Badgerblood: Awakening

by S. C. Monson

  Peter waited a long time after the laughter and shouts faded from earshot before finally checking the cell. Kor lay on his back in the middle of the room, a man again, silent and unconscious, but breathing.

  ****

  Kor woke, damp with sweat and seawater and sticky with blood. His teeth chattered in the cold. Daylight streamed through the slit window in his cell. With an effort, he rolled over and tried to push himself up, then sank back again with a groan. He touched his temple and felt a thin scab, oozing blood.

  In a feeble attempt to conserve body heat, he curled on his side, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement set his ribs and shoulder throbbing, but they didn’t seem to hurt as much as they had on the rocks. He gently probed his side and winced. It still ached, just not as much as before. Confused, he wrinkled his brow. He was sure the rib fracture had been more severe. Mild curiosity stirred in him and he rolled his shoulder, testing it next. It was swollen and sore, but functional, definitely no longer dislocated.

  A scraping came from the door and he glanced over his shoulder toward it. A meal appeared through the food slot at the door’s base. Pushing himself up, successfully this time, he crawled eagerly toward it. Too weak to sit up all the way, he settled for eating on his side. Several cuts on his hands and arms, he noticed, were already scabbing over. Peter must have lathered me in strong ointment. The woodsman did that on occasion, when he thought he could get away with it without arousing the other guards’ suspicions.

  “How are you feeling, lad?” Peter’s whisper cut through the silence.

  Kor bit into a stale crust of bread. “Exhausted, famished, throbbing like blazes.” He swallowed and dipped the stale crust in the bowl of watery, finwhale stew. This time, he didn’t mind the taste. “But I’m not bleeding as much as I should be, and the shoulder feels better, thanks to you.”

  “Do you remember me putting your shoulder back in?” Peter sounded puzzled.

  Kor slurped up stew. “Thankfully, no.”

  A brief silence.

  “Do you…remember…anything?” Peter asked, tentatively.

  Kor gnawed at the bread, thinking. He remembered ocean waves slamming him against the rocks, trying to drown him, and the strange black lines and prickling skin. He recalled the flickering images and that his mother had given him the pendant. She was dead because of him, though he still couldn’t remember how or why.

  He remembered the guilt, fear, and nearly giving up. He remembered the throbbing in his bones stoking a new determination for life. And he remembered blacking out after reaching the top of the boulder. Strange dreams ruled his subconscious after that. Instead of fighting or seeing ashen fingers and pendants, he’d just sprouted fur, changed shape, and padded around ocean-swept boulders in badger skin.

  “Not much except the ocean and the pain,” he said at last.

  Another silence.

  “You don’t remember anything?” Peter sounded incredulous.

  “Guess I just passed out,” Kor said, hoping he wouldn’t press further. The memories, nightmares, and guilt weighed heavily on Kor's conscience, and he wanted to forget. He finished eating in silence and lay on his side by the door, staring across the room at nothing.

  After a long moment, Peter said, “Might have saved your brawling for the escape.” His whisper was tense, quieter than before. “You could have died on those rocks. Now they’ll clap you in irons as you work.”

  Kor was only half listening. She is gone. He shivered as Rimak’s awful words and terrible breath came back to him.

  “Next time you feel the fighting urge, stow it, or they’ll leave you on the rocks til you rot—”

  “Peter, she’s gone.”

  “…What?”

  Kor shut his eyes, remembering his mother, and Serah, and Eliker—all gone. “The McPhersons are dead.” He drew a shuddering breath in the stunned silence. “They were like family, Peter, and I—” His voice caught in his throat. “I betrayed them.” Bitter, angry tears spilled down his cheeks. He didn’t bother wiping them away.

  “No, lad. You didn’t betray them.” There was quiet, boiling rage in Peter’s reply. “Leon did.”

  36

  The next morning, Kor was put back to work. The guards had him in so many chains, he could barely lift his pick. But he did, and his grit and determination seemed to earn their respect. Even Rimak seemed to flick his whip at Kor less aggressively.

