Badgerblood: Awakening Page 9

  No one stopped her as she jostled her way into a group of castle servants. An older woman at the center was bent over a handlebar, pulling a handcart full of firewood. Allinor slipped under the bar to help. The woman glanced up, startled, then muttered her thanks.

  The soldiers at the gate stopped them to check the cart. As Allinor hoped, the older woman did all the talking. “Nothing but wood for the kitchens, sirs,” she said. “Carted it here meself.”

  They waved them through before she could say more. Allinor and the woman pulled up alongside the castle and stopped at a stairwell cut into the ground. It led to the kitchen side doors.

  Perfect. I’m famished, Allinor thought, glancing around. With each passing moment, she was feeling more optimistic. Her mother didn’t appear to be back from her tour. The castle grounds would have been bustling with Tilldorans if she was. Allinor gathered a load of firewood and headed down the steps. All the better to blend in with the kitchen workers. She could drop it off on her way through.

  And then, she thought, with an anticipatory sigh, I’ll take a luxuriously hot bath and forget I even left.

  13

  The stars through Peter’s window faded to welcome the dawn, though the sun had not yet risen. And still Kor was not back. Peter pulled one boot on and hopped across the hut, hauling on the other as he went. He flung his borlan hide cloak over his right shoulder and tied it under the left. No need to use the hood; his tangle of black hair would keep his head warm enough.

  A bow lay unstrung across pegs on the wall. He lifted it down to restring it, then slipped a quiver of arrows over his head. Spart chittered at him from outside the hut. If not for the furry nuisance, he might have slept away the entire morning.

  “Coming,” Peter said, tightening the wooden bracer on his arm. He stepped outside and glanced around the clearing. Still no sign of Kor. Spart waddled forward a few steps, glanced back at the woodsman, and chittered again impatiently. Peter waved a hand at the animal. “Alright, alright. I said I’m coming.”

  They passed through the bramble barrier and made their way through the forest. Peter kept an arrow nocked to his bow, but they arrived at the dead borlan without much trouble. Even in the dark the night before, Peter had noticed signs of a fight around the site. Now, in the growing light, he could see just how destructive the struggle had been. Ferns everywhere were smashed flat. The earth was churned up in boulder-sized clumps. A short distance from the fallen beast, a massive borwood tree had great trenching claw marks down its bark and at its base.

  He glanced at the borlan. It had sunk into the root nest below, though half its back was still visible above ground. It tilted down at an angle, head pressed up against the wall of a hole underneath, its back curled slightly as it slumped forward and down. There was a good deal of meat left on the carcass, but the lower left section of its back had been stripped to the bone. The night before, he had rubbed spicer preservative over the exposed sections to keep it from going bad, and Kor had apparently sprinkled borlan scent around the beast to keep scavengers away; the scent was still strong in the air. Once Peter found Kor, they could bring in the rest together.

  The broken arrow shaft protruding from the borlan’s back caught Peter’s eye. He hadn’t removed it yet and the sight set him grumbling again. “Confound that boy,” he growled, tromping after Spart. “I told him—don’t fight borlan. We only use the dead ones. Does he listen? No.” He scratched at the scars under his right sleeve. He’d nearly lost the arm in a borlan fight before setting that rule.

  He muttered a string of insults aimed at Kor, but they trailed off when he discovered the remnants of a dead horse and fragments of green cloth farther into the trees. They hadn’t had a horse for months now and Kor hadn’t taken his cloak. Besides that, Kor’s cloak wasn’t green. Peter set his mouth in a thin line and walked faster.

  They made their way around titan borwoods, enormous fallen branches, and the occasional felled trunk before arriving at a grove of moonlight aspens. Then he followed Spart through the tight space. Eventually they reached the border river at the edge of the forest. There, in a pile on the bank, lay Kor’s belongings. The badger nosed them before drinking from the river.

  Holding his bow and arrow in one hand, Peter knelt to inspect Kor’s pack with the other. He ran his hand over the dark bloodstains and searched the bag. Stuffed inside and stained with blood was the quiver of broken arrows. There was a rent in the material. Peter poked his finger through the hole and ground his teeth. Blasted fool. What was he thinking, taking on a borlan?

