Badgerblood: Awakening Read online

  The borlan circled to Kor’s left, eyeing its victim, savoring the kill. It was close. Close enough to make the throw. But on all fours, its broad head blocked its heart from view. Round eyes, deep pools of purplish-black, bored into Kor. For an instant, they looked both wise and ancient, tired and questioning. Then they were swallowed again in hatred.

  With one paw curled over its heart, the borlan rose on its hind legs. Kor gripped the arrows tighter still. If his knife throw failed, he could stab the borlan with the arrows, unless it finished him off first. The beast blasted Kor with a roar that rattled his bones. Hot, putrid breath made his stomach churn. The ground sagged under him as he took an involuntary step back. He froze. He was close to where his foot had punched through the earth earlier and been snared in the underground root nest. The ground sagged farther, but did not give way.

  The creature took another step, staggering as though trying to keep its balance. Again, Kor frowned in confusion. A few ill-placed arrows in a borlan might slow it down, but this was different. The beast’s eyes seemed glazed over. He raised his knife, steeling himself, preparing, as it lurched once more. And the paw over its heart dropped slightly.

  Kor threw.

  He had never excelled at knife throwing, the blade often landing just shy of the mark. This time, his aim was true.

  The borlan threw back its head in a death scream that shook the forest, swayed, and then collapsed. Kor leapt back. A spiderweb of cracks shot out from under the borlan and within seconds, the weakened forest floor gave way beneath Kor. Stars burst in his vision as he crashed through the earth to meet a tangle of roots and oblivion below.

  3

  Kor lay unconscious, wrapped in a dream until he blinked awake again. Splintered roots pressed into his cheek. His back felt raw. He huddled on his side, staring into twisted shadows, shivering, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The goosebumps on his skin gradually dissipated as the prickly sensation from his dream faded away. Needles—it always felt like needles pushing out through every pore whenever he dreamed of sprouting fur, whenever he dreamed of facing danger. This time it had been a borlan, bigger than any he had ever seen in the forest, mocking the size of the real beast he had just felled. And Kor had sprouted fur in his dream as he fought it.

  There was always a figure in these fight dreams, obscured by light. Though he could never see her face, Kor knew it was a woman. She spoke in vague, short phrases, and although faint and fading, her voice was clearly feminine. Rise. Rise to your blood. This time she had said more. Kor tried to remember—In the wake of despair, charm will bring victory. Find the girl.

  The woman always beckoned him before the danger in his dreams arrived. But Kor usually delayed his coming until it was too late. This time, he’d nearly lost the dream fight, just as he’d nearly lost the real encounter moments before. Something stirred deep in the marrow of his bones at the thought. He shuddered and clutched at his pendant. The strengthening tingle warded off the uneasy feelings and he put the dream aside.

  There was a wetness on his upturned cheek. He reached up to swipe it away and a glob of slime plopped in his hair and trickled down his temple. Again, he wiped at it. Strands of liquid clung to his hand and stretched out from his hair as he did so. With a groan, he pushed himself up on one elbow and cocked his head back to make out the source. Through his blurred vision he could make out only a dark shape. The effort made him dizzy and he sank back to the ground. Shadows swam around him. A headache pulsed at the base of his skull. He swiped yet again at the constantly dripping liquid from above and at last the shape overhead came into focus.

  The borlan was staring down at him, its mouth twisted in a snarl.

  Kor’s heart leapt into his throat. For an instant, he was frozen with terror, then he saw that it wasn’t moving. The borlan’s body lay suspended on the twisting roots above. All around it, light streamed in through chinks in the forest floor. Its head drooped over the hole where Kor lay and cold purplish-black eyes bored into him. From a jagged row of serrated fangs, saliva trickled down to collect in its chin hairs, matting them together in an evil little point. Around its nose, a dusting of tiny brown plumes nearly blended in with the chestnut fur.

