Badgerblood: Awakening Read online

  For many years, the man’s anger for his wife’s kindred festered. He tried to bury it, but it seeped through his barricade and cankered his soul. As his forest power increased and his control over his shape-altering gift improved, he began to plot the kinsmen’s demise. He planned to seize control of the heart of the forest and rule creatures and men.

  His wife resisted his efforts, struggling to balance her portion of the power. Imbalance in their parts, overuse or overbearance by one or the other, could wreak havoc and destruction for all.

  Her light bound him to the forest. All attempts to break free failed. Eventually, she convinced him of his folly and he repented. Still, she did not lower her light and he remained confined to the trees. In spite of this, the man was content for a time. Harmony reigned and a boy was born, endowed with the same shape-changing gift as his parents. When the time came for the gift to manifest, he could choose between badger and borlan.

  Soon, old desires and passions worked their way back into the father’s heart. Darkness flourished. Once more he sought power and dominion, this time through his son. He hoped to mold the boy to his will, and influence him to choose borlan when his gift fully manifested. Then when the time was right, the son would oust the mother and obtain her portion of the forest’s power.

  Borlan would take the badger’s place. The son would release the light that restrained his father. At last the father would be free to dominate. And his wife’s kin would rue the day they cast him out…

  Kor continued drawing, losing himself in the tale until his head dropped to his chest and he slept.

  That evening, he awoke stretched on his side in the straw, his back to the drawings. The guards clanked metal pots with ladles and called out, informing the prisoners of meal time. Kor crawled to his cell door to watch through the bars. There were two empty bowls in his cell for food and water. He waited, licking parched, cracked lips, anticipating his ration.

  The guards ignored him.

  As the last echo of the closing prison door faded away, Kor crawled back to the pile of straw. He sucked on a stalk and slipped into another restless, nightmare-racked sleep.

  18

  Water dripped steadily in a corner of Peter’s stone cell. The sound hammered his splitting head and he flinched with every drop. After his fight with the mercenaries, subsequent capture, and beating, he was nothing more than a battered lump. He closed his eyes. The monotonous dripping persisted. Peter groaned and rolled over to face the wall, wishing, sourly, that he was dead. As he settled into the thin spread of straw beneath him, a damp, frigid cold seeped up through the prickly bedding and set his teeth chattering. The soldiers had stripped him of everything but pants and shirt. They’d even robbed him of his boots. Of course, that had been after he’d nearly managed to escape.

  He curled into a ball to conserve body heat and tried to sleep. He’d barely closed his eyes when a puff of air disturbed him. One eye cracked open. It was dark in the stone cell. There were no windows. Even the peephole in the door and the food slot afforded no light. But he glared at the nearly unseeable wall anyway, then shut his eyes again. Another whiff of air prodded his eyelids. He squeezed them shut tighter, muttering threats against the draft until its significance finally struck him. His eyes flew open and he waited hopefully until he felt it again. A faint wisp of breeze through the wall tickled his face. Peter bolted upright and groaned as every inch of him protested. For a moment, he sat hunched over, waiting for the pain to dissipate. Then, with bound hands, he probed the cracks in the wall.

  It had been so long since his term in the army that he’d nearly forgotten about the secret passages. The former king and queen had known about them. But they were dead now. They had informed Peter as a precaution, in case the soldiers needed them in an enemy attack. It seemed the new king had never been told, else he would never have locked Peter in a room with access to the passages. This section of the castle must have been converted into a prison after Leon came into power.

  After several long minutes of searching, Peter’s fingers brushed an indent in the wall. A tiny section as wide as his thumb gave way when he prodded it. As he withdrew his finger, the section popped out again. Excited, Peter jammed his thumb into the indent and rammed the wall with his shoulder. Nothing happened. He tried again. And again. And again.

  Shouting in frustration, he beat at the stone and sank down against it. He tried to think through the muddle in his mind. He had felt a breeze, and there were passages. But perhaps he’d assumed too much about Leon’s ignorance of them and the entrance here had been sealed up. Maybe this room had never been converted into a prison. Maybe it had only ever been a cell.

