Badgerblood: Awakening Page 5

  “You’ll feel better if you take care of it,” she insisted.

  He tore a long, wide leaf from a fern and she sighed in exasperation.

  “Fine. But if you bleed to death, don’t come haunting me about it.”

  Kor held out the leaf. “Mor leaves.”

  Allinor glared at him. “I’d feel more inclined to assist in gathering them if you asked nicely.”

  Chuckling, Kor shook his head. “The northerners named most of the life in this forest. Mor is the old Nalkaran word for purple.” He waved the leaf at the mulberry-colored plants around him and repeated the name. “Mor ferns. Besides being edible and easing countless other illnesses, they help stave off infection in wounds. Makes a useful bandage. The fuzzy surface will slow the bleeding. I’ve got a paste in my pack that fights infection as well,” he said. “When I say I’ll be fine, what I mean is, I can take care of myself. I just needed to get you out of the forest first.” His gaze shifted from her to the village. “Follow the path north. If you meet any soldiers, say you’re from somewhere else. They generally leave foreigners alone. But don’t flash your trinkets around.”

  Sighing resignedly, Allinor nodded then made her way to the log. The wood creaked under her as she stepped onto it. She glanced down nervously and hurried across.

  As she reached the other side, Kor called out to her. “Oh, and Len…”

  She turned to look at him.

  “Might be safer if you don’t mention my name to anyone.”

  She arched a delicate eyebrow and regarded him loftily. “Safer? Not to inform people of the wild hermit running loose in the forest?” After pausing just long enough to see his brow furrow, she let an impish grin split her face. “Don’t worry. I certainly won’t be mentioning your name to anyone anytime soon.”

  He relaxed and snorted as he seemed to recognize the jibe. Then she turned and headed toward the edge of the forest, crouching often to see where the stones lay beneath the foliage. They were unevenly spaced apart and sat across from each other in two lines, the path between them obscured by ferns. It meandered in no clear direction until it finally spat her out of the forest. Every inch of her burst with relief as she stepped into the open. She felt lucky to be alive, charmed even, and full of confidence again.

  6

  Kor kept an eye on the girl as she picked her way out of the forest. He sat by the river and pulled a squat bottle from his pack. Black letters were scrawled on the glass: sun-dipped dragroot. He uncorked it, turning his head and wrinkling his nose at the odor. The plant, useful in a pinch, grew only in the forest and helped numb and heal injuries. However, it had the unique misfortune of smelling like dead fish sprinkled with cinnamon.

  Still, borlan scent was worse. The combination of the two churned his stomach. He was almost glad he hadn’t used any scent today, though it might have helped against the borlan. Borlan scent clung to skin and clothes for hours, even after a scrubbing with lime-ash.

  With a trembling hand, he shook the yellowish paste into his palm. There wasn’t much left, but it would do until he returned to the hut in the forest. Now that the girl was safely out of the Timberland, he could tend to himself. Navigating the trees after dark would be dangerous enough on his own without having a stranger to keep track of too.

  He reached his arm behind his back, under his clothes, and rubbed the paste over his injuries, gritting his teeth at the contact. As the paste began working to numb the pain, however, he relaxed. When the paste was gone, he removed his leather armguard and untied his belt. He slid the pouches from his belt into his pack and tucked his armguard into the bag as well.

  The belt unfolded to be about a handspan in width. Leaning forward, he reached around his back with the wide mor leaf he had plucked earlier and placed it at an angle over his injuries. It didn’t cover the extent of them, but it was enough. He wrapped the belt over the leaf at a diagonal, and tied it over his chest under his clothes. In the distance, the girl was crossing the open field at a leisurely pace. She bobbed slightly as she went and ran her hands over the waist-high grass. His mind went back to the moment when she had asked who he was. He’d blurted out his name without thinking, without meaning to. It would have been safer in general not to tell a stranger. But he’d been oddly distracted by those amber eyes. Besides, Spart seemed to like her.

  “Len.” He tested the name aloud and gathered his belongings, stopping when he realized he hadn’t refreshed his waterskin. He emptied it into the river and submerged it partway to refill it. By now, the girl was passing the tavern. Kor took a deep draught from the waterskin and rubbed water on the back of his neck. Despite the cool breeze, he was warm.

