Badgerblood: Awakening Read online

  “Easy now…Spart, is it?” she said, settling back to her cross-legged position and giving up on the pack. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Soon the badger quieted and returned to eating. She watched, fascinated, as he came close again. This time, she reached into the snack pouch on her belt and cautiously held out a carrot piece. The badger cocked his head at her hand, then dropped his gaze to the dagger in her lap.

  Allinor picked up the blade. “This bothering you?” Spart watched attentively as she set the dagger aside, still within arm’s reach, and held out the food again. Apparently satisfied, Spart approached. Allinor bit her lip. She leaned forward as his moist black nose searched her hand. “Good boy, Spart, good boy,” she said almost breathlessly as he nipped the food from her palm.

  When it was gone, he snuffled his way up her arm looking for more. Allinor held her breath and slowly reached out to tickle his thick, coarse fur. A thrill went through her at the touch. The badger didn’t seem to mind the attention. After a moment, he stopped snuffling and stared expectantly at the pouch on her belt.

  “Spart.” The man’s voice cracked like a whip from the trees.

  Immediately, Spart leapt back from Allinor and turned, almost guiltily, toward the voice. Round ears flattened to either side of his skull as his head drooped.

  Allinor snatched up her dagger and sprang to her feet. The man who had killed the beast stood leaning one arm against a tree, knife in hand, glaring at the badger. His chest rose and fell laboriously as he hunched forward. In his other fist, he clutched a tattered green cloth.

  “I see you found my cloak,” Allinor said. She kept her voice sweet but with a sharp edge, like honey swarming with bees. “Did you want to take that too, or may I have it back?”

  “What, this?” The man pushed off the tree and tossed the cloak toward her. It fluttered down over a large fern. “There’s hardly anything left.”

  Keeping her dagger leveled at the man, Allinor made her way toward the cloak. Spart followed.

  Lying in the flattened foliage to her right was an empty quiver and a mound of broken arrow shafts. The man trudged toward them. Blood stained the back of his shredded shirt and staghide vest. At the sight, Allinor felt a spark of concern, then buried it. After all, he’d saved her life only to threaten her again.

  He glanced at the badger and frowned. “Spart, seek man.”

  At the command, the badger’s ears flicked up. He looked at the forester, then rubbed against Allinor’s leg, and was gone. Allinor’s eyebrows shot up. To her satisfaction, the man looked just as surprised as she felt.

  “Spart seems to trust you,” he said, sinking into a crouch beside his quiver.

  Allinor sniffed, but otherwise remained silent.

  He slid his knife into his boot. “Saw your horse. Rather, what was left of it,” he said, gathering broken arrow shafts and dropping them one by one into his quiver. “Mind telling me how you escaped and it didn’t?”

  Allinor shook the dirt and leaves from her cloak. Three quarters of the bottom had been torn away—the beast’s doing. “My cloak was loose. It slipped off and flew into the beast’s face while I was trying to get away. Then my horse threw me.” She listed the course of events without looking at the man. “The beast was so preoccupied with getting the cloak off and attacking my steed that I had time to run and climb a tree,” she said, tucking the cloak under one arm.

  “Borlan.”

  The corners of Allinor’s lips turned down in a frown as she twisted to look at him. “Excuse me?”

  The man gestured at the dead beast. “It’s called a borlan.” When she didn’t respond, he raised an eyebrow. “Demons of the Borwood Timberland…?”

  Allinor glanced at the dead creature. So that’s a burrlan. “Yes,” she said, as confidently as she could.

  She had grown up on stories of these beasts and this forest. The same forest stretched south into her land, forming its eastern border. But it was so far from the coast where Allinor lived that she hardly saw it except when visiting Perabon. Before now, she had never seen a real borlan, and the pictures in her books romanticized them. They were far more gruesome in person. She shuddered and noticed the man was still watching her.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you’re really doing here and where you’re really from,” he said.

