak and old to make way for the new.

  From the outside, all seemed well; within, an evil spread. Before they were wed, the wife’s kinsmen had beaten and left her sweetheart for dead in the forest; this they did because his lineage was soiled, untrue. His mother and father were unknown and he had been raised in the forest by borlan.