  As his curiosity surfaced, Kor’s pounding heart eased back into a steady rhythm. Rising to examine the plumes, he stretched out a hand and brushed one with his finger. Feathered darts? A slim handle protruding from the borlan’s chest caught his eye through the roots holding up the creature. My knife. That took precedence.

  With a glance around, Kor gauged his surroundings, trying to determine how to reach his weapon. He had fallen into a root nest. These were formed by the older borwood trees. Borwoods were constantly putting out roots above and below ground. Over time, the older roots weakened, and the roots above ground became covered in thin layers of moss and dirt. These hidden spots of old roots were dangerously unstable and prone to collapsing. And covered with debris, the root nests were difficult to spot on the surface.

  Kor’s hole was wider at the bottom than the top. Some large animal had likely used this particular root nest as a burrow at one point. The layer of roots holding up the borlan was thin, but holding. Several gaps in the frayed roots were wide enough to put his hand through and grab his knife. As he reached in, the leather archer tab on his right fingers caught on the roots. Withdrawing, he removed the leather strip and tucked it in a pouch on his belt. The archer tab protected his middle and forefinger from the constant draw on the bow, and he didn’t want to lose it.

  Pushing at his right sleeve—more out of habit than anything as it was already rolled up—he squeezed his right arm into the roots again. They clawed at his skin, creaking and groaning as he reached upward. With a nervous glance at the gaping roots holding up the borlan, Kor stretched his hand farther still. At last, his fingers brushed the rigid wrinkles and sparse, coarse hair of the borlan’s leathery chest, then caught his blade. Tyrian liquid seeped from the borlan’s wound as he pulled and the leather-wrapped knife hilt grew slick with its rich reddish-purple blood.

  The beast’s putrid body odor made Kor’s stomach churn. Bile rose in the back of his throat. Swallowing it back, he gripped the handle more firmly and pulled all the harder. With a sickening snick, the knife finally slid free. Before the stench in his nostrils could incite more than gagging, Kor pulled his arm from the gap.

  At least it’s dead, he thought, crouching to wipe the blood from his hand and blade.

  “You’re alive!”

  Startled, Kor sprang up at the voice and cracked his skull on an overhanging root. Clutching his head, he sank down, groaning.

  The voice sucked in a sympathetic breath. “Ooh—Sorry.”

  Kor looked up through tear-blurred vision. Nothing. He turned in a crouch and behind him, kneeling at the edge of the hole, was a figure. A girl. The one from the tree. Loose, auburn curls framed her face. Sticks and leaves protruded from her hair at odd angles. And a pair of bright amber eyes shone down at him intently. Kor stared and found himself being drawn in by the golden irises.

  “You’re a bit the worse for wear, eh,” the girl said, sticking a gloved hand into the hole to help him up.

  A little disconcerted, Kor blinked and shook himself. He reached for her hand, and stopped. There was a tear in the forefinger of her glove. Through it gleamed a shiny yellow band.

  Gold. He found a root instead, and dragged himself out of the hole on his own. “Who are you?” he said tensely, scanning the trees around her.

  The girl’s fingers curled into a fist as she dropped her hand and stood. She glanced at the knife he was holding. “I’m—from the village.”

  Kor raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t smiling. As he surveyed her, she stiffened and glanced away. The sleeveless V-neck tunic fit well over her torso and thighs. The sides were sewn together with crisscrossing leather straps that ended mid-thigh. After that, the tunic flapped around her knees, allowing her legs more freedom of movement. Thick, faded forest-green leggings covered
her legs and fitted leather boots came up to her calves. The three-quarter sleeves of a shabby undergarment covered most of her arms.

  It was common enough apparel for a villager, but her bearing bespoke the ease and comfort of a noblewoman, not the hardship endured by most villagers Kor knew. Besides that, the fair, coral-tinged skin showing between sleeve and glove appeared smooth and unblemished. Freckled perhaps, but certainly not worn and weathered. She had likely never worked a day of manual labor in her life.

  With a nervous glance his way, she fingered the silky braided belt around her waist. “I suppose I should thank you for saving my life.” She sounded unsure.