  “I told you, I’m—”

  “And don’t say ‘the village,’” he said wearily, stuffing the last broken arrow shaft into his quiver and rising. After a glance around at the forest floor, he picked his way through the ferns. He pushed aside fern leaves with his quiver and foot, searching the ground. “I’ve spent years in this forest, and the village. I know the people there and you”—he looked at her—“are not one of them. None of the village girls are quite as charming as you.” He flashed her a flat smile.

  She met it with a look of steel. “Tell me,” she said, “do you seek out girls to torment, or do they seek you?”

  “The latter,” he said mildly, turning back to search the ferns. “There’s usually a line of them, but it’s never so long that they end up in the forest.” He gave her a pointed look. There was a hint of a grin in it.

  Allinor huffed in annoyance and set her mouth in a line. She shoved her dagger in her belt and yanked open a pouch at her side. From it, she drew a tattered, folded piece of parchment and a flower. Petals poofed from the pouch after them and fluttered to the ground. A narrow wooden tube nearly followed, but she pushed it back.

  With the flower head held in her palm, its green stem hung down between her fingers like a bent tail. Layers of velvety, star-tipped petals fanned out around the golden, pollen-filled center, growing smaller and smaller with each layer in. Several were missing, but those left still sparkled an ethereal blue.

  With her other hand, Allinor shook out the parchment. The faded watercolor on it matched the flower right down to the shimmering blue petals. It was labeled simply star of Perabon. As she spoke, she held it up.

  “I collect flowers. As I told you before, I came into the forest because I thought I saw this one”—she glared, rustling the parchment at him—“just beyond the river. I was mistaken. It seemed safe enough, so I kept going and found more farther in. I plucked one and then the burrlan—”

  “Bor-lan,” the man corrected absently, glancing at the painting, then turning back to the ferns. He frowned as he picked up a curved piece of wood. Dangling below it, connected by a string, was another bowed stick. He put the splintered ends together experimentally, sighed, and tucked the pieces into his quiver—a broken bow.

  “—came at us,” Allinor continued through clenched teeth, not bothering to repeat the name of the beast. She’d always pronounced it burr-lan.

  The irritation in her tone seemed to go unnoticed. Or ignored. The man pulled a flask from a pouch on his belt and sprinkled the contents around the dead borlan. A foul odor wafted from the area.

  “What is that?” Allinor asked, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

  “Borlan scent, to hold off scavengers until I can bring in the meat. Go on.”

  She tried to ignore the awful stench and continued her explanation. “My horse tried to get away, but it tripped. I fell and ran.”

  “But not in the right direction,” the man said, finishing with the flask and walking over to the pack near the tree where Allinor had fed Spart. He drew out a waterskin and drank.

  Allinor made an effort not to clench her fists around the already damaged flower and worn parchment. “I can assure you,” she said tightly, “if I had known I’d meet you here, I would have run the other way.”

  The man stared, then burst out laughing.

  Allinor’s cheeks burned. She flapped the parchment at the borlan and spoke over him. “That beast was between my horse and the edge of the forest. If we had turned back, we’d both be dead.”

  As she finished speaking, the badger reappeared. Spart padded up to the man and laid a paw on his boot. The man’s laughter ended in a groan and he d
ropped to a knee-high root jutting out of the ground. Arching his back slightly and squeezing his eyes shut, he leaned to one side. He let the pack slide to the ground and clutched at a small bulge under his shirt.

  Allinor gave him a withering look and folded her parchment unsympathetically. Without a word, she jammed it and the flower back in her pouch and bent to gather the shimmering blue petals at her feet. After tucking them into the pouch too, she flung what was left of her cloak around her. The tattered ends came just below her shoulder blades, but the hood was still intact. That was enough. She pulled the dagger from her belt and glanced around. Then, facing the direction she thought led out of the forest, she started walking.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Allinor stopped and looked at the man. With his fitted staghide vest and pants, he looked like an extension of the root he sat on. The waterskin was corked and lying on the ground at his feet. He was tying two strings loosely around the badger’s forelegs, one around the right and one around the left. As he worked, he glanced up and nodded at the dead borlan.

  Allinor’s eyes flicked to the beast, and her expression hardened. “Thank you for saving my life,” she said, her tone anything but thankful.