  Peter huddled down in his straw. It was a long while before the missing detail finally percolated his memory. Every entrance to the secret passageways contained two indents that had to be depressed simultaneously in order to open. The woodsman ran his fingers over and around the first indent, memorizing its location by feel. Then he searched for the second. It was two handspans above and left of the first. With the middle fingers of his hands, he could just barely reach both. The ropes dug into his wrists as he pushed in on the indents. He shoved the wall again as the indents slid in, but his fingers slipped with the violent movement and the wall remained unbreached.

  “Blast.” Peter flicked his fingers to rid them of cold cramps and stiffness before attempting another push. He was just trying again when he heard a jingle of keys. The section of wall budged an inch before Peter let go.

  “Didn’t have to check,” said a guard’s voice outside the door. “Heard him shouting and grumbling all the way back in the guard room. He’s not going anywhere.”

  Cursing himself for being so vocal in his efforts earlier, Peter scrambled to the corner of dripping water to draw attention and suspicion away from the wall. Because he had felt it move. Just in time, he cocked his head back to catch the dripping water and heard them check the peephole. It shut again and the door creaked open. Peter dropped his chin to see two men standing in the entry. The taller one was holding a torch. As the man strode into the cell, Peter squinted and raised his hands against the bright light.

  The guard who had spoken earlier followed, locking the door behind him. “Haven’t fed him anything yet, as per orders,” he said, standing beside the taller man.

  The torchbearer sank to a crouch before Peter. The woodsman recognized the scarred face and grease-spiked black hair as belonging to the Vahindan mercenary who had caught him. A sickening stench hung on the man’s breath. Fear clutched at Peter’s heart, but he resisted.

  The Vahindan studied Peter, then nodded and glanced around the cell. “It is a fitting tomb for one like you. You will not escape us here.”

  The man’s gaze rested on the section of wall with the shifted stone. Peter tensed. The shadows were deep and he doubted the mercenary could see the tiny fraction of an opening. Still, perhaps a distraction was in order.

  “Didn’t peg you as one to waste his kuvvet in the filth of a dungeon—honor, bravery, and wisdom, all soiled with the duties of a servant,” he said, trying an insult he’d learned from a Vahindan friend. He eyed the mercenary with disgust. “Then again, I don’t suppose you had any to begin with, kapka,” he said, and spat at the man.

  The distraction worked, a little too well. The mercenary’s gaze snapped back to Peter as spittle sprayed his front. The man’s eyes blazed and he brought the torch so close that Peter’s sideburns sizzled. Peter drew back as much as he could while up against the wall, tilting his head away from the flames. His heart pounded against his ribs.

  It was the ultimate insult to call a man kapka and spit. Every Vahindan household, rich or poor, used a kapka. They spit into the round clay basins—bones, juices, undesirable foods; even used it when they were ill. It was the pot that held impurities, the vessel of filth and waste. Kapka.

  Silence hung heavy in the room. The mercenary’s face was scarlet with rage. He thrust the torch out for the other guard to hold. The
n in two quick movements, he yanked Peter to his feet by the front of his shirt, and punched him in the gut. Peter sank to the stones, gasping.

  Overhead, the mercenary popped his knuckles. “You will die soon, old man. The boy will follow. But first, we see who is kapka.”

  19

  Kor shivered on his side in the straw, conserving what strength he had. The guards were making their mid-day rounds with food and water. He was just chewing another stalk, expecting them to skip him, when something metal rapped against the bars of his cell gate.

  “Got special orders for this one.”

  Kor glanced up. The warden stood in his muddy boots just outside his cell, holding up a key on a ring. Two other prison guards were with him.

  “Do we leave him bound, Joshua?” asked one.

  The warden raised an eyebrow and turned a supercilious glare on the man. “Nah, let’s cut him loose. We can throw petals as he runs by.” He elbowed the guard aside and jammed the key in the lock. “’Course we keep him bound, you blockhead. And don’t call me Joshua on duty. It’s McNeetch or warden.”