  The prisoners too seemed to notice him more. Those nearest Kor whispered words of encouragement and slipped rock chunks from their piles into his. This prevented mercenaries from heckling him as often when his strength lagged and his work slowed.

  To the prisoners, Kor symbolized an invincible soul, an unbroken will. So Cadogan said. The Isle had taken everything from them—family, freedom, life—but Kor was evidence that it couldn’t break their spirits, not easily. No matter what happened, they could always resist that.

  Their kindness buoyed up Kor, though his heart was still fraught with guilt and fear. His waking hours were haunted by Serah and Eliker’s death. His sleep was racked with fight dreams and nightmares. Every dream beast he faced took on Rimak’s shape and voice. He often woke before the fights finished and never reached the beckoning woman before the fighting began. The Badger, the Borlan, and Man distracted him from it all. He recited the tale frequently, in his cell and the cavern.

  The Borwood Timberland was a massive forest, sheltering creatures large and small, harboring light and darkness.

  A man and a woman roamed free in the trees…a boy was born, endowed with the same shape-changing gift as his parents… Finally, the time came for the boy’s gift to reveal itself…

  His heart chose badger…

  The father was disappointed. His son’s gift had not manifested as he’d wished. In his eyes, badger was weak and soft, too gentle, too forgiving. Borlan was power. Borlan was might.

  At first, he hid his irritation well. If the son would not manifest as borlan, the father would bring borlan to him. He tried to mold the boy’s gift and character, and imbue him with borlan characteristics.

  He still hoped to coerce the boy into ousting his mother from her place, sharing the forest’s power, and freeing the light-bound father. To give him a taste of power and dominion, of borlan brawn and control, the father crafted his son an extraordinary blade.

  The blade was small in size, but mighty in magic. With it the wielder could take the talents of creatures—the speed of a rabbit, the sight of a hawk…

  The boy was enraptured by the gift, grateful, but wary. A blade with such power could also bring powerful sorrow. He began to resist the father’s influence and turned to his mother for direction.

  Once again the father felt betrayed. His anger grew. He had shown his son the might of the borlan, tempted him with the power of the forest, and his son had defied him.

  In secret, the father sought the life of his son. Another could take his place. That child would choose more wisely. Together they would rule the forest and reign over all of Caderia. The father laid traps, and each time, the son was nearly destroyed.

  Warned of this evil by the heart of the forest, the mother intervened. She sent her son to inherit the northlands, then returned to face her husband. They fought and she won, but the battle left wounds that weakened her and the husband still resisted.

  For years she had confined him and his minions to the forest with her light. Now she limited her husband’s prison further to keep him close to the heart of the forest where her own failing strength was greatest. However, she still allowed his minions to walk free among the trees. Restricting too much of his power and control would only hasten the growing imbalance and bring them closer to chaos.

  His darkness and anger thrived even as her own light and vigor weakened. She knew that one day a child of their posterity would have to take her place in order to maintain the balance and prevent destruction from coming.

  The son, now forsaken and alone, climbed mountain and vale, fo
ught nature and beast, to reach his destination. At times he was nearly defeated. Wounds left him weak and vulnerable. Many left scars that never stopped aching. But he drew on the healing from his gift, sought comfort in the memory of his noble parentage. He remembered his blood and prevailed.

  And adversity made him stronger.

  ****

  The day Thaver took his leave, Kor woke with a start from a particularly frightening fight dream with a Rimak-beast. He was just beginning to recite the tale to himself to put the dream from his mind when the door to his prison opened and the guards entered. One of the guards nudged him roughly with a boot as he shouted an order. Kor groaned and rolled over. Judging by the twilight coming through his cell window, it was time for his evening shift.

  A Salkaran mercenary crouched down beside him to lock a set of manacles on his wrists. “Tonight’s the night,” he whispered.

  Kor glanced up to see Peter’s steel-blue eyes staring back at him. Then the woodsman yanked Kor to his feet by the back of his vest and shoved him toward the door to keep up appearances.

