Badgerblood: Awakening

by S. C. Monson

  Roe gave the mercenary a nasty, bloodshot glare, but the man barely spared him a glance as he left. Roe grumbled an insult after him. Then, he briefed Peter on the rules, rotation, and routine. There was a whistle in his speech, due to a chipped tooth. His nasal tone droned on and on and he seemed prone to repeat himself. Peter fought back sarcastic remarks and did his best to appear attentive. At last Roe finished and headed for the stairs.

  Peter leaned against the guard desk and made a show of digging in a mostly empty pouch. It jangled slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roe stop and glance back. The dark orange, stubbly hairs on the man’s head seemed to quiver with curiosity. Peter drew out three copper pieces and made a show of inspecting them. Roe came a few paces closer.

  The woodsman looked up. “I’m taking payments for genuine Salkaran Brayberry. Be smuggling it in a few weeks from now.” He tossed the coins in his hand then plinked them back in his pouch, one after the other. “Care to add to the pot, guarantee yourself a swig?” he asked, patting the pouch.

  Roe stared at the moneybag. His hand went to his jacket where he had hidden his flask. There was an eager glint in his eye as he licked his lips. “Brayberry?”

  Peter nodded. Roe fumbled in a patched, worn pouch and drew out a coin. He set it on the guard desk, but Peter only eyed it.

  The guard seemed to understand the look. He pulled out two more coins and slapped them beside the first. “That’s all I’ve got, Salky.”

  At the nickname, Peter’s blue eyes flashed steel. His wife had always loathed the ignorant use of that term.

  The guard went red in the face and glared back as he misinterpreted Peter’s subtle reaction. “That’s all,” he said, jangling his pouch—nothing.

  With a gracious nod, and doing his best to hide his irritation at the nickname, Peter took two coins and left the last. “Wouldn’t want to bleed you dry,” he said.

  Without another word, Roe snatched up the remaining coin and headed for the stairs. As soon as he was gone, Peter went to the cell door. He opened the peephole and looked in. The square, stone cell smelled of unwashed bodies and sewage. Peter gagged and covered his nose with his elbow. A wedge of sunlight shone down through a narrow window-crack in the opposite wall, its light illuminating an uncovered chamberpot in one corner. A thin, shivering figure lay curled on a dusting of straw on the other side of the cell, muttering.

  “Kor,” Peter whispered, dropping his Salkaran accent. The muttering continued so he called a little louder. “Kor.”

  The door at the top of the stairs banged open and a guard clambered down the steps. It was Roe. “I heard voices,” he said. “No talking to the prisoner.”

  Without missing a beat, Peter slipped back into the Salkaran accent and shouted through the peephole. “Quiet in there.” Then he shut the little window in the heavy wooden door and returned to the guard desk.

  Roe stood at the foot of the stairs. “I said, no talking to the prisoner," he said in his whistling speech. "’Lessen you fancy dying with the dead.”

  Peter made an effort not to squeeze his eyes shut at the last comment. “Except for giving orders,” he said, marking the first rule’s exception. “The rat was sniveling to himself, spouting nonsense. Sounded like some fairy tale. Made me want to pop a gob,” he said, disgusted.

  The guard seemed to relax and began traipsing back up the stairs. “He does that. You get used to it after a while.”

  “And if I don’t?” Peter said, playing the part of a disgruntled guard.

  Roe paused and ducked down to flash Peter a nasty, chipped-tooth smile below the stairway’s slanting roof. “Then you can pop his gob.”

  As he finished climbing the steps and slammed the door, Peter leaned over the spittoon by the guard desk. “Idiot,” he said and spat. “That’s popping a gob.”

  Within the first five minutes of leaving, Roe poked his nose through the door once more. Peter didn’t try speaking to Kor again during that rotation. Better to wait and feel things out. There was another way to make first contact.

  ****

  Even as he woke, Kor screwed his eyes shut tighter and clutched at his vest for the pendant. Despite the long months on the Isle without it, he had not lost the habit of reaching for it.

  He was still half-asleep, still tormented by his nightmares when Roe finally arrived to lead him to the cavern. Kor’s shift had him working the first terrace. All around him, prisoners chipped rock chunks from the walls using their pickaxes. As they worked, Kor shoveled the rocks into a wheelbarrow, set the shovel on top, and carted them to the pulley system.

