by Aldrea Alien
Probably should’ve thought about that sooner. Still, Dylan kept pumping his hand until the elf’s length began to soften in his grip.
When Tracker didn’t move to break their kiss, Dylan gently pushed the hound’s shoulders to part them. The man’s breath came in huge gasps. His arms shook, even with Dylan supporting most of the elf’s weight. “Are you all right?”
Tracker huffed through a grin. “Yes. It has been some time since I have needed to be so quiet.” Their foreheads touched, the elf’s like a furnace. “We truly should start the day like this more often.”
“If we do that, we’re going to need more blankets.”
The hound’s grin merely widened. “Mercifully, not this time.” He patted Dylan’s side. “Stay put. My mess, I clean.”
Dylan lay still, lacing his fingers behind his head and gazing up at the play of shadows across the tent, as the hound slowly swung his leg over then vanished from peripheral sight.
Something hot and wet snaked across his stomach. It flexed along his skin, tickling with each stroke. Was that the man’s… tongue? A quick glance down confirmed it.
Dylan bit his lip to keep from giggling as Tracker continued to lick along his abdomen. “Track?” he managed during a reprieve. “What are you doing?”
The hound lifted his head. His brows rose. “Cleaning up?”
“A rag would’ve sufficed.” A few minutes with a little warm water would’ve seen the job done. With less tickling, too.
“This is more efficient.” Those long fingers latched onto Dylan’s waist. “Now stop squirming.”
Dylan tried his best to remain still. It wasn’t an easy task. Tracker seemed to be in no hurry and, if he was to judge by the feather-light brushes on parts of his skin that were most certainly not marked, the hound was also doing it deliberately. “Track…” he moaned, unable to stay still and silent in the same moment. If the hound kept up with his teasing, they’d be right back at the beginning.
Tracker surfaced, apparently deciding on showing him mercy. He ran his gaze over Dylan, smirking in a very self-satisfied manner. “Is something wrong, my dear man?” The hound slunk up Dylan’s body. Mischief danced in that honey-coloured gaze.
Swallowing in an attempt to wet his dry throat, Dylan shut his eyes tight. Think of something else. The battlefield. All those dead bodies. The charred stench of burnt hair and roasting flesh. The taste of—
Honey. Only now did he realise the hound’s mouth was firmly pressed against his, that he had also unthinkingly parted his lips and allowed Tracker entry—a fact the man was using to his advantage.
Dylan slipped his fingers into the man’s hair, prepared to haul Tracker’s head back. Now that he pushed against the elf, Tracker’s tongue moved slowly. Playing. Coaxing Dylan to follow until it was him exploring the hound’s mouth. The longer they laid there, the less inclined Dylan was to stop.
Eventually, a moment that seemed far too soon, Tracker broke the kiss. He propped himself on his elbows, breathless and grinning. “So,” he purred, the long fingers of one hand busily tracing the edge of Dylan’s ear. “Do I taste as sweet as you envisioned?”
Dylan frowned at him. What sort of dribble was—? “God’s,” he groaned, slapping a hand over his eyes. The hound was referring to that ridiculous flat cake comparison he’d had made several days ago.
“I ask only because, if you do not mind the taste, I can think of a few things we can do to expand our fun.”
So can I. Just how innocent did the man think he was on the subject? Licking his lips, he peeked out from between his fingers. That showed him naught but Tracker’s patiently neutral face. Dylan wrapped his arms around the hound’s shoulders, drawing them close enough to let their lips brush against each other. “I refuse to answer.”
“Then I should take your actions as acquiescence instead, yes?” Tracker murmured before slanting his mouth over Dylan’s.
Dylan allowed the hound a brief moment before he attempted to push Tracker off him. “You’re impossible.”
Silently laughing, Tracker rolled to one side. “On the contrary, dear man,” the hound breathed. “I think you are quite aware of how very easy I am and… Did I hear handsome earlier?”
He lightly poked the man’s chest. “Are we fishing for compliments, now?”
A low chuckle shook the hound’s shoulders. “No, I am aware of my looks, thank you. It is merely pleasant to hear another say it.”