  The man shook his head. “I meant the darts.” He finished tying the last string and fondled Spart’s ears. “Unless I’m mistaken, I saw feathered darts poking out of that borlan’s snout and a blow tube in that pouch of yours.” He whispered in the badger’s ear and pointed at the forest, then sat back and leaned stiffly to one side. The badger didn’t move.

  At his words, surprise smoothed the lines on Allinor’s brow. Her hand went briefly to the pouch holding her flower, parchment, and wooden blow tube. “They’re no use anymore,” she said. Well, they are, she thought. I can redip them. But I’m not climbing into that hole. Not with that beast hulking over me. Even if it is dead.

  “Shouldn’t have been much use in the first place,” the man said, picking up his waterskin to drink again. “Surprised they stuck at all.”

  With that he glanced down at the badger still sitting in the same place. He nudged him with a boot. But the badger resisted the prodding, choosing instead to nibble at an itch on his haunches. When he’d finished, Spart sat up and looked at Allinor. He seemed to be eyeing her snack pouch again. She put a protective hand over it as her own stomach gurgled. The carrots had originally been intended for her borrowed horse, but the horse was dead now and all her other food was gone.

  The man jogged Spart again with his foot and pointed at the trees. “Lazy old poke. Get going.”

  The badger grunted and stood reluctantly. Casting longing glances over his shoulder at Allinor, he padded in the direction of the man’s pointing finger. She watched him disappear around the shape of the dead borlan, into the forest.

  “Drink?” the man asked, holding out his waterskin.

  Not wanting to share the stranger’s water pouch, she shook her head. In her flight from the borlan, she had dropped her own nearby and still hoped to find it on her way out of the forest.

  The man shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He stuffed the quiver of broken arrows into his pack and stood. Then he swung the pack and waterskin over his shoulder, wincing as they smacked against his injuries. “Better get you back to the village.”

  “I can find my own way, thank you,” Allinor said, and started off.

  “The Borwood Timberland is harder to navigate than you might think,” the man called after her. “And it will be dark soon. The forest isn’t as friendly after dark.”

  A series of loud, crackling snaps rebounded around them at the words. Allinor jumped and spun to see the borlan’s corpse drop farther into the roots. Its body was at a slight angle, with the head pointing down. It slid forward, back hunching as it settled further.

  “Besides,” the man added, sounding unperturbed. “You’re going the wrong way.”

  Allinor could hear the amused tone in his voice. Slowly, she turned, pressing her lips together. He was leaning against the tree where his pack had been, calmly studying his fingernails.

  Tilting his head left, he raised his eyes to meet hers. “The village is that way. I’ll take you.”

  5

  Even with his injuries, the man set a fast pace. Allinor had to quicken her step to keep up. The man kept ahead and a little to her right, his leather-soled boots barely making a sound as he walked. Coarse, dark brown hair fell just past the base of his skull in a controlled sort of anarchy that seemed to match his nature. There was a slight wave to it and the hair curled more at the ends, adding to the unkempt look. He was trim and sinewy, a little broad in the shoulders, and hunching more than before, probably from his injuries. But he looked strong and determined—resilient.

  He turned and reached a shaky hand into a pouch on his belt. From this angle, she could see a thin scar under his left ear. It trailed down his neck below the sturdy, defined jawline and disappeared under his shirt. The pale mark added a reckless feel to the man’s rugged features. He took a tawny-yellow lump from the pouch and put it in his mouth. After a moment he straightened and his hunch seemed less. He was a head taller than her, about medium tall—a good height…for a hermit.

  At that, Allinor glanced away and took a drink from her waterskin. She had found the pouch in a fern, dirty but undamaged, near the site of the dead borlan. All around her, deep purplish-red ferns with oblong leaves covered much of the open space between the colossal borwoods. She slipped her dagger in her belt and reached out to touch one of the thick, fuzzy surfaces.

  Star of Perabon flowers shimmered up between the ferns and clustered around the base of borwood trees. Here in the forest, they were plentiful. After another swig, she corked her waterskin and bent to tear a handful of petals from one of the flowers.

