In Pain and Blood (Spellster Series Book 1)

by Aldrea Alien

  “And I suppose the irony of us hounds being from the same stock is lost on you.”

  The hound master waved his hand as if brushing away a fly. “I know all about that. But without the tower to spew out spellsters, you are free to attack the border with the rest of your countrymen. We will fight those bastards not with their own kind, but with those they cannot touch.”

  Tracker shook his head. “We are too few now. Thirty-three, if I heard Fetcher right.” His brows lowered. “You killed the elders.”

  “Not all of them. Some chose to slit their own throats. But they refused to follow orders and you all know what the penalty is for that.”

  The blood-thirsty heat of murder stamped itself onto Tracker’s face. “They refused because they saw you are insane. You threw away the work of generations because you think it for the best. They knew better. And what do you think your dear uncle will make of this, hmm? Or do you plan to do away with him as well?”

  “Don’t be stupid. My uncle will be made to see that we could never win the war as we stood.”

  “And what if us hounds fall? We who are so few now? Whose ranks cannot be replenished with mere soldiers. Look at you all.” He turned, his arms spread wide as he addressed the other hounds. “Following this madness for what? So he can throw us to the Udyneans? We came from that tower. The same men and women who gave us life… you slaughtered them. For what gain?” He faced the hound master once more. “How will you keep Demarn’s spellsters in check when we are gone?”

  The man laughed. “There are no spellsters. Except for him.” He nodded at Dylan.

  Tracker scoffed. “Did our mistress, your mother, teach you nothing? There will always be spellsters! That is why we are still here!” Giving a disgusted snort, he whirled to face Dylan. “I am giving you sanction,” he snarled, pointing at the hound master. “Use your magic and kill him!”

  Dylan glanced from the hound to his master, then bowed his head. “I can’t do that.” How he wished he could. That man, that smug bastard standing just on the edge of the arena ledge, was responsible for everything in the tower. Every single death was his doing. And Dylan wanted nothing more than to blast that smarmy look from the man’s face. But if it had been as simple as Tracker ordering him, they would’ve been free long before now.

  Tracker stared at him, incredulous. “What do you mean you cannot do it? I gave you sanction. Is that not how your fool of a collar works?”

  Above, the hound master’s laughter echoed. “Stupid pup. He cannot do it because you have no authority here. I am in command and he knows that. Whereas you know what you must do. Kill the spellster.”

  Tracker stood there, shaking his head.

  “If you do not, he’ll die anyway. Only you can make it quick and painless.”

  Dylan silently knelt in front of his lover, his heart pounding furiously. He took up Tracker’s hands and placed them either side of his head, holding fast as the elf tried to pull away.

  “You cannot see it now,” the hound master continued, “none of you could, but my mother let you, let all of you, become weak.”

  “Track, I…” love you. The words danced on the tip of Dylan’s tongue. He choked them down. Those would not be the last words his lover heard from him. Not like this. How he wished he’d said them when he could have. “It’ll be all right.”

  Tracker’s head twitched, the slightest of side-to-side movements. He mouthed denial, but his hands no longer attempted to pull away. Some part of him still clung to the refusal to disobey.

  “I gave you an order, dog!” the man bellowed. “Do it!” His lips curled, he turned from the pit edge. “Ready your arrows!”

  “Wait!” Tracker screamed, his voice thick and broken. “I will do it.” Tears flowed down his cheeks. “I will. Just as you asked. Only… Give me a sword! A dagger. A knife. Anything! Please. I wish to make it quick.”

  Something metallic hit the ground next to them.

  “Never let it be said I cannot be merciful,” the man said. “Now kill him.”

  Tracker picked up the weapon, a small throwing knife. It glittered in the man’s hand, slowly twirling. The elf’s fingers inched along the edges, testing the blade. His gaze lifted from the weapon to Dylan. “I cannot do this,” he whispered. “I promised, I— I cannot…”

  Dylan held his breath. Strange, this calmness that’d slipped over him. He was going to die. He should’ve been crying at least. Not just kneeling here, waiting for his lover to take his life.

