by Aldrea Alien
Dylan eyed the thick bars. It promised to be heavy. Perhaps heavier than the rack. But if he could lift it for long enough to brace the rack, he could keep the hounds at bay for a few precious moments longer. “And then what? We roam the castle grounds naked?”
His lover’s lips flattened as if he hadn’t yet thought that far. “We head for the laundry room. There is bound to be something there that will fit us. With luck, we can sneak through the gates before they think to sound the alarm.”
If they haven’t already. Dylan stood in the middle of the room, planted between the elf and the rack. He eyed the grate, trying to block out the pounding from the door at his back. “Track?”
The man cocked his head, one brow raised in question.
“Don’t you dare die on me.” There was one door, which meant one way in. And, even if they broke through, only one man could walk through at a time, which meant they stood a chance if they used everything to their advantage. Good. He was thoroughly sick of losing everyone.
He focused on the grate, wrapping tendrils of magic around the bars.
Magic can’t touch them. Once the flimsy wooden barrier fell, they’d little time to react. Hounds were quick, if the way Tracker fought was any indication. And deadly. Shields won’t stop them. Dylan threw one up behind him anyway, a shimmering line crossing the breadth of the room. He tucked the required focus in the back of his mind where it’d be easier to maintain if a battle was necessary.
He turned back to the grate. It shuddered in his grip. Mortar crumbled around the edges. Rather than try to tear the thing out and risk collapsing their exit, he slowly coaxed the grate to turn.
Bit by bit, more of the mortar crumbled.
Indirect magic. That was all he had at hand. Even clothed, armoured in so much steel he wouldn’t be able to move, he was no match for them physically. But there was nothing here he could use beyond the brickwork and that ran the risk of burying them alongside the hounds.
At his back, the door protested its last, splintering to the blade of an axe.
Dylan swung about and, in a burst of panic, flung the rack up in the hounds’ faces. He stared at the contraption, barely able to believe what he saw even as he held it in place through sheer will. By the gods. How in the world had he done that?
The hounds resumed chopping away at this new barrier. Each blow pounded into his skull, but if he allowed his hold on the rack to loosen, the blasted thing tried to rock back onto all four legs.
“Dylan!”
His lover’s cry had him returning to the grate as it wobbled on the verge of toppling onto them. Dylan pressed the heavy circle of steel bars back into place. Sweat dripped down his back. He could hold it there, but he hadn’t the strength to move the grate and keep the rack up.
The hammering continued, each blow thumping into his already pinched brain. A whimper leapt from his lips.
Warm hands clasped his head and caressed his cheek. It soothed his throbbing temples, but only briefly. “Tell me what I can do to help.”
Dylan opened eyes he didn’t recall shutting. Tears blurred his vision. “Nothing,” he gasped. The hounds would break through eventually and neither of them would be any closer to freedom than they were now. But if he let go of the rack, then the hounds would get in that much sooner. “There’s nothing we can do.”
Tracker’s gaze slid to the grate. “How fast could you move it once the rack falls?”
Dylan shook his head. He could see what his lover was asking of him but… “It wouldn’t be fast enough. It’s too heavy. I can’t… I’m not strong enough.”
Giving a soft smile, Tracker wiped a tear from Dylan’s cheek. “How much time would you need?”
“I—”
The rack shattered. The sudden release snapped into his mind like the crack of a whip.
Dylan lurched forward, crying out. His focus jerked to the grate, but the metal bars stood firm. Only a little push in comparison and it didn’t pound his brain like a hammered nail to keep it there. He could—
“Loose!” one of the hounds ordered.
An arrow flew through the doorway.
Dylan flinched, his heart leaping for one panic-driven beat. But his shield still held. Another arrow hit and clattered harmlessly to the floor. He stared at them, a wisp of an idea forming.
Just how many of their pack were the hounds prepared to lose?