  An old healer woman back home, Perabon-born herself, had told Allinor that the flowers had once covered Perabon’s fields near the forest. But as people and livestock ate them, they grew more and more difficult to find. Hazel had said they were popular because of their ability to enhance memories, even make you recall forgotten ones—and if you held an item related to the memory, the recollections were more vivid.

  Allinor took a bite from a petal. It was tart with a trickle of sweetness, like lime infused with blueberry—a refreshing blend. Determined to make them last, she put the rest in her mouth and stuffed the other petals in her pouch with the first flower.

  The man cleared his throat. She glanced up. He had stopped walking and was eyeing her bulging pouch with a raised eyebrow. Under the scrutiny, Allinor felt her cheeks flush.

  “They’re for remembering,” she said haltingly.

  “Mm.” It was a skeptical sound.

  Blushing harder, Allinor took a deep breath and added, “My father died several years ago hunting kotash.”

  This caught his interest. “So you’re Tilldoran?”

  Allinor stiffened, silently cursing her mistake. She might as well have worn her braided cockerel feather and kotash-fur charm. Kotash were boxy, knee-high creatures with razor sharp tusks. Small cartilage-padded paws gave them incredible grip and climbing capacity. Their soft, strand-like fur thickened in the cooler rains of winter and thinned in the warmth of spring. They rarely ventured north of the great rift that divided her country in the south from Perabon above it.

  Reluctantly, she nodded. Her hand strayed to the dagger on her belt as she waited for him to realize who she was.

  He just rubbed his chin and studied her. “Makes sense. Common folk are better off there. They can afford to wear jewels. What brings you to Perabon?”

  Relaxing a little, she said, “I’m here on trade business.” A good way to put it and definitely no lie.

  But the man was instantly on the alert again. “Alone?” He furrowed his brow. “What are you trading in, flower petals and dirt?” There was sarcasm in the doubtful tone.

  She hurried to contrive an explanation. “My group went on ahead without me. Really I snuck away and circled
back to find the flower on my own,” she said sheepishly, patting her pouch. “That was the closest village to the forest between Tilldor and the port market, and I was told the flower only grows near or in the forest.” After a moment’s hesitation, she continued. “My—master—can be a little overprotective at times. If I want to have fun, I have to sneak out. I’m actually an apprentice healer, you see, but my group often travels to Perabon’s port market to buy and sell herbs.” There were grains of truth in the trade explanation, but they were buried in lies. It was safer that way. “I did tell a friend I was going to the village, and for how long I would be gone,” she added menacingly. “So someone is expecting me back.”

  The man relaxed and began leading the way once more. After a few paces, he said, “I’m sorry about your father. I never knew mine. Can’t even remember my mother.”

  Guilt needled Allinor. True, her father was dead, but at least she still had her mother. Her defensive shell softened and she drew petals from the bulging pouch on her belt.

  “Would you like one?” she asked, more subdued. The man glanced over his shoulder as she held out a petal. “They taste good, and of course, they’re supposed to enhance memories. Good combination if you ask me.” She raised a hand to pop one in her own mouth, but the man shook his head.

  “I’ve tried them. Gave me nightmares.”

  Allinor froze, staring in alarm at the petal she’d been about to put in her mouth. Then she stuffed it back in her flower pouch. Better wait a night and see if what she had eaten earlier gave her nightmares.

  Shortly thereafter, they entered a grove of moonlight aspens. The silver trees were matchsticks compared to the borwoods and grew much closer together. Branches and undergrowth clawed at Allinor. Her feet ached and her stomach gurgled with hunger.

  She stopped to rest against an aspen and raided her snack pouch. Crunching on a handful of the crisp, orange carrot pieces, she glanced up. Craggy aspen arms were interwoven against the fading heavens. The wisps of blue sky were far less visible here than they were among the more widely spaced borwoods. A metallic, mildewy smell hung heavy in the air, reminding her vaguely of blood. She shuddered. Her breath quickened at the restrictive closeness of it all. In spite of the cool weather, sweat dampened her brow.