  “Get moving, you filthy bag of bones,” he said in the clipped, short-vowel accent of Salkar.

  This time, Kor’s ankles were left unchained. In the two weeks since the rocks, the soldiers had gradually cut back on his bonds due to good behavior.

  Once in the cavern, he was assigned to a separator table. This was generally considered less taxing labor, but it was exhausting all the same. He sat down, crossed his legs under the stone table, and leaned to one side. That was more habit now than a consequence of pain. Miraculously, his ribs seemed mostly healed from their beating on the rocks. There was only a dull ache in them now.

  Rock chunks were lowered by pulleys and carted over to the separators in wheelbarrows. Kor chipped away at them with chisel and mallet and pounded up the chips. After separating salt from more obvious rock pieces, he pushed the mined salt grains into the pile in front of his table. Six more hours. He kept a rough track through the water breaks, or lack thereof. The water carriers usually made their rounds once every two hours. The first didn’t come until about the second hour of Kor’s shift.

  Peter patrolled the separator tables around Kor, flicking his whip and shouting reprimands at the prisoners. Mercenaries stopped him regularly, all demanding the same answer: “Where’s the Brayberry?” Peter put them off as long as he could. Nearly three hours later, at the end of his rotation, he finally left the cavern, promising wine upon his return. By then, Kor’s salt pile was higher than the table.

  About an hour after Peter left, the prisoners paused for their second water break and meager meal. Across the cavern to Kor’s right, Cadogan worked the wall with a pick. The man set the tool down to eat and drink. As he lifted the water pouch to his mouth, he caught Kor’s eye and winked.

  Over halfway there, the gesture seemed to say.

  Roe patrolled the separator tables as Kor finished eating. Rimak was nowhere in sight. All the better for escape, Kor thought. He wasn’t sure his starved frame could overpower the hulking warrior, even if the man was drunk.

  Peter, too, was still missing—Likely out making contact with the Nalkarans and pirates, Kor thought. By now, their ships would be hiding in the boulders beyond the Isle. A rowboat would come in close enough to communicate with Peter.

  Kor selected another rock chunk from the stack beside him, and hesitated. This one felt different. A dull buzzing feeling came from the rock and he turned it over. Curious, he set the chisel against it and pounded carefully with the mallet. Slabs of rock came away with his efforts. Three-quarters through, a large piece broke off and rolled from the table. Kor picked it up to continue working, and froze. Nestled in the center of the piece was a titian-colored gem. The golden-orange color seemed to pulse and glow. Cream veins spread like spider legs throughout it. He’d seen a gem like this before, in King Leon’s crown.

  A tingle went through Kor as he brushed the stone with a finger. His mind grew a little sharper. Aches and pains, though still present, clouded his mind less readily with the sensation. He felt more grounded, too, as he had when he’d worn his pendant. He lifted his finger and the feelings dissipated; weariness and pain fogged his consciousness again. He touched the stone, then the rock surrounding it, experimentally. Both times, the clarity returned, but it was stronger when he touched the gem directly. Though still incomplete somehow, he mused, like my pendant.

  A whip stung his back. Kor grunted and jerked forward. He spun, clutching the rock in his hand, the gem pressed against his palm. The tingle cleared his thoughts despite the burning welt on his back.

  Roe stood over him, raising his whip threateningly. “I said, back to work.”

  Kor’s chest rose and fell in quick breaths as he held the man’s gaze. His fingers curled tighter around the rock and he felt it pulsing a little stronger. Not—yet. The thought wormed its way faintly through his mind, then dribbled out again, like water through a sieve. He lowered the rock a fraction.

  “Roe!” A Salkaran’s shout prevented the guard from striking again with the whip. “Help me with the Brayberry and you get first dibs.” The lightly fluttered Rs sounded familiar.

  Kor glanced up to see Peter standing before them, sword drawn, point down at his side. Without looking at Kor, the woodsman spun to make his way back to the mouth of the cavern.

  Roe followed, clipping Kor on the back of the head with his whip handle as he passed. “Back to work, I said.”