The arrows wobbled, lifting as if cradled by toddlers. They turned in the air. Slowly at first, but soon whizzing around him like a pair of angered wasps. He waited, taking every shaft they shot and feeding it into the twirling belt. Three… Four… Five…
“Halt!” the voice bellowed. A woman. Hunter. “We know you are in there, One-four-eighteen-seventy. We are willing to forgive your transgression with regards to our master. All you have to do is give up the spellster and we will let you live.”
Tracker laughed. “Is that all, my dear? You have grown soft in your old age, yes?” He glanced at Dylan, then sneered. “Well, you can have him over my limp corpse.”
“Usually, those terms would be agreeable, but we are far fewer now. If we cannot replenish our numbers through the tower, then we shall have to see what can be made from two hounds. Until then, death of even one more of us is not an acceptable sacrifice to the pack.”
“Then we seem to be in agreement for once, my dear Hunter. But I am not giving him up so easily. Let us leave.” Tracker tilted his chin, glaring down his nose at the woman. “Allow us to walk out of here, out of Demarn, and there will be no need for further bloodshed.”
Hunter scoffed. “Unacceptable. You know I cannot allow him to walk free. Not unleashed. Kill them both.”
A man stepped into the doorway. He ran at Dylan, his sword held low.
Blinking, Dylan let loose one of the arrows.
The man collapsed, a feathered shaft protruding from his forehead. Two more hounds raced through the entrance before he finished falling and met similar fates, one folding with a gurgle as the arrow hit her throat.
More hounds milled around the doorway, seemingly uncertain about entering a room with a spellster who knew how to kill them.
“Are you going to take orders from her?” Tracker bellowed. “Do you not have minds of your own?”
“They are under my command, now,” Hunter retorted. “You all dare to call yourself hounds? He is but one spellster and he is running out of ammunition, get in there and kill him.”
A fourth entered with her shield raised to protect much of her body. He flung the remaining arrows at her. One thunked into her shield, the other hit her leg. She staggered, but kept advancing whilst another two slipped through the doorway.
Dylan’s gaze flicked to their fallen comrades, searching for something to use. One still clutched a dagger. He latched onto it and threw it with all his might.
The leading hound fell, the dagger embedded in her neck. The other two stepped around her, one wielding a short sword, the second a hunting knife. Dylan grappled for the latter’s weapon. His grip slipped, caught and slipped again. He pushed a little more effort into the act.
The knife came up, embedding itself into the man’s face.
The third hound barely acknowledged her fallen comrade. With her cold gaze locked on Dylan, she advanced through his shield.
Dylan jerked back, dozens of tiny shocks rippling through his body. He flung his hands up, flinching. The shimmer of his shield wavered. He struggled to keep the barrier there. Without it, the hounds would be able to take them out with a few precise arrows.
Behind him, the grate wobbled. Dylan pushed back on the bars, praying it wouldn’t fall. He searched the bodies littering the entrance for something he could throw at the woman.
Tracker lunged, catching the hound off-guard. She collapsed to a swift punch. The elf snatched her sword as she fell. In one swift move, he plunged the blade into her chest and turned back to the doorway.
Still, they came. A seemingly endless stream entering in ones and twos. They
fell just as swiftly, whether to Tracker’s blade or the indirect work of Dylan’s magic. Bodies began to pile around the doorway. Even this didn’t seem to stop them.
Dylan jerked back as a blade came perilously close to opening his gut. His feet slid on the bloodstained stones, dumping him to the floor. He scrambled back, letting Tracker deal with the hound.
They might eventually run out of those willing to fight, but they were also losing ground too fast. He needed time to manipulate the grate. How much? He didn’t know. But just a little confusion would work in their favour.
His gaze fell on the wood scattered about the doorway. Fire. He focused, pushing heat into the timber until a haze rose from the shattered planks. Flames burst forth, red and thick. The smell of cooking flesh also permeated the room. The fires perhaps weren’t hot enough to keep the hounds at bay, but the thick smoke seemed to give a few pause.