  Kor didn’t respond. He was only half listening, eyeing her belt—most likely the sling she had used for the fruit. It was far too dainty for a village woman. Most used old scraps of cloth or leather for their belts. This one, though dirty and stained, looked like it came from a noblewoman’s wardrobe. A marvel it doubled as a sling at all, he thought.

  The girl was still talking. “—out along the forest border, looking for a flower, and I thought I saw it in the forest. It’s very rare, you see—” Her fingers moved to the unsheathed, polished dagger in her belt. A square of leather covered the knobby end. The grip was wrapped with leather strips.

  A glittering between the strips caught Kor’s eye. He stared. First gold, now gemstones? No villager Kor knew had jewels. Most would never have set foot in the forest in the first place.

  “—stories were exaggerated,” the girl said. “I never intended to come this far, but—”

  Once more, Kor scanned the trees. Gold and jewels usually meant wealth and power, power to arrest any who broke the law. Generally, he avoided such individuals as he was currently wanted for evading taxes.

  Well, that and murder.

  The girl gestured at the borlan. “—then that thing came out of nowhere and attacked us—”

  “Us?” Adrenaline surged through Kor. Hunching his shoulders, he started toward her with his knife. “What do you mean us? Who else is with you? What are you doing here?” He fired the questions at her and ended in a warning tone. “Tell me.”

  The girl snatched the dagger from her belt and backed away. “I would if I could get a word in edgewise,” she said, leveling her blade at him. “I came in with my horse.”

  “Where is it now? With your friends?”

  “It’s dead. That beast tore it apart.”

  That beast…she meant the borlan.

  “There was no one else. Just me,” she added. “But if you think—”

  Kor cut her off. “You’re no villager.”

  Though he was a good head taller, she lifted her chin, trying to glare down her nose at him. “I never said I was. I only said I was from the village.” She stumbled back against a tree.

  “And you came into the forest—alone—in search of a flower?” Kor narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

  She nodded. Her dagger hand was trembling and her chest rose and fell in rapid breaths.

  Fear…good. People slipped and told truths when they were frightened. “And your ring, your jeweled dagger—they came from the village, too?” Kor asked, knowing full well the villagers couldn’t afford to wear such trinkets. The king’s men exacted more taxes from those who did. Her eyes flicked to her dagger hand with the tear in the glove and Kor stepped closer.

  “Stay back,” she said, swinging her dagger at him.

  Kor caught her wrist. Before he could twist the blade from her grasp, she punched him with her other hand. Stunned, he let go and staggered back. He brushed his nose with a thumb and glanced down. There was blood on his hand. The pain of his other injuries rushed back with the throbbing in his nose, pricking his skin like the pain in his fight dreams.

  The tingle came from his pendant. His hand went briefly to the bulge under his shirt where it lay concealed. The sensation was constant and dim, like a flickering candle. Whenever he wore the bone piece, he felt it. It offered a smidge more strength, comfort, and relief in his injuries and from his nightmares. But the feeling was always muted, incomplete, like a wide riverbed with only a trickle of river. He clung fiercely to the tingle anyway as he always had, using the strength and comfort from it to push back against the pain. There would be time enough to tend to his injuries once he removed this new and therefore potentially dangerous unknown. He glanced at the girl. She was talking. Again.

  “If you think you can take advantage of me…” She had slipped away from the tree and stood several paces away now. “Is that what you do?” she demanded, flexing and shaking her punching hand as though it hurt. “Rescue lost women in the forest just so you can harass them and steal their belongings?”

  “Women don’t usually wander into this forest,” Kor said, sniffing and wiping blood from his nose with the back of his hand. He winced. It stung.

  “That’s no excuse.” She was seething.

  Kor took a step toward her.

  “Stop,” she said, jabbing her dagger with the word. “Take one more step, you—you pirating, forest hermit, and I’ll—” There was a rustle in the ferns and she spun to face the sound. “What’s that?”