  The girl hesitated near the tavern entrance, then turned back and disappeared through it. Kor dropped his waterskin and leapt to his feet. After a stunned moment, he bounded across the creaky log, leaving his belongings on the bank. He peered around a forest border tree and watched the tavern, hoping Len would reemerge. Before long, a group of men staggered from the entry as fast as their inebriated bodies would allow. Len was not among them.

  Kor ground his teeth, trying to resist the impulse to dash after her. What was it about this girl? Something seemed to be drawing him to her. He held back. Too often, the village was patrolled by the king’s soldiers and he was in no condition to be seen by them today. But Tib was not a good man. The tavern owner was nearly as bad as the mercenaries the king hired. If Len was alone with him and his henchman in the tavern…

  Kor groaned in exasperation as he finally gave in. He clutched the pendant under his shirt and scanned the field and village. No soldiers. Yet. Dropping into a crouch, he started across the field at a run. Peter will have my hide for this, if Martt doesn’t get it first.

  7

  Peter whistled a nostalgic tune that filled the hut in the forest clearing with a melancholy air. Stew bubbled on a pot over the hearth at the back of the cabin. As he ladled some into a bowl, a breeze came in through the cocked door behind him and went out through the open windows on either side of the room. There was a cold, late-fall bite to it, indicative of oncoming winter. Still, he kept the door and windows ajar to freshen up, as there was a stale smell of sickness clinging to the one-room dwelling. For the past week, he’d been ill with the forest fever shakes.

  There was not as much need for caution here as in the forest surrounding the glade. Protective measures had been taken for the little haven: Scent had been collected from already-dead borlan and sprinkled liberally around the clearing. Where that failed to repel the dangerous creatures of the forest, brambles and flaming nettle served as an adequate deterrent. It was relatively safe here.

  A paw prodded Peter’s boot unexpectedly. His whistle cut off with a shrill squeak. “What in blazes—?” Stew sloshed from his bowl and drops flicked from his ladle as he spun to face the intruder. When he saw it was only Spart, his tall, wiry frame relaxed. “Can you be any quieter?” he said, glowering down his long, narrow nose at the badger.

  Spart cocked his head and Peter could have sworn the animal raised an eyebrow. His frown faltered, then deepened once more as he tried to retain his previous irritation. He never whistled tunes or sang in front of anyone. The only whistling he did around others was to call Spart or signal. He resented the fact that the badger had snuck up on him in the middle of an old Salkaran folk song. Particularly one that reminded him of his late wife.

  “Where’s Kor?” The question was directed at Spart, but Peter glanced at the hut door expectantly.

  At the words, Spart’s training kicked in and again he rested a paw on Peter’s boot. The woodsman glanced down and for the first time noticed the strings tied around the badger’s forelegs. He dropped the ladle back in the pot and knelt before Spart, setting his bowl on the dirt-packed floor. A hunk of bread poked out of the reddish-brown meat and chunks of vegetables—borlan stew, a favorite in the hut. Spart eyed it.

  Peter turned the badger’s head to him and met the black eyes with his steel-blue gaze. “You�
��ll get yours when I’m through,” he said, sternly.

  He untied the strings on Spart’s legs. They had a system, Peter and Kor, of communicating using twine on the badger. A string around the right foreleg meant the signaler was safe. One around the left foreleg meant come. The right hind leg meant the signaler was delayed, and the left indicated that the signaler was in danger. The signs could be made separately or combined to provide more information. If safe or delayed were made independently, it was generally assumed that the receiver did not need to come. It was a simple method, but one that had worked well for years.

  “So Kor is safe, but he wants me to come.” Peter eyed the strings disapprovingly. It was getting late. If Kor had taken down a forest stag, as he had set out to do that morning, he would have returned with the badger, hauling part of the kill back himself. Peter would have gone hunting with him that morning, too, if he hadn’t still been recovering. Without bothering to look, he reached for the bowl of stew. His hand met with fur and a low growl. Peter looked up to see the badger standing protectively over the stew, his gaze riveted on the woodsman.