  He left the bags where they were and rose, scanning the forest border trees for trouble. The ambushes had become more and more frequent of late as the king’s determination to catch him had grown. But they usually happened closer to the village. Still, it didn’t hurt to be cautious.

  Spart padded over the log that served as a bridge and Peter crept after him. The woodsman stuck to the path between the lines of rocks in the flaming nettles, then drew up against a massive border tree. He peered around its bulk at the village beyond. All was silent and still, save a gentle breeze from the south.

  Spart snuffled the ground, then seemed to catch a scent. In an instant, he was loping across the open grassy field toward the tavern and village. Now that Peter was safely to the edge of the forest, the badger wouldn’t wait until he reached Eliker’s. From here, Peter could find his own way to the miller’s. If Kor had been to the village, as Spart’s nose seemed to indicate by the scents it followed, then Eliker was the likeliest to know about the young forester’s whereabouts.

  Peter watched and listened until long after Spart disappeared. Sending the badger on ahead often made hiding soldiers and mercenaries in the village careless. Once they saw the disturbance was only an animal, they usually relaxed their guard, making it easier for Peter and Kor to spot them. Nothing moved among the huts.

  After a long moment, Peter slipped from the border trees and hesitated in the waist-high purple ferns growing just in front of the forest. It was quiet. Too quiet. Nerves, he thought, brushing it aside. Nevertheless, he scanned the village once more before stepping forward.

  Steel rasped against leather.

  Not nerves, then, came the wry, fleeting thought.

  The brief flash of a figure caught Peter’s eye to the right, moving quickly toward him in the ferns just outside the forest border trees. Adrenaline rushed through him. Muscle memory and years of experience punched through his fears. On instinct, he spun toward the enemy and the forest behind, raising his bow and arrow. But before he could do any damage, the arrow was knocked from his grasp by a curving hook-ended sword. The blade darted out again. With a pained grunt, Peter dropped his bow and clutched his right arm—blood. He stumbled back from the safety of the trees, trying to get away from the large, barrel-chested man stalking toward him. The image of a white hawk was emblazoned on his black jacket over his left breast. A king’s mercenary.

  The man’s scarred face contorted in a grin as he advanced with the forest at his back. His sleek hair was greased into spikes and was so dark it had a blue sheen. Tattoos twisted out around the edges of his collar and sleeves. They showed dark and dusty red against the warm red-orange undertones of his skin. The hooked, double-edged blade twitched in his hand. Its shape had always reminded Peter of a hawk’s beak. Near the hilt, three spines jutted out from either side of the blade, and the quillons on the crosspiece curved toward them. It was a fine weapon—a hakuma. Only Vahindan mercenaries insisted on carrying their traditional hakumas instead of Perabon’s standard-issue straight swords.

  “Woodsman Peter?” It was more a statement than a question and the moniker didn’t sound nearly as awkward as it should have.

  Peter’s gaze flicked from the man to the forest as he backed away. He tensed as he realized just how far the mercenary had driven him from the trees, and his bow.

  “You are charged with tax evasion.” The man’s gravelly bass was heavy and accented. “Submit now and you will
be taken without further injury.” A generous offer considering the king probably didn’t care what state Peter was brought back in, as long as he was caught. The bad blood between them went deeper than taxes. Even if he was captured alive, he’d be executed shortly thereafter.

  “Tempting, but no,” Peter said through his teeth.

  Looking pleased with the response, the mercenary nodded and swung his sword. “We have heard of your skill in combat, woodsman. It will be a pleasure to test it in person.”

  We? There was barely time for the thought as the man kept coming. Knife, arrows, fists. Peter frowned at the short list of weapons still available to him. The throwing knife was sheathed in his boot. This close, the mercenary would be on him before he could draw it. Without his bow, he’d likely be cut to pieces before he could get close enough to cause harm with a handheld arrow. And his injured arm would make hand-to-hand combat difficult—doable, but difficult. He hugged his aching arm to his chest and his fingers brushed the cloak ties under his left shoulder. My cloak. It was a wild thought, risky, but he could try at least.