  “I will not.” Tracker swung. His arm arced under Dylan’s head, the tip of the blade just missing slicing Dylan’s chin, and up. The knife flew through the air, soaring over the edge of the pit.

  The blade slammed into the hound master’s chest. The man tumbled over the edge, hitting the Pit’s unforgiving rock floor with a wet crack.

  There was a gasp. A ripple of shock ran through the hounds.

  Dylan stared at the corpse. “You…” Blood pooled around the body. “You just—”

  An arrow whizzed past them. Then another. Dylan jerked back, crying out as one sliced his shoulder. Tracker hooked his arm, dragging him to his feet. They raced for the door ledge and its scant cover.

  Dylan mimicked his lover as they flattened themselves against the rock. “What do we do now?” Arrows ricocheted off the ledge above. A few managed to get beneath the small lip of rock, but not low enough to harm them. Still, it was only a matter of time and luck.

  “Hold your arrows,” someone screamed and the rain of projectiles halted. “You will never get a clear shot. You, get to the tunnel. Tell the others to drive them back. Now!”

  Tracker hammered a rhythm on the iron-bound door. One hard knock, three staccato beats, then two firm pounds.

  The door opened and a woman poked her head into the Pit. “That was quick,” she said. “Eager to le—”

  Tracker slammed the heel of his hand into the woman’s head. She rebounded off the door and fell. A fresh volley of arrows seemed to sprout from the very wood, but the man merely used the door as cover whilst he snatched up the fallen woman’s weapon.

  There came the cry of another further up the tunnel. A man ran down the slope, his sword held low. He swung at Tracker who slipped under the man’s arm. Tracker’s hand closed on something within the man’s clothing and, before their attacker could counter, Tracker rammed a knife into the other hound’s throat. Dark red blood splattered over the pair. The man collapsed, gasping and clutching at his throat.

  Tracker nudged the man over, then checked the woman even though Dylan was certain she wasn’t about to get up anytime soon. “More will arrive shortly. We cannot afford to be trapped down here.” He held out his hand, still stained with the other man’s blood, to Dylan. “Come on.”

  Swallowing the bile creeping up his throat, Dylan grabbed that hand and ran behind his lover.

  They raced up the tunnel, the slap of their feet on the well-worn ground echoing all around them. It almost blocked out the thunderous sound of some else in the tunnel. The passage levelled off and, as they came to a bend, found a man waiting for them.

  The man planted himself in the middle of the tunnel, his arms flung wide and his daggers bared in an attempt to block their passage. “Do not do this, Track.” Torchlight lit one side of his face. “We are your people, your family. He is nothing but a spellster. Do you really want to choose him over us?”

  Tracker halted for the second it took for him to release his hold on Dylan’s hand. He laid his palm on Dylan’s chest, silently patting to ensure Dylan understood not to follow. The elf walked towards the man, his sword trailing behind him as if ready to fall from his fingers.

  The hound’s arms went slack. Did he think Tracker had given in? Although torchlight illuminated the man’s face, it shone only on the elf’s back. Perhaps if it had been the other way around, or if the man had been anything other than human, he would’ve realised his mistake.

  Something must’ve given Tracker’s true intentions away. The ma
n’s posture stiffened. His grasp on the daggers tightened. He took a step back, almost reluctant.

  Tracker quickened his step. “Family?” he snarled. In one flick of his wrist, the sword blade snapped up. “I renounced all of you as kin years ago.” He swung, the sword tip barely missing scraping the tunnel walls.

  The man ducked the strike and went for Tracker’s stomach with a dagger only to lunge to one side as Tracker’s sword pommel just missed his head. The hound slammed into the tunnel wall with a grunt. “We have gone rusty in our old age, yes?”

  Sneering, Tracker swung his fist. It connected with the man’s stomach.

  The man stumbled sideways along the wall, chuckling. “Did you think that would hurt? I—” The man patted his belt. “Shit!” He jerked back from Tracker’s next blow, bringing his daggers up to meet the one the elf had stolen from the man. Sparks flared between them for a moment.

  Then there was a wet crunch and the hound sagged against the wall. A soft, wet gasping sound filled the tunnel.