  Peter called for more help and several soldiers trailed after them. Three trolleys of wine crates waited by the cavern mouth. The mercenaries unloaded them and lined them up across the entrance as Peter instructed.

  Head aching where Roe had hit him, Kor gritted his teeth and flipped the rock gem side down on the table. He chiselled away furiously until only a jagged crust of rock remained around the minute, unpolished gem. Then he tucked the piece in a hole in his vest. No point in letting Leon get it. The gem slid down between the lining, hidden from view. Its tingle passed through the material and weakly pervaded Kor.

  By that point, the crates had all been unloaded. Peter pried the lid from the first with his sword, then stepped back and gestured at the open box for Roe to make his choice. The cavern fell silent as the guard popped the cork from a round, squat bottle and took a taste. Carefully, he swished it around his mouth. Eager anticipation lit the faces of the watching mercenaries. A slow grin spread across Roe’s face as he swallowed. With a satisfied shout, he raised the bottle and drank more deeply.

  Mercenaries cheered and rushed the crates. They stuffed bottles in their jackets and returned to their posts, carrying wine for the guards who’d stayed behind. One man resumed patrolling the cavern floor with Roe. Each had an open bottle in one hand and a whip in the other. The more they drank, the more sporadic and less intentional the whip flicks became. It was the same with most of the other mercenaries.

  Kor pounded up rock chunks. The last water break came and went. It was close to midnight, nearing the end of his shift. Mercenaries leaned against the walls, talking and laughing drunkenly, to themselves and anyone who would listen. Several sat against the walls in a stupor, though they were not as many as Peter and Kor had hoped. Empty bottles lay spread around their prostrate forms.

  Roe and the other man patrolling the separator tables were still on their feet, but drinking distractedly from their bottles. Peter circled the ground floor once more, then worked his way toward Kor. In one hand he held an uncorked wine bottle by the neck. Occasionally, he raised it to his lips, drizzling wine down his front to keep up appearances, though Kor suspected he hadn’t touched a drop. As he drew closer to Kor, Peter unhooked the set of keys on his belt. Roe stepped in front of him.

  “Didn’t think you’d come through, Salky, but…” The compact little guard raised his bottle appreciatively. “’S good wine.” His speech was slurred, but he seemed steady enough on his feet. He downed another swig.

  “Glad you like it,” Peter said stiffly, att
empting to move around him.

  “You going to fetch us s’more?” Roe asked, snatching Peter’s keys and hopping back out of reach.

  Peter started at the unexpected move.

  The other mercenary at the separator tables stopped short, turning his full attention on Peter and Roe. His back was to Kor. “More Brayberry? Where?” he demanded.

  Whispers of more wine raced up the terraces among those mercenaries still coherent. Many stopped to watch and listen. Several prisoners paused their work as well.

  “You’ve drunk the wine dry.” Peter spoke in a quiet voice, his gaze riveted on Roe and the keys. “There is no more.”

  Roe absently spun the wide key ring on one finger. “You know what I think, Salky?”

  Peter plastered a smile on his face. “At the moment, Roe, I’m not interested in what you think,” he said pleasantly.

  “I think you’re lying,” Roe said, ignoring the comment.

  “You lying to us, Salky?” the other mercenary asked in a low, angry tone.

  Kor slowly lowered his chisel and gripped his mallet more tightly.

  “No,” Peter replied calmly. “I don’t believe I am. Now give me the keys, Roe.”

  “You are lying,” Roe insisted. “You’re hiding wine somewhere.”

  The other mercenary took a step closer to them. Kor half rose from his seated position, mallet in hand.

  Peter raised his bottle and glanced up at the mercenaries on the terraces. “The only wine I’ve got hidden anywhere,” he declared in a loud voice, “is here in this bottle.” Again, the woodsman dropped his gaze to the short guard, who was drinking from his own bottle. “You can either take it all for yourself, Roe, or be a gentleman and share with your cullies.”

  The little guard finished off his wine with a loud, satisfied sigh. Then he tossed the empty container aside and grabbed Peter’s. “It’s mine.”