Dylan scurried further from the entrance. His questing hand fell on something cool and smoothly metallic. The collar. Dylan tightened his grip. Sulin often spoke at great length on how dangerous it was to toy with the metal, but he also recalled how big a blast the flawed infitialis shield had made back in the tower. If he could replicate that upheaval, then they might have a chance.
Leaping to his feet, Dylan threw the collar at the doorway. The metal tumbled and writhed through the air like an angered serpent. A brief pulse kept it on the right path. Pulling all the strength he had left to spare, he blasted a continuous stream of lightning at the collar.
The metal sparked. Dylan pushed that little bit harder, waiting for it to arc. The collar hit the top of the archway and crackled. Blue light danced through the links. Dylan let the shield drop, putting that minuscule amount of energy into the lightning.
A buzz like a giant bee filled the room. The charge raised the hair on his body. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up.
Slowly, he became aware of hounds racing back through the entrance, leaping over the fire in their haste to reach the tunnels. The collar arced. Sparks flared from its surface even when Dylan stopped pouring more magic into it. The whine grew shrill, bordering on painful.
He pulled Tracker close and wrapped a dense shield tightly around them. His lover huddled in his arms, trembling with his ears covered. Dylan squeezed the man harder, his gaze fixed on the glowing collar. Please, be enough.
A low hum rang through the room, then there was silence and a blinding blue light. His shield failed, torn from his focus.
They tumbled across the floor and into the wall. Dylan’s spine hit the bricks jutting out from the grate’s base with an electrifying crack. A dry, soundless scream burst from his lips.
He lay still, scarcely daring to breathe, whilst his innate healing magic fixed the injury. Barely thinking, he formed a fresh shield.
Sound rushed back. The groan of earth. The smack of stone hitting stone. The almost gentle slap of softer things he didn’t want to dare think about. Dust cloaked them, obscuring everything. Chunks of brick smashed into Dylan’s shield. Each blow stung, but he held on.
By the time his magic was done healing him, the explosion was over.
Tracker sprang to his feet, snatching up a dagger that’d lodged itself in a newly-formed crack. He swung to face where the entrance must be, ready even though no one had appeared through the dust. “We must hurry,” he whispered. “They will only wait to investigate for as long as they cannot see.”
Nodding, Dylan went to stand. His legs refused to obey him. He patted them, trying to determine what was wrong, when a terrifying absence hit him. “My legs,” he mumbled. “I can’t feel them.” They were whole, that much he could see, but he couldn’t feel his fingers sliding along his skin.
His lover spun to face him. Terror welled in those honey-coloured eyes, at odds with his smile. “But you can fix it, yes?”
Dylan walked his fingers up his hips. “It should’ve—” Halfway up his abdomen, that’s where sensation started. Half his stomach was numb. My back. Slowly pushing off the wall with one hand and bracing himself with the other, he tipped forwards enough to feel down his spine.
Right where the numbness started was a bulge. A small one, but where there most definitely shouldn’t be. His body had tried to heal itself and pushed the vertebrae too far out of alignment in the process.
He pushed on the lump and was rewarded with a searing pain through his entire spine. Gritting his teeth, he put more pressure on the spot to no avail. “Track,” he managed without moving his jaw. “My back. You have to—” A sob wracked his body.
Tracker crouched beside him. “What must I do?” His lover’s fingers alighted atop Dylan’s at his back. “Is it this?”
Dylan nodded frantically. The hounds must have heard him. “Push! Harder!”
The man’s jaw tightened. The little lump in his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “All right. Let me straighten you up first.” He cupped Dylan’s head and lifted, tilted Dylan’s torso until his back was optimally aligned. Had he done this before?
His lover pressed on the spot in Dylan’s back. Gently at first, then increasingly harder.
Shocks and searing pain stabbed into his spine. Dylan closed his eyes and bit his lip. Hurry. Was that the sound of feet picking their way through rubble? He dared a peek through his lashes. Only shimmering torchlight leaked through the dust.