  “Here now, Spart, that’s mine,” Peter said.

  The badger’s lips curled back in a warning growl. For a moment, the woodsman glared back and considered repossessing the stew. Then he remembered that Spart had been out hunting all day. He relaxed and sat back on his heels with an amused grunt.

  “Alright, you can have it,” he said with a dismissive wave at the bowl. “But no carrots after dinner. You’re fat enough on them as it is.”

  At this, Spart growled again. Peter ignored him and stood, tipping his head from side to side to stretch his neck. From below came a loud slopping sound, and the woodsman looked down to see Spart making a mess of the stew bowl. The badger paused just long enough to glower haughtily up at Peter, then resumed his messy eating. Disgusted, Peter planted his fists on his hips and shook his head.

  “Spoiled cub. Keep it up and you may never see another carrot again.”

  The threat didn’t seem to bother Spart. In fact he increased his slopping, making an even bigger mess than before.

  Peter sighed. Some days there was just no living with the badger. He dished stew for himself and tore a chunk from a round loaf he’d set out on a plate.

  When both badger and woodsman were satisfied, Peter dispersed the logs in the fire using a poker and doused the flames with the dirt he kept in a pot by the hearth for just such purposes. The food would go cold, but that was better than burning it and risking catching fire to the hut while he was gone. He applied borlan scent to himself and the badger. Spart hated it, but tolerated the treatment. They all preferred using mud to borlan scent because the latter was so hard to get off and smelled putrid. Still, it usually kept them safer in the forest, especially at night, and it would be dark soon. Not only that, but the illness had left Peter feeling vulnerable. So, borlan scent it was.

  He tossed his borlan-hide cloak over one shoulder and tied it under the other. He did the same with Kor’s cloak, leaving one shoulder free. The lad had left his cloak behind that morning. Kor was usually warm enough, even when Peter was freezing, but there was a nip in the air; it would be a chilly night. Even Kor would be glad of a cloak. Peter swung his quiver and bow over his free shoulder, kicked open the door, and whistled for Spart to follow.

  8

  Kor crept along the outside of the tavern toward the entry. A figure appeared in the open window of the tavern wall above. The forester froze, pressing himself flat against the wood under the ledge, and chanced a glance up. Tib’s towering henchman filled the square space with his massive, barrelly bulk. To Kor, he looked very much like a man-borlan. An untidy mop of reddish-brown curls flopped into the man’s eyes as he leaned out. He glanced left and right, then withdrew, closing the shutters.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Kor moved on. He slipped into the tavern entry’s deep archway and tried the door. Latched, from the inside. Voices carried through the cracking wood.

  “—stolen while you was out, miss. Can’t afford to waste all me time keepin’ vigil over these rooms. Got a tavern to run, you know.”

  As he recognized Tib’s sleazy, grating voice, Kor’s expression darkened. He pressed his ear against the wood to better hear Len’s response.

  “I’ve heard of your reputation. You likely stole them yourself while I was away. For your sake, sir, I suggest you return them at once.”

  Tib barked a phlegmy laugh and called to his henchman. “Hear that, Mike? Called me sir, she did.” His voice moved away from the door and slid into a low, crafty tone. “Can’t return what I didn’t steal, now can I, miss? Though I might be persuaded to lend a hand in getting them back—for a price, of course. What say, a trinket in exchange for my…assistance?”

  “I will not pay you to return items you stole,” Len said. “Return them this instant or I shall report you to the king.”

  “Ho ho, the king. Real bobbygocker, that. I’m frightened.” Tib sneered. “You think he’ll care about your little bag? He’d take every last silver you own. I’m only asking for a trinket. Give me the ring.”

  Len’s response was stony and deliberate. “I wouldn’t give it to you if it was the last thing in the world that could save your greasy, bald little head.”

  Kor groaned. It was never good practice to insult Tib, especially with Mike so close at hand. “Stubborn woman,” he said under his breath and drew his dagger from his boot. “Just give him the blasted ring.”

  Tib’s tone turned nasty and conniving. “Then we’ll just have to be more persuasive, eh Mike?”