  Dylan crept closer to the pair. The man was still alive. Barely. He clutched the sword hilt, his outstretched arm keeping it from going any further into his chest.

  The man coughed and blood ran out his mouth. “The others will stop you, traitor.”

  “They will try, yes,” Tracker replied. “But I have a far better reason to fight.” He grasped the sword hilt in both hands and jerked it to one side. There was the crunch of bones and cartilage. The man slid to the floor, still gurgling. But Tracker’s attention was already diverted to the tunnel entrance.

  Dylan listened and heard nothing. “What—?”

  His lover held up a silencing finger.

  The distance rumble of footsteps echoed down the tunnel.

  “Time to not be here.” Tracker grabbed the sword hilt and tugged. The blade seemed to be stuck in the man’s ribs. Snarling, the elf kicked the man’s now lifeless body. “You bastard!” He snatched up a torch and grabbed Dylan’s wrist, before bodily towing him out of the tunnel. “Come on!”

  His lover’s breathing came a little more frantically now they were in the man-made corridors. For a while, the sound overpowered the pounding of the hounds at their back, but it soon wasn’t enough. Or was that steady thump his heart? Dylan was certain it would burst from his chest at any moment.

  Where were they even headed? All the corridors looked alike to him. And what, in the name of the gods, were they going to do once they escaped this place? The hounds weren’t going to stop once they left the castle grounds. They’d be pursued to their deaths. All because Tracker killed—

  “There they are!” a woman cried.

  Dylan glanced over his shoulder. Two hounds were close on their tail. One raised her bow, the point of an arrow glittering in the torchlight.

  “In here,” Tracker snapped. “Quick!” He shoved Dylan through a doorway as an arrow flew past the entrance. Tossing the torch aside, he slammed the door and slid a bar into place. “That should hold them for a little while.”

  “You… you killed him,” Dylan whispered, his thoughts finally slowing enough to process what had happened in the Pit. “Your master? The king’s nephew?” He leant against the door, trying to catch his breath before his heart really did erupt out his chest. Someone on the other side thumped against the wood. “I thought you said you couldn’t?”

  “And what, exactly, was I supposed to do?” Tracker shot back. “Kill you?”

  Yes. That was what the hound master wanted, the penalty for disobedience. As things stood now… They’ll never let us leave here. Not alive. Tracker had granted him perhaps a few more moments of life. “You could’ve made it.”

  “Sure,” his lover agreed. “I could have gotten out of this with a little slap on the wrist. Except you would need to be dead.” Tracker shook his head. “We were both marked as soon as they caught us together. I never should have let you come near this city,” he growled. “I should have knocked you out and dragged you to Dvärghem a month ago!”

  A month? His lover had wanted to leave the kingdom a month ago? “Track?”

  The man paced the room, snarling and swearing under his breath.

  “Track!”

  His lover swung around, facing him.

  “Do you think you could beat yourself up over this when we’re not trapped and facing death? Can we get out?” There didn’t seem to be a way. No windows this deep. Only a door and—

  His gaze fell on a strange contraption illuminated in the sputtering torchlight. It was a table, but with a wheel at one end and shackles at the other. “What is that?”

  “It is a rack.” Tracker walked alongside the device, running a hand along the wooden surface. “This used to be the castle dungeon, torture devices and all. The hounds repurposed it for training.” His gaze jerked up from the contraption. He stared at the door, the gentle smile of a formulating plan curving his lips. “We can use it to bar the door.”

  Dylan eyed the heavy legs, the thick surface and the unwieldy-looking wheel. “We’ll never move that.” Even if he’d been as strong as Tracker, two men wouldn’t be enough to shift such a hulking thing. He felt the collar, its warmth uncomfortable on his barked fingers. Maybe if he had his magic back… But he’d only ever dared attempt manipulating small items. “Unleash me.”

  Tracker returned to his side. He carefully reached up, his touch almost hesitant as his fingers brushed the collar. The metal hummed at the contact. “You must know, I have never attempted this on a living person. It could kill you.”

  “We’ll be dead if you don’t.” The door shuddered against Dylan’s back. The bar keeping the door shut gave a splintering creak. Whatever they were using was heavy.

