In Pain and Blood

by Aldrea Alien

  He patted her shoulder. “I know.” The hound glanced at them and indicated the door with a jerk of his head. “Farewell, my dear woman. Try not to do anything I would not.”

  Treasure smirked. “As I recall, there’s not much that you won’t.” She turned her smile on Authril and Dylan as they finished dressing. “I do hope you enjoyed yourselves. You’re more than welcome to return any time you like.”

  Dylan tailed the two elves as they left the prostitute’s room and descended the stairs, studiously ignoring the hound’s very presence. Authril continued to shoot poisonous glances at the man, her face clearly illuminated by the massive chandeliers.

  “Such fearsome looks, dear woman,” Tracker said to her. “What have I done to offend you so? If it is a simple matter of not being satisfied, then perhaps you should direct your glares to the man who was face-deep in your crotch. Of course, we could go back and see Treasure. I am certain she would be all too happy to finish you off.”

  “Back there,” she snarled. “What did you think you were doing with him?”

  The hound’s sudden laughter cut through the dreamy music. “All this hostility is over a little kiss? My dear, what I was doing was as precisely as I pleased. You two have exchanged no commitments of monogamy and you have already admitted you are not lovers. That makes him fair game if he wishes, yes?”

  Dylan’s gut bubbled at the thought. He wet his lips. The ghost-like brush of the man’s mouth lingered on his skin.

  Authril jabbed a finger into the hound’s chest. “Keep your lips off of him.”

  Tracker gave a low, rich chuckle as they left The Gilded Lily’s bright entrance and re-entered the night-shrouded streets. “Where I choose to place my lips is no one’s business other than the one I place them on.”

  Confident his actions were concealed in the darkness, Dylan dared to run a finger along his lips. They still tingled from the man’s touch, mirrored by a similar sensation in his gut. No, not his gut. Lower.

  He breathed deep of the cool air. The sooner they reached the tower, where he could be leashed and free of the hound’s presence, the better.

  Dylan groaned. Someone was shaking him and calling his name. He rolled over, trying to bat them away with the swipe of his hand, and promptly found himself on the floor.

  Sitting up had him just missing cracking heads with Tracker. A yelp escaped his lips as he scurried backwards, stopping only when his shoulders bumped into a wall.

  A glance at their surroundings revealed it to be a small room with bare, wooden walls. Daylight shone through the window above his head. Two simple beds filled much of the space. They had to be back at the inn. Had they ever left? He remembered… being somewhere else.

  “Easy,” Tracker said, kneeling at his side. “Are you all right? You have been tossing in your sleep ever since your head hit the pillow.” The man paused in buckling one of his vambraces to press the back of his hand to Dylan’s temple. “You do not seem feverish.”

  He rubbed his head. It wasn’t hot, just jumbled. Everything ached and he still felt exhausted. His dreams had jumped from one nightmare to the next. He recalled running through a maze of charred bodies creaking for him to slow, of severed and bleeding limbs grasping at