  With his eyes on the mercenary, Peter matched the man’s pace and continued backing away, keeping just out of reach of the ever-moving blade. He loosened the ties with his right hand, the action concealed by his left arm. The movements were stiff and clumsy, sending daggers through his injured arm, but at last the knot came loose. He gripped the ties to keep the cloak on his shoulder until he was ready. Hidden under the cloak, his left hand clutched the material over his right shoulder.

  The hakuma sliced down at a diagonal in front of Peter from his right shoulder to his left hip. Then it looped up and across in a horizontal cut, from his left to his right. As the mercenary finished the motion, he spun the blade, tip down, in a circle at his side. The pattern repeated, predictable but fast, and the blade whistled through the air. It was a show of skill, an invitation to engage.

  One chance, Peter thought, stopping to face the man. If he failed, he’d be too dead to care.

  Time seemed to slow as he put his plan into action. The mercenary began the sword pattern again and the hakuma started its diagonal slice in front of Peter.

  The woodsman leaned back, twisting left out of the blade’s path, but the hooked end caught and tore his shirt. Peter’s mouth went dry at the near miss. The sword completed its diagonal descent then came up for the horizontal cut, left to right. Peter leapt back. In the same instant, he released the cloak ties and whipped the heavy material out with his left hand. It whapped against the hakuma and the end flipped around the blade.

  Time seemed to speed up and resume its regular course. Peter wrapped the cloak around the blade and jerked, ripping it from the mercenary’s grasp, then swung the hilt at his head, clipping him on the temple. The man staggered sideways, but snatched at the sword-wrapped bundle, catching the end in a strong grip. Peter let it go—he could run faster without the extra weight anyway—and snatched the knife from his boot.

  The forest loomed closer as he ran. His bow lay in the grass a short distance away and he bent forward, preparing to snatch it as he passed. However, a piercing whistle sounded behind him from the mercenary, drawing more men from the ferns in front of the forest to his left. The new mercenaries reached the bow before he could. One swung at Peter with his sword. The woodsman swerved to miss it, skidding in the grass, and angled back toward the trees. Then the hooked end of a hakuma caught his leg from behind.

  Peter fell and rolled to his feet, though the pain nearly buckled him. He hopped on his good leg to regain his balance, then tested his weight on his injured leg. The scarfaced mercenary was at his left now. The man grinned, sweeping his now bloodstained blade in an invitation and backing away.

  At Peter’s right, the other mercenaries fanned out, blocking his way back to the Timberland. He blinked sweat from his eyes, wincing as he tried to keep his weight off his injured leg.

  A mercenary strode toward him, waving the others back. “He’s mine.”

  They stayed behind, stretching their necks and rolling their shoulders, likely hoping for their own turn to fight. The man circled Peter, at first giving him a wide berth. Chrome-yellow hair was folded in three nubby ponytail-buns down the middle of his head. They were unnaturally bright against his sun-reddened complexion. With his sword held pompously out to one side, he stopped before Peter. His gaze traveled up and down the woodsman’s thin, wiry frame; he scoffed and shook his head.

  Salkaran, Peter thought, ignoring the implied insult. The unnaturally bright hair reminded him of his wife. Whenever she was homesick for Salkar, she had often dyed her hair saffron yellow, though Peter had always loved its natural flaming red sunset shade. The memory of her gave him strength and focus.

  The soldier charged. Peter ducked and spun behind the mercenary, knifing the back of the man’s thigh with the movement. The man grunted, then twisted and brought his sword down on Peter. The woodsman threw up his left arm as the long straight blade drove into the wooden bracer, cracking it. Peter slashed at the mercenary’s abdomen with his knife. A dark streak spread across the man’s jacket front and he doubled over with a groan.