  Kor sat up.

  The guard who had asked the question turned red. “What I meant, cousin,” he said in a strained voice, “was do we cut the ropes off or leave ’em on since we’ll be cuffing him.” He jerked his chin at the manacles slung over his shoulder.

  Joshua McNeetch glared at him. “Cut the ropes,” he said in a patronizing tone, “and clap him in irons.”

  He yanked open the gate and shoved in the other two guards. Then he followed, leaving the keys hanging from the lock. Kor straightened. Before he could stop himself, he glanced at the open gate. Just as quickly, he looked down again and waited complacently for the guards to pull him to his feet. He was starving and ached all over, but he could stand on his own. An important factor, considering what he was about to do.

  The guard with the manacles slung over his shoulder stood before Kor while the other held their prisoner loosely by one arm. They didn’t seem to expect any resistance. After fumbling uselessly at the ropes on Kor’s wrists, the manacle-guard finally drew a knife to cut through them. The blade nicked Kor’s flesh. Kor flinched and the guard muttered an apology, then continued more carefully.

  These were village-folk-turned-soldiers, Kor realized, not bloodthirsty mercenaries. They served in the army in exchange for food and coppers for their families. Generally, they were less experienced and less hardened than the mercenaries. Escape might just be possible. And if he could escape, he could help Peter before it was too late. If Martt had been telling the truth and if Peter was truly captured.

  As the last of the rope fell away, Kor barrelled past the guards. He shot past the warden and slammed the gate shut. He locked it and leapt back with the ring of keys as the guards rushed forward and thrust their arms through the bars. A cry of excitement rose from the other prisoners as Kor dashed past. Under better circumstances, he would have tried to free them, too. No time for that now, he thought.

  Kor burst through the door to the prison chamber, noting with relief that the guardroom was empty. He locked the door and rested his forehead against the wood.

  The warden’s enraged voice rose above the cheering prisoners. “I know he’s got my keys, you idjit. Open the gate with yours.” Silence, then, “What do you mean you can’t find the extra set?”

  A smug grin touched Kor’s lips and he hung the keys on a peg near the door. He turned to leave, but a sharp metal point pinned him back. Wincing, he glanced up the blade to the lean figure of the man holding it: Martt Veen. The commander seemed unphased by the escape attempt. In fact, Kor thought he detected hints of an amused smirk on the man’s face.

  Several soldiers accompanied Martt, all holding spears leveled at Kor. Judging by the men’s brightly colored hair, they were mercenaries from Salkar—the dye capital of Caderia. Martt withdrew his sword a fraction to gesture at the iron-studded metal door in the adjacent wall—the next chamber.

  Kor held his ground against the unspoken order. His eyes went to the empty hallway behind the commander—his only means of escape. Martt seemed to notice. He waved to his men and the mercenaries closed in around Kor. They prodded him toward the metal door with their spears and a mercenary stepped up to take the keys from the peg where Kor had hung them. At the same moment, the guards Kor had locked in his cell burst through the door.

  “Give me those, you—” McNeetch snatched the spare set of keys from the guard holding the manacles. When he saw Martt, however, his threats died on his tongue. The warden’s face, already red with anger, flushed a deeper shade of crimson.

  “Manacles.” Martt’s quiet order cut through the silence like a knife.

  The warden’s cousin glanced uneasily at McNeetch. Then he slowly held out the shackles to the mercenary who had taken the keys from the peg.

  Kor’s wrists were fettered and the mercenaries prodded him toward the metal door. They stopped again as a messenger barged into the guardroom. The man saluted Martt with his right fist over his heart.

  “Yes, what is it?” the commander said, nodding impatiently.

  The man scanned the crowd in the guardroom, eyes lingering on Kor. “It’s a—private matter, sir.”

  “Very well,” Martt said, sighing heavily and stepping away from the others.

  The messenger leaned in to whisper in Martt’s ear.

  As he did so, the commander’s expression darkened and his gaze flicked briefly to Kor. “I expect a detailed report on the matter within the hour,” he said stiffly.