A jolt, like that of a searing knife, pierced through his spine. He gasped, his lungs too empty for anything more than a faint whine to escape them. The soothing brush of his healing swiftly overrode the pain, leaving him with just his quaking limbs and the tears collecting in the corners of his eyes.
He staggered to his feet. No time to let his body finish healing. They had to—
“Look out!” Tracker barrelled into him. They hit the floor, sliding across the dusty, blood-stained stone.
The grate fell with a deafening clang. It hit where Dylan stood only moments ago, bounced and rolled briefly before slowly rotating like a coin dropped onto a table.
“Shit,” Tracker mumbled. His attention had latched onto the doorway where a trio of hounds stood before the entrance. The fire was gone, smothered by dust and stone. “You are capable of moving, yes?”
Dylan nodded, unable to do more than pant for the moment. His gaze settled back on the grate. The three hounds didn’t seem willing to enter whilst the metal disc still spun like a top. “Stay put,” he warned, before sending a well-timed pulse towards the grate. It picked up speed, growing faster with each rotation until it looked like a ball.
“What are you doing?” Tracker hissed.
“Making sure they don’t follow us.”
His lover stared in horrified silence as the grate’s momentum began to shift it across the room. “Can you control it? You must be near exhaustion by now.”
“Yes,” he growled. He sent the grate flying with the flick of his wrist. It twirled across the room, crashing into the hounds, and bouncing off the wall to roll back towards the open maw of the old escape tunnel.
Tracker wrapped his arms around Dylan, hoisting him half off the ground, clearly torn between staying put and attempting to reach the tunnel before the grate did.
Dylan gritted his teeth and grabbed hold of the grate, trying to reverse its direction. It’d been easy when the thing was spinning, but the strain of directing the grate back towards the door verged on impossible to control.
It gave. Slowly.
He sent one final pulse at it, sending the grate smashing into the remains of the rack. It bounced as it hit, wedging in the doorway.
Tracker pulled both of them to their feet. His lover waited only until Dylan had steadied himself before snatching up one of the swords scattered about. He raised it, ready to fight whoever came through.
No one emerged from the corridor.
Dylan stepped back, bile rising in his throat as he finally took in what he’d done. Blood pooled in the doorway. A great many corpses filled the entrance, mangled beyond recognition. Black
ened flesh, crushed skulls, halves and bits of body. Just like the tower.
At his side, Tracker also stared at the carnage, his mouth dropping open. “An absolute terror,” he breathed.
Dylan leant against the wall. His knees wobbled, threatening to dump him back to the blood-splattered floor. Murderer. There were so few left. All desperate to please rather than die. He should’ve chosen another path.
His lover swung to face him. Blood had splattered down one side of the elf’s face. He either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care. “You are very pale. Are you all right?”
He nodded. “Is this all of them?” He knew from Tracker that hounds were rare, their brutal training would make them rarer still. Thirty-three. That’s how many Tracker had claimed was left. There had to be at least two dozen around the doorway alone. Had he just slain every hound in the kingdom?
“Of the fully trained ones?” Tracker frowned thoughtfully. “Mostly, I would think, yes.”
“And the others?”
Those honey-coloured eyes settled on him, wary. Not of him. By the gods let it not be him that his lover feared. “The young will be in their housings elsewhere. Of the rest… there will be those who have returned to their stations or are hunting for possible spellsters who escaped. If there are more left here, then they likely would have gone for reinforcements to wear you out. We should go.”
“They’ll hunt us.” Let a spellster escape? Not likely. Less so for one who knew how to fight them.
“Yes.”
“I…” he whispered. Throughout their whole time getting to Wintervale, it’d only been his life on the line. Now he’d Tracker’s to worry about. What if he couldn’t hold them off the next time they came? Dylan hugged himself. He didn’t think he could bear losing anyone else. “I’m scared.”
Tracker glanced over his shoulder. The sword slipped free of his fingers, hitting the ground with a dreadful clang. His lover strode across the room, those bright eyes unwavering from Dylan’s face.