  There was a scuffle and a shattering sploosh on the floorboards, then a cry of alarm from Len. “Get your filthy hands off, you overgrown oaf.”

  Quickly, Kor slid the tip of his blade between the doorframe and the door, working it in up to the hilt, and lifted the latch on the other side. The door swung open. With one sweeping gaze, he took in the scene before him. Mike held the struggling girl under one arm like a sack of meal. In his vice-like grip, Len’s arms were pinned to her sides, useless. Her dagger lay on the rough floorboards beside her waterskin, which was leaking. A clay pitcher lay shattered on the floor beside it in a puddle of water. Tib stood before them, his back to the door.

  “Leave her be, Tib.”

  At the quiet demand, Tib spun around. An oily smile spread over his wan, yellow face, revealing a gappy row of stained teeth. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t our boy from the woods.” He rolled the hilt of his dagger between his fingers and his eyes glinted eagerly. “Here for a drink?”

  “Not of your kind.”

  Tib stuck out his bottom lip and pulled a long face. His tone went from mock disappointment to threatening as he began circling Kor. “Shame. Seems I told you to stay out unless you were here for a swig.” He had a prominent limp in one leg and was a head shorter than Kor, but still stocky and powerful.

  Kor turned, matching the man’s wide, slow arc. “Let the girl go and we’ll leave peacefully. No harm done to you or your tavern.”

  Tib jerked his head at Len. “She owes me a little something first.”

  “She’ll give it to you.”

  “I will not.” Len’s outraged cry rebounded around the small tavern as she redoubled her efforts to free herself.

  Kor blinked slowly in frustration.

  Tib shrugged. “You heard the lady. Besides, I can’t let you go. Not with that glorious price on your head,” he said, and lunged.

  Kor threw up his stone knife to block the blow and Tib kicked out as their blades clashed. Kor fell, back first, onto the splintery surface of a round table. Before he could recover, Tib grabbed his vest and yanked him forward, kneeing him in the stomach. Kor doubled over and collapsed, dropping his dagger. As he reached for it, Tib brushed it aside with his foot and planted a studded boot on Kor’s chest, shoving him back to the floorboards. Kor gritted his teeth as the constant trickle of strength that came from wearing his pendant pulsed through him. He clung to it, usin
g the feeling to bury the pain. Even then, the color still drained from his face. In vain, he pried at the boot, trying to relieve the pressure of boot studs cutting into his chest and the wood against his injuries.

  Sneering, Tib leaned down harder. A groan escaped Kor, and Tib spat in his face before yanking his boot away. Kor gasped and rolled over, wiping off the spittle.

  “Mike, get this sniveling runt out of my sight,” Tib said.

  The henchman moved to obey: He dropped the girl and moved toward Kor. Len scrambled to her feet and charged, landing a kick on Mike’s leg before Tib dragged her away by the wrist.

  In the distraction, Kor dove under the table after his knife. Mike snatched at him and missed, and Kor scrambled out the other side of the table, blade in hand. Gripping the table edge as he rose, he flipped it over at Mike. The table knocked against the henchman’s shins. Mike grunted and stumbled, tripping backward over a chair onto another table. The structures collapsed under his weight and he fell to the ground.

  A shout of frustration rose from the bar at the back of the room. Len had her dagger again and was wrestling Tib. Kor worked his way around tables toward them. In his periphery, he saw Mike rise from the collapsed shambles.

  The tavern owner slammed Len’s hand on the bar, sweeping off a stack of glasses in the struggle. They shattered and her dagger flew from her grasp. She kicked out, but Tib locked her leg from behind with his own. Then, pinning her left hand to the bar, he jerked her now-empty right to his mouth with a sneer.

  “Now, let’s have a little look-see at that trinket of yours,” he said conversationally, and tugged at her glove with his teeth.

  Kor was almost to him when something wooden and angular smashed into his back. He sprawled on the floor, dazed. His knife spun to a halt under a table. Kor’s hand found the pendant at his neck and he dragged himself toward the blade. Heavy footsteps creaked over the floorboards behind him. Before Kor could reach the weapon, Mike snatched a handful of his hair and jerked him back.