  Before Peter could retrieve the sword, another mercenary broke from the line and rushed him. Peter took several limping steps back, switching his knife to his left hand and drawing three arrows from the quiver on his back. The advancing man swung his sword at Peter’s legs. The woodsman jumped and kicked out with his good leg, catching the man in the face, and the mercenary bowled over backward, writhing on the ground in agony and covering his face with his hands. Peter’s injured leg buckled as he landed, but he rolled to his feet again.

  Five men left. All mercenaries.

  I’ve faced worse odds, he thought, separating the first arrow from the others with his pointer finger as the next two mercenaries moved in.

  The others hung back, glancing at their fallen comrades and eyeing Peter with a mixture of hatred and respect. They all seemed to be waiting their turn to fight. The soldier’s ego. Peter knew it all too well.

  The approaching men moved in together. Both had the same crooked grin, the same crooked noses, the same muddy brown eyes. Their cropped sandy hair swept up above their foreheads in a similar fashion. They looked exactly alike. Even their braided kotash-fur and cockerel feather charms hung on the same side from their silk and leather sash-belts.

  Tilldoran twins, Peter thought, blocking the first man’s strike with his knife and ducking the second’s attack. The flat of the second man’s sword whistled over Peter’s head, smashing into the face of his brother.

  “Two heads aren’t always better than one,” Peter remarked offhandedly.

  The brother reeled back with a howl of pain, clutching his bleeding nose. Peter lunged at the guilty, shocked assailant, ramming his first arrow into the man’s shoulder. No need to kill anyone. Injured comrades distracted soldiers; dead ones enraged them. The mercenary screamed and collapsed.

  Three down, two to go. Peter separated the second arrow from the last with his finger and held his knife ready. “Next?”

  The Vahindan mercenary stood, feet apart, sword tip resting on the ground beside him, one hand planted on his hip. He nodded at the last two mercenaries. They approached more strategically, one from the front, the other from behind. Peter turned to keep them in his line of vision, but they rotated with him. Their attacks came simultaneously. Peter blocked the first’s overhead swing before him with his knife. He threw up his arrow hand to block the strike coming from behind with the shaft, but the flat of the sword smashed his fingers. Tears pricked his eyes at the smarting in his hand and he nearly dropped the arrow. With his aching hand, he thrust the sword aside then dove at the man with his second arrow. The mercenary sidestepped him and the flat of the other man’s sword caught Peter on the back of the head. He staggered forward, dazed.

  Peter shook the stars from his vision and spun to face the men. Their mocking grins betrayed overconfidence and Peter played into it. He stumbled back and shook his
head again, feigning weakness. Taking the bait, the soldiers rushed forward. With a roar, Peter charged back and the men faltered, startled. The woodsman lunged at one, blocking the sword with his knife and plunging his second arrow into the man’s thigh. The man screamed and clutched his leg as they tumbled to the ground.

  Sensing the other soldier behind him, Peter rolled to his knees. He flipped the knife to hold the blade in his palm, twisted, and threw. The man grunted and dropped to his knees. The knife hung from his side. Peter frowned. Any farther right and he would have missed altogether.

  There was a rustle in the grass behind him. “Not bad, old man.”

  At the accented words, the woodsman ground his teeth. He turned slowly, rising with the motion, and glowered at the Vahindan mercenary. Kor often reminded Peter of his age, especially when the woodsman lost in a challenge. Peter only just tolerated it from him and Kor was like a son. This man though… Peter took a deep breath to calm himself—anger skewed judgment.

  The mercenary’s grin broadened and he rolled his shoulders forward and back in a stretch. His jacket creaked with the motion and pulled taut across his barrelly chest. Buttons and seams threatened to pop. He was nearly twice Peter’s girth and about the same height, but his spiked hair made him look taller. At a word from the Vahindan, the mercenaries who had gotten to their feet stayed back. Apparently the man wished to face Peter alone.

  Not my loss, thought Peter, fingering the remaining arrow in his hand. There were more in his quiver, but a blade would serve him better against this warrior. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his knife lying in the grass near the still-downed, side-wounded mercenary.