“Oh?” Dylan rolled onto his side so they faced each other. “Have I been remiss with my adoration, Master Tracker? Should I wax loquacious on your beauty? Or perhaps, spin sonnets of how your eyes are the exact same amber shade of warm honey?”
The wavering, hesitant smile that had taken the man’s lips as Dylan talked swiftly turned into a grin, growing wider with every word until it almost split the hound’s face in two. “You do not have to do that, no. But I will certainly not object to such treatment.”
“Alas,” Dylan moaned, tipping his head away from Tracker and clutching at his chest. “The poetic muse eludes me so.”
Barely concealed laughter snorted out the hound’s nose. “A pity. The thought of a sonnet about my eyes sounded delightful. Although…” Tracker murmured as he caressed Dylan’s cheek, tracing the curve of a cheekbone with his thumb. “They rather pale in comparison, my dark-eyed one.” A small, soft smile wrinkled the corner of his eyes. Something shimmered in their depths. Warmth. Light.
Dylan’s heart thundered in his ears. Was this what the others had meant? This sight? Gods. With trembling fingers, he clasped the man’s waist.
Tracker’s lips parted as if to speak, only to close without a sound. Then, like a shadow had passed over them, the warm glow in his eyes dulled. A strange coldness took the curve of his lips, flattening them.
Dylan tightened his hold on the man. What had just happened? He seemed so different, so… at peace.
“Come now,” the man murmured, idly running a finger through Dylan’s chest hair. “If we do not get dressed soon, we will be here all day.” With that, he squirmed out of Dylan’s arms and began pulling on his smallclothes.
Dylan stretched out and, tilting head his to one side, watched the man’s movements. Especially the way his rear tightened when he bent over. “I could live with that.”
Tracker looked up from his trouser laces and grinned. “As could I, but I think our companions might baulk at the idea of lingering for such a reason. They do wait just outside, after all.”
Grumbling, Dylan went about his usual morning routine. At least he could get away with not shaving this morning. He really wasn’t in the right mindset to run a blade so close to his neck.
He stole glances towards Tracker as the hound packed away their bedding. Anyone would think he’d imagined what he saw in the man’s eyes.
Or had he?
That had to be it. After Marin’s words and Katarina’s suggestion of what she believed, he was confusing the man’s fondness for something deeper. Dylan tightened his belt, perhaps a little more roughly than was called for. He’d have to keep these little flights of fancy out of his head. Before he made things awkward for the both of them.
Marin glanced up as they exited the tent. “Breakfast?” she asked, holding out a bowl. The aroma suggested porridge. The sight put Dylan in the mind of lumpy sand.
“It’s nothing as fancy as our dear chef prepares for us when he deigns to wake early,” Marin continued, grinning at the hound. There must have been something showing on their faces for the hunter twitched a brow upwards. “Or have you two already eaten?”
Tracker laughed. “You, my dear hunter, did not come to that conclusion on your own.”
Dylan risked a glance at Authril, his already burning cheeks growing hotter still. The woman’s face seemed suspiciously neutral. If any sound had escaped, then she would’ve heard. And told.
He took a deep breath. Since they already knew, denying it would be a waste of time. “He might’ve had his fill,” Dylan mumbled,
indicating Tracker with a jerk of this thumb. “But I’m starving.”
The hound’s head swung in Dylan’s direction, those glorious eyes bulging and his mouth hanging open. A huff of disbelief escaped from the lightless depths of the man’s throat.
Dylan brushed a forefinger under the man’s chin, coaxing it shut. “Close your mouth, my dear,” he purred in a rough approximation of the hound’s accent. “I have nothing to put in it at the moment.”
Shock danced across the man’s eyes before Tracker shook his head, laughing. “You…” he muttered, wagging a finger at Dylan. “I am most certainly getting you back for that later.”
“I knew it!” Marin crowed. She thrust her hand before the warrior and clicked her fingers impatiently. “I win. Pay up.”