  So she’s not expecting anyone, Kor thought, turning with her. A badger emerged from the ferns and the tension melted from Kor. “Spart. You’re alright.” The badger’s round ears twitched at his name and he padded toward the girl. “Good boy, Spart.” Kor pointed his knife at the lady. “Guard her. I’m going to take a look around. We may have company.”

  The girl furrowed her brow, but her expression softened as the badger came closer. There was awe in the look. Kor backed away, studying her. She was short and petite, certainly not the soldier type. But if there were guards or soldiers with her, he wouldn’t be able to fend them all off—not if they ambushed him. Not with his injuries. He shook his head, dismissing the thought. Most people didn’t come this far into the forest.

  Except, of course, the woodsman and Kor.

  Only one Perabon-born soldier had ever dared pursue them past the forest border river. And he was dead.

  Still, the girl was here, unharmed.

  Kor worked his way around the fight scene, searching for tracks, keeping an eye on the trees. Spart could hold the girl until he returned, and ward off any other creatures that might come prowling.

  The badger was a tenacious fighter. He could often sense danger and didn’t take to strangers. Kor had trained Spart himself, though the animal seemed to understand commands even without instruction. A useful companion in such a forest as this. But Spart had a stubborn streak and tended to wander off for long periods of time, as he had done today before the borlan fight. The badger generally followed through on direct commands, however, and usually returned when there was trouble.

  A wide section of trampled ferns in the undergrowth caught Kor’s eye and he paused. The trail appeared to lead back toward the forest border. He followed it cautiously. A rod’s distance into the flattened foliage, he found the remains of a horse, and a tattered, green cloak.

  4

  Allinor sat facing the borlan, her back against a borwood tree. With gloved fingers, she combed the last of the sticks and leaves from her hair, her mind on the man. “Unsavory clot,” she said under her breath. Lifting her hand, she inspected the tear in her right glove’s forefinger. Her ring glinted through it. First the tavern man, now this old forest hermit. Although really the forester only appeared to be a couple years older than her. Twenty, perhaps? Anyway, she’d had enough of thieving ruffians going after her ring for one day, whatever their age.

  She tugged at each glove-finger, working off the gloves as she watched the badger. He was bolting down carrot pieces. Right after the man had disappeared into the trees, she had sprinkled the ground with them.

  “Shame on you, keeping company with a pirate like him,” she said. She slapped her gloves down on the ground. “I thought badgers were smarter than that.”

  In response, the creature twitched its stubby tail indignantly and grunted.


  “This is only the second time I’ve seen a badger,” Allinor continued, sliding the ring from her right forefinger and popping it on her left. “If you’re not careful, you’ll give them all a bad name.” She yanked the gloves back on and picked up the dagger on her lap. The square over the pommel was slipping to one side and the strips around the hilt were loose. She straightened the square and rewrapped the strips so the gems in the handle no longer peeked through. Again, her eyes strayed to the badger. With every piece he ate, he drew closer.

  The only other time she had seen a badger had been in her own country to the south. But she’d heard many of the north country’s tales of them. Badgers in those Nalkaran legends were mysterious and powerful, and a thrill of excitement went through her at seeing one again.

  The badger was close enough to touch now. Her fingers twitched at the opportunity, but she held back and tossed him more carrots from a pouch on her belt instead.

  After the man had killed the beast, she’d discovered the badger’s affinity for the vegetable. As she’d hurried to see if the man was still alive—“I shouldn’t have bothered,” she muttered—the badger had stopped her in her tracks, hackles raised and growling. It was then that she had tried to appease him with one of the only snacks she had left: a carrot piece. That usually worked on animals back home. The badger had practically inhaled it, then stood staring up at her as though demanding more. She’d given him several before finally working her way around him to check on the man in the hole. After that, the badger had wandered off.

  Allinor glanced around. A pack lay in the ferns near the tree where she sat. The man’s, she assumed. Curious, she moved to inspect it. The badger let out a series of growling grunts and she stopped. They sounded more habitual than threatening. Still she couldn’t be sure.