  The pulley platform bowed and creaked underneath as he wheeled the barrow onto it. He secured the wheelbarrow to the short lip of railing around the platform with a rope then glanced up. Overhead, the four ropes from each corner of the platform twisted together into one, threaded through the pulley system above, then passed at an angle to a small, separate wheel fixed in the terrace alongside him. Its long trailing end was knotted to an anchor bolt in the ground beside the wheel to keep the platform aloft. Below the platform was a fifteen-foot drop to the ground.

  The prisoners working the pulley untied the end of the rope and tossed it to Kor so he could help. It fell in thick frayed coils at his feet. Quickly slipping his vest over his head, Kor wrapped his hands in the material to protect his hands from potential rope burn. Then he picked up the rope. It slid through Kor’s grip in controlled, measured drops as the prisoners began to let out the same rope and lower the platform.

  After three feet, a hacking cough sounded overhead. Kor glanced up in alarm as the platform dropped jerkily, then plummeted, the prisoners above having lost their grip on the rope. Kor gritted his teeth, clinging to the rope as it sped through his grip. The heat of the friction burned through the vest around his hands. His efforts slowed the fall a little, until the platform finally slammed to a stop on the ground. A lip of railing along one side of the platform broke as the wheelbarrow toppled over, spilling its contents. Kor staggered from the platform, shaking. He’d seen pulley drops, but never been in one himself before this.

  A mercenary shouted for him to shovel up the spilled rock chunks. Kor was about to don his vest and comply when he noticed a throbbing in his hands. Adrenaline was wearing off. He glanced down. His palms were raw and bleeding. There were two holes in his vest where the rope had worn through. He rewrapped the vest around his hands and righted the wheelbarrow.

  The chunks were nearly all loaded when something fuzzy clawed gently at his sandaled feet. Startled, Kor jerked back and glanced down. A sparse smattering of holes, too small for prisoners to squeeze through, marked the cavern walls. Two fuzzy black paws with long digging claws protruded from one at the base of the terrace wall behind the wheelbarrow. An ebony nose and narrow snout poked out after them. Kor’s eyes went wide as he saw the two coal-black stripes marking the length of the animal’s gray muzzle. The creature rested a paw on Kor’s foot. Choking down a sob of relief and delight, Kor dropped to his knees.

  “Spart,” he whispered, setting the shovel aside and pulling the badger close. He hunched over the animal, barely holding back tears. After a moment, Spart wriggled free and turned his right side toward Kor. There was twine tied around his right hind and forelegs. Kor stared as the meaning of it sank in. Safe, delayed. “Peter.”

  “Here, you! What’s taking so long?” a mercenary shouted.

  Spart scrambled back into the hole, out of sight. Kor hastily scraped up the last of the rock chunks with his hands and wheeled the barrow over to a separator table. As he dumped the rock behind the working prisoners, he couldn’t stop thinking about Peter. He glanced around, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He’ll be in disguise, or hiding.

  A smile spread over Kor’s face at the thought, and hope sprang up within him. Peter was alive and well, and he was on the Isle.

  32

  Peter picked at the set of prison keys on his belt as he eyed the isolation cell door. He waited to be sure Roe w
ouldn’t pop his head through the door again, then walked over. He tapped the wood with a knuckle and called quietly through the peephole.

  “Kor,” he said, dropping the Salkaran accent and peering in. A thin, bony figure lay unmoving on the straw in the corner of the cell. “Kor, how are you, milad?”

  With a clumsy movement, Kor pushed himself up and glanced at the door. “Peter?” His voice was hoarse and dry, but clearly excited.

  “It’s Vance now,” Peter said, grinning. “You’re looking a little worn around the edges. Didn’t I warn you against fighting borlan?” he asked, in mock chastisement. Kor chuckled and Peter thought he heard a sob in it. The young forester rose as though to make for the door, but Peter stopped him. “Lie still, lad. It will be easier to make it seem like we haven’t been chatting friendly-like if Roe pops in. ‘No talking to the prisoner,’” he said in a near-perfect imitation of the guard’s grating speech.