The hound settled beside the fire, taking up the bowls and handing one to Dylan. “What was the bet?” the man asked around a mouthful of porridge.
“Just which one of you is the… instigator.” Marin grinned as she took a handful of coppers from the other woman. “Katarina wouldn’t play, but Authril seemed to think it’d be you.”
Tracker raised a brow at the woman. “Our dear hedgewitch is a wise woman not to indulge herself in such things. And you two should be ashamed at such childish antics. It is none of your business.” He pinned Marin with a baleful stare. “Give that money back to our dear warrior. I cannot believe the pair of you would bet on such a thing.”
Authril stuck out her tongue and swiped the money from Marin’s palm. “I told you. Now cough up.”
The hound cleared his throat. “She will do no such thing, my dear woman.”
A cute little furrow appeared between her orange brows. “But you just said—”
“I said nothing. Nor will you get such information from me. And kindly do not place any more bets that include Dylan and myself.” A smirk stretched his lips. “Unless you are willing to give me a cut, of course. I will take nothing less than seventy percent.” He nodded at Dylan. “And he will take the other thirty.”
Dylan smothered a laugh by shovelling in a spoonful of his lumpy breakfast. Out the corner of his eye, he spied Katarina covering her mouth in a poor attempt at concealing her smile.
“That is daylight robbery,” Authril snapped.
Marin merely stared back, her lips parted in shock.
“Then perhaps it will be the push the pair of you need to find a less prying form of entertainment, yes? How would you like it turned on you?” His gaze flicked to Authril and he smiled. “Although, I am certain I already know the answer in regards to our dear warrior.”
Authril’s mouth soundlessly opened and shut, much like the fish Marin caught whenever they camped close enough to the river. “Point taken,” she finally muttered, dropping her gaze to the bowl in her hands. She poked at the remains, silently scraping pitiful morsels whilst Dylan and Tracker finished their breakfast.
“Tracker?” Katarina piped up as the hound scraped his bowl clean. The woman had remained quiet throughout the exchange, opting to open out their map and run a finger along the winding line that marked the road between Riverton and the capital. “You must’ve passed through this region quite a bit in your travels, what lies ahead?”
“Well, my dear hedgewitch, I would not choose to tread down these roads unless I must. The river is a far better and safer path. If the boats were still operating as they should, I would say there is nothing sinister lurking between us and Riverton. But now? After those bandits attacked our camp?” He shrugged. “Your guess would be as good as mine there.”
“You think there might be more of them?” Marin asked.
“It is possible. Although, I doubt they would be any more unified than our last encounter. We could perhaps face more opportunists. Nothing we would be unlikely to handle even without a spellster on our side. Now, the road between Riverton and Wintervale is best avoided. In any case, our journey would be much faster abandoning the path and cutting straight through the forest. The trees are not so dense, we should make good time.”
Katarina frowned. Her mouth opened several times as she clearly tried to formalise a question before she settled on, “Doesn’t the capital patrol the roads leading to her?”
“Maybe at one time,” Tracker replied with a nod. “There are remains of old guard posts dotted along the way, but Wintervale tends to only bother patrolling her streets nowadays.” He uncurled his legs from beneath him and stood. “But these are questions we could discuss on the way, yes?”
Dylan crammed down the last few half-cooked clumps of porridge as the others went about breaking camp. His gaze settled on Tracker as the man bundled up their tent. A leaf from the oak they’d pitched the tent under landed on the man’s head. Tracker shook it free and continued.
How would a person defend against a hound? The idle thought meandered through his mind as he chewed. Direct magic might not work, but something must. He recalled the way Tracker barrelled through one of his fireballs. The man’s armour was suspiciously the type to have a brief resistance to flame. And magically-created fire became the rather ordinary sort once it caught tangible fuel. No one was immune to that, not even other spellsters.
What about indirect magic? In the tower, lifting objects, manipulation of things that they hadn’t created was forbidden. Punishment didn’t stop people practicing the ability, albeit in secret, but he’d always wondered why they wouldn’t permit it.