  “I’m sorry sir,” the messenger said. “The cell was secure. We’re not sure how he—”

  “That will be all, soldier,” Martt said, cutting him off with a warning glare and dismissing him.

  Peter… A wry grin spread over Kor’s face at the thought. “You don’t have him.” He watched Martt for a reaction, hoping his guess was correct. “Peter escaped.”

  Martt turned a cold, impassive stare on him. The silence said it all.

  Kor’s smile broadened.

  With a sharp tug at the bottom of his jacket, Martt turned to the mercenaries then gestured at the metal door. “Take him in.”

  McNeetch moved to unlock it with his spare set of keys, but the mercenary with the other set reached it before him. The warden hung back, face beet red.

  Once more, the mercenaries prodded their prisoner toward the open metal door. Through it, Kor could see chains and torches hanging from the walls of the chamber. In the center of the room, a potbellied grill squatted on bowed legs. Coals glowed through its grated walls, and a branding iron lay across the top. The branded prisoner’s arm flashed in Kor’s mind and he stiffened. The flat of a spear shaft sent him sprawling on the chamber floor.

  A knapsack of jerky and breadcrumbs dropped to the ground beside him. Kor heard the door clang shut. He groaned and pushed himself up on his hands, head drooping. Eyeing the food beside him, he felt his stomach cramp with hunger through the other aches.

  “It’s safe,” Martt said, gesturing at the food.

  Kor glowered up at the man. They were alone in the chamber. Martt was holding a waterskin. He uncorked it and lifted it to his lips. Its shoulder strap hung down his front. Kor thought he saw water dribble down the commander’s chin and licked his own dry lips. Martt offered the pouch to him, but Kor made no move to take it.

  Martt shrugged. “If you change your mind…” He left the invitation open, corking the pouch and setting it on the ground. Then untying the small bundle of food, he selected a strip of jerky. He tore off a bite and tossed the rest back on the knapsack. “Good,” he remarked after a moment of thoughtful chewing.

  At the sight of food and water, Kor licked his lips and felt his resistance crumbling. He swallowed, watched Martt chew, then looked at the knapsack and finally gave in. Bracing himself for some hidden torture, he nibbled a bite from the partially eaten strip of jerky. The meat was well seasoned, pleasant even. He nibbled again and his bites got bigger and more ravenous as
his confidence grew. When the last of the jerky was gone, he tried the breadcrumbs.

  The full pouch beside him caught his eye as he ate. Water. He was so thirsty. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked it up. The smell of wet leather filled his nostrils as he uncorked it—nothing unusual. Kor glanced up at Martt, but the man was studying the ribbed stitching along his glove’s forefinger. There was a damp spot of water on the man’s jacket front from his drink earlier. Kor tested the water. The taste of leather was almost metallic, and mingled with a rising spicy tingle in the back of his throat—the jerky’s aftertaste, it seemed. At least the drink was wet and cool. Kor threw back his head and drank deeply. When he finished, he scooped up the rest of the breadcrumbs to mellow the spicy heat still hanging in his throat.

  Martt stood a pace away, still studying his glove. “Don’t suppose there’s any point in asking where you got your scar? Or the pendant?” He didn’t bother looking up.

  “Already told you,” Kor said between mouthfuls. “Don’t remember.”

  “Yes.” Martt eyed him doubtfully over his glove. “And I suppose you still insist the fairies bandaged you up?”

  Kor gave him a flat smile. “Of course.”

  As he took another drink, the heat in his throat escalated to a burning. Tears pricked his eyes and he stared at the pouch with sudden suspicion. Blinking, he swallowed hard. The waterskin began to slip from his shaking hands and Martt plucked it from his fingers before it spilled. Kor blinked again, struggling to focus as his mind went fuzzy. He clutched his throat. It hurt to breathe. Why did it hurt to breathe?

  He clawed halfway up the coal grill before his brain finally registered the hot metal. With a grunt, he let go and swayed unsteadily on his feet, clutching his burned fingers to his chest.