  Kor snorted out a laugh and settled back on the straw. “I got your message.”

  “Ah, then you’ve seen Spart. We’re going to get you free, lad. It will take some doing, but we’ll get you out.”

  “Eliker and Serah are here, too.”

  “Yes, I know,” Peter said grimly. “They’re coming with us.”

  “How? How will we get free?”

  Peter could hear the eagerness in Kor’s tone. He mulled over the answer and decided not to mention Martt’s name or explain the Nalkaran monarch’s interest in Kor. If all went well, the Nalkaran ruler could explain things himself. And Martt and Kor had been enemies for so long, he wasn’t sure whether the stubborn young forester would trust the plan if he knew the commander was involved. He’d probably sabotage it altogether and try to escape on his own. And then I’d never be able to convince him to go north.

  “We’ve got a man on the outside,” the woodsman said. “He’s recruited help from some Nalkaran acquaintances. They’ll send a ship to get us off this rock. We can use the switchback for our escape. At sea level, the ocean side of the path drops right into the water.” Kor seemed to shiver at this. “The Nalkarans can row right up in the dark. We’ll clobber the guards while they’re in a stupor and slip out to the path.”

  “Stupor?”

  “The word’s Brayberry wine,” Peter said, sounding mysterious. “I’m collecting fees to ship in crates of the stuff, though it’s already been smuggled in. Strong drink isn’t allowed on the Isle, but the overseer is long overdue for a vacation. When he leaves, we’ll get the mercenaries so drunk they won’t know the pulleys from the prisoners. The pirates will attack the Isle the same night.”

  “Pirates, eh? More of your acquaintances?”

  “More like acquaintances of my acquaintance,” Peter said, chuckling. “Vahindans, hired by our unnamed Nalkaran friends.”

  “Vahindan privateers?” Kor sounded surprised. “What about their queen’s pirate treaty?”

  The woodsman hesitated. “These are…rogue pirates, hired for a hefty sum by our Nalkaran friends. We’ve promised them the proceeds from the Brayberry too. They’ll fire on the prison, while we make our escape.”

  “What about the tunnels? There’s a maze of them. We’ll get lost before we even see the sky.”

  “I’ll get hold of a map. We’ll memorize it. Don’t forget, Spart will be with us. That badger could find his way through an underground root nest, blindfolded and noseblind.”

  “When do we go?”

  “Month and a half on the new moon night,” Peter said. “Pass the word to Eliker and Serah. Spart and I will explore the tunnels, see if there are ways out that aren’t guarded. Meanwhile, I suggest you avoid facing down any more borlan—animals or men. Leastways, not without me,” he added with a mischievous grin. “And not until the escape.”

  33

  Prince Merrick stood waiting in the Isle overseer’s office, a dreary room with no windows. There was a splintery desk in the center with an equally splintery-looking chair behind it and a pail of glowing coals for heat. No welcoming hearth. It reminded him of the castle’s lower storage rooms his father had converted into prison cells.

  With a trembling hand, Merrick brushed the damp from his forehead. It was chilly, true, but he was sweating nonetheless. He rubbed the forged pardon in his hand with a thumb. Unfortunately, Allinor’s charm did not rub off on him. His nervous tremor grew stronger.

  Today marked nearly three and a half months since the hearing. Only three since he and Allinor had finished forging the document and sealed it. When his father pardoned Isle-convicted prisoners, if he ever pardoned them, it usually happened three months or more after the initial conviction. That gave prisoners time to think about what they’d done and made their freedom that much sweeter. That in turn made Leon appear more generous in their eyes. Or so the king claimed.

  Behind Merrick, Rimak Visparalk leaned against the door jamb, inspecting the tattoos under his sleeve. The mercenary had been escorting Merrick ever since the prince had stepped onto the Isle. Merrick felt the man’s gaze boring into him on occasion, making the hair on the back of his neck prickle with unease. Pretending to survey the room, he turned and adjusted his stance to keep an eye on the mercenary. He didn’t trust a man who claimed to have honor and enjoyed working in a place like this. He stretched, tilting his head from one shoulder to the other, and rolled a copper over the knuckles of his free hand. The action steadied his nerves.