Was it because hounds were susceptible to such an attack? There were many things Dylan could affect that weren’t magical in themselves. A rock didn’t stop being a rock because his magic lifted it instead of his hand. Nor did a dagger. Or a spear.
His gaze dropped to the leaves and stones littering their campsite. Dylan focused and a tiny leaf nestled in the grass wobbled. He’d not attempted this trick for some time, preferring the more accepted magical talents over those that could have him sent into solitary.
Dylan gave the leaf a little push, flicking it through the air and into the back of the hound’s head. The stalk lodged itself in the man’s braid.
Tracker paused in the act of packing away their tent to brush a hand over the spot. He pulled the leaf free and, grumbling under his breath, carried on with his task.
Interesting.
He chose something with a little more substance, plucking up a pebble and aiming for the hound’s arm. That got no reaction. His armour was likely too thick to allow the man to feel something so small.
Over the course of the day, whilst the others chatted amongst themselves, Dylan focused on repeating his little experiment to varying effects. He used whatever he could find along the roadside—leaves, small twigs, anything light enough to feel without doing any actual damage—as his ammunition.
Every time the object landed on the hound’s skin, Tracker swatted at the same spot. At one point, the man flailed so much that it looked as though he was being attacked by a swarm of minute insects. Dylan backed off after that, only pestering Tracker every so often with the odd leaf.
By the time they were ready to set up camp, Dylan was satisfied he’d discovered a loophole in the hound’s natural defence against magic. But knowing only led to more wondering. He cast glances at Tracker whilst hammering in the stakes. A part of him itched to ask the questions buzzing through his head.
Was Tracker aware of this weakness? Were the other hounds? Had other spellsters ever stumbled upon it? Dylan rather doubted he could’ve been the first. So what had happened to them?
His stomach bubbled at that last thought. Dylan hammered in the final stake and stepped back to assess his handiwork. All straight. He’d definitely gotten better at this. Now if Tracker, or any of them, would let him practise with the poles, he might reach Wintervale with the ability to set up a tent all on his own.
He glanced over his shoulder at Marin, who busied herself with the other tent. She preferred to do the job unaided and certainly didn’t look as if she’d welcome his assistance. The other two women had gathered up what easy wood the
re was in their cramped clearing and piled it in preparation for a fire.
A fallen log lay nearby, its grey branches still supporting the vestiges of brown leaves. Hacking off a few of them with Marin’s wood axe shouldn’t prove too difficult. If they needed the extra wood at all considering the last few nights had been quite mild. In all, a perfect place for them to camp. A pity they’d only be here for the night.
By the woodpile, Authril rifled through her pack, taking stock of her supplies. She moved on to check all of their waterskins, then the warrior said something to Katarina, who pulled out her map.
Dylan joined the pair of them, catching few words as Katarina muttered and mumbled to herself.
A handful of hushed calculations later and the hedgewitch said, “We should reach Riverton in the next day or two.”
Authril nodded and returned the waterskins. “We’ll be out of water before then. We should abandon the road tomorrow and veer closer to the river to refill them.”
“Why?” Marin asked as she settled before the as-yet-unlit fire. “Can’t Dylan just use his magic to do that ice trick he does every morning?” She wiggled her fingers as she spoke. Always did whenever she mentioned magic. He still wasn’t sure why. To his knowledge, he didn’t do such an excessive action when casting.
“I’m not drinking magic water,” Authril declared, nodding her head as if that was the end of the discussion.
Dylan straightened. “It’s not mag—”
The warrior continued to talk right over the top of him. “And it wouldn’t exactly be a smart use of his magic. It’s only a few days from Riverton. What if we’re attacked again? Do we really want to be without his aid because he exhausted himself all because we didn’t look for an alternate water source?”
A notable concern, if it actually took that much out of him. But in this damp environment, forming ice was a ridiculously easy feat. “It wouldn’t— Look.” Dylan snatched a cup from her pile of supplies and focused. Tiny crystals of frost formed, thickening until half the cup was full of ice. He pressed a finger against the frozen surface and slowly let a pulse of heat radiate through the digit. “See? It’s just melted ice.”