  Tracker slammed himself against the door, helping to brace it. “They were wrong,” he murmured. “Gifting your heart does not make you weak.”

  Dylan clasped the man’s shoulder.

  Tracker leant his forehead on the door, rocking it to one side. “I might not get another chance to tell you, so let me say it now.” He inhaled sharply and stood there, just staring wordlessly with tiny puffs of breath heating the air between them. “I… I l—” He glanced up. His tongue remained stiff, the word balancing on the tip.

  Dylan waited, pushing back against the door as it lurched again. When nothing further came from the elf, no great confession of what Tracker felt, he clasped the back of his lover’s neck and pulled them closer. Dylan sealed their mouths together, freeing the man’s tongue with his own.

  Only when his lungs demanded air did he relinquish his lover. “I love you, too.” The words came out in a rush, almost breathless. They felt strange on his tongue. He’d never spoken them to a single soul before, hadn’t dared to hope he could or would ever want to, and now? Well, he couldn’t face death without saying them.

  Tracker jerked in his grasp. “I said nothing.”

  Smiling, he gently kissed the tip of the man’s nose. “I know.” But if he didn’t say something, they’d be here forever. He tapped the collar. “Now get this off me.” If he was to die today, it was not happening whilst he was leashed.

  His lover’s slim fingers slid along the metal, squeezing into the space between collar and flesh. There was a slight tug, a click and then—

  Dylan gasped. It was like resurfacing having almost drowned. Colour, vibrancy, flooded back into the world. Power rushed through him, filling his mind, his body. The wounds he’d gained, all the cuts and scrapes, melted away. He was… complete.

  Tracker caressed his cheek, a sad smile curving his lips. “There is my Dylan.”

  Dylan grasped his lover’s head. Their lips mashed together. He was certain their teeth clanked at one point. He didn’t care.

  Tracker drew back, but only a little ways. Enough to let them both gulp down air. “Gods,” he whispered between breaths. “Easy.”

  “I love you,” Dylan puffed. Having already been said, the words burst forth like a breached dam. He couldn’t stop them. He had to say it, to mean it, with al
l of him present.

  Tracker smiled. “So you have said.” Tossing the collar into the darkness, he scooped up the torch. The light threw flickering shadows over the rack. “You will need to be quick.” He laid a hand on the door bar. “I have a feeling it will not hold for much longer.”

  Nodding, Dylan ran to the opposite side of the rack. He positioned his arm beneath the table-like base. Gestures weren’t usually needed for this sort of magic, but it helped him focus. Just one simple thing was all he needed. Up.

  The rack rose an inch, wobbling as he fought to keep it there. The shackles rattled with every movement, one slithering over the edge to dangle like a child on a swing. The rack’s weight burrowed into his brain, squeezing his skull like a ripe orange pressed underfoot, as Dylan fought against the pull of gravity. Sweat beaded across his brow. He shut his eyes and tried to push the pain aside. He just had to hold it for a little while longer. Concentrate.

  The splintering of wood shattered the silence. “Dylan?” Tracker called, his voice edging towards panic. “Whatever you are doing, do it a little faster.”

  He focused on what lay ahead of him. Just Tracker and the door. He could do a straight push. Easy. “Move!” he roared. A pulse rippled through the air, shoving the rack like a leaf in a torrent.

  Tracker dove out of the way.

  The door opened. An arm slipped through the gap. Instinctively, Dylan attempted to halt the rack’s passage across the floor. It was too late. There was too much weight for him to manipulate so finely. He covered his eyes.

  There was a sick crunch and the most skin-crawling scream he’d ever heard.

  He peeked through his fingers. The arm lay on the rack, the fingers still twitching. Bile slid up his throat. He turned from the sight to watch Tracker pick himself off the floor. “Now what?” It bought them more time, but they were still trapped here.

  “As I said, we are in an old dungeon. I came here on purpose.” Tracker indicated the far wall where a round grate, about three or so feet across, was embedded. It had the look of a disused drain or something of the like. Hard to tell in the torchlight. “That is one of the old escape routes. If we can get the grate off, it should lead to the outer courtyard.”