  The day before, he’d made reservations with a ship that was already planning a trip to and from the Isle. For a healthy sum, the mercenary captain had agreed to keep the business silent.

  Merrick had been on the Isle nearly two hours already. Since his arrival, soldiers had delayed him at every turn. Most were his father’s hired mercenaries—relentless, unfeeling men who tested authority every chance they got. The prince was a prime target. Merrick had intended to show the pardon to the overseer only. But when it became clear that the guards, with their slow responses and patronizing glances, would continue to delay him, he’d flashed the sealed document. The red hawk-head seal had sent them scurrying for the overseer.

  He spun as a man burst into the room, huffing and puffing. “Forgive the delay, Royal Highness, but I was tending to other matters. Beastly difficult, maintaining order on this rock,” he said, dabbing his handkerchief at what looked like a food stain on the corner of his mouth. Merrick raised an eyebrow. The man didn’t seem to notice. “We have brawls between the Vahindans and Tilldorans over kuvvet—honor, bravery, wisdom, and whatnot—you know. They have been less of late, thankfully, but now some of the soldiers are complaining about the Vahindans’ korku juice, or whatever they call it.” At the words, there was a stirring from Rimak’s direction, but the overseer barely paused in his speech. “I’m looking forward to my leave. Haven’t had a day off for six beastly years.”

  He leaned against his desk, mopping sweat from his face and neck with his limp handkerchief. His blotchy features were red and sweaty. A pair of spectacles sagged at the end of his nose. Stringy, brown hair trailed into his eyes. All in all, he reminded Merrick of an overweight lap dog that had been dragged around the castle for one too many walks.

  “But enough of my woes,” the man said, pushing up his glasses and straightening. He dabbed at another suspicious stain near his mouth and tucked the handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket. “What can I do for you, Prince?”

  Trying to keep his hand and voice steady, Merrick held out the document. “A pardon from my father, for Eliker the miller.” His voice went dry and he cleared his throat before continuing. “Serah, his daughter, and Kor the forester.” The last words rasped out again and he cleared his throat once more. At the last name, there was a rustle behind him as Rimak pushed off the doorframe.

  The overseer eyed Merrick over his glasses. “Are you alright, Royal Highness? The salty air here can be a bit harsh on the throat. Shall I send for water?”

  Merrick’s cheeks went red. “No. Thank you.” He nodded at the document in his hand,
wagging it. “This takes precedent.”

  The prison warden took it and studied the seal, then broke the wax. His lips moved silently as he read. With every word, his eyes grew wider. For a moment, Merrick feared they would bulge from his head.

  The man finally looked at the prince. “King Leon sent you to deliver this?” The doubt in his tone was clearly evident. “Of course, who the king sends is none of my business,” he added hastily, with a friendly, lighthearted chuckle.

  Merrick squeezed the coin in his hand and drew himself up. “Shall we proceed then?” he asked stonily.

  The chuckle ceased abruptly and the overseer cleared his throat with a polite little cough. “Of course, Royal Highness. I’ll call my assistant to—”

  “No more delays,” Merrick said. “The king wants the release kept quiet until he is ready to publicly announce it. You will make the arrangements yourself.”

  “I assure you, Bilk is quite capable—”

  “You will make the arrangements yourself,” Merrick repeated firmly through clenched teeth. “Now.”

  The overseer’s mouth hung open a moment, then clapped shut. “Yes, Royal Highness, right away,” he said, bowing.

  Even with that reassurance it was another hour before Eliker and Serah were finally freed. They released the miller first, then his daughter. She sat in a cell with four other women. A middle-aged lady lay with her head on Serah’s lap, coughing and wheezing. Serah stroked her hair and whispered soothingly to her. The three other women clambered at the cell gate as Merrick approached. They reached through the bars, pulling at his jacket and moaning pitifully for mercy or news of their children back home. They looked ragged and starved, like skeletons in scarecrow’s clothing.

  Merrick’s stomach clenched at the sight, and the smell, and he couldn’t help flinching. “I’m sorry,” he stammered, trying to draw back. “I don’t know.” As he announced Serah’s pardon, the clamoring prisoners grew louder. He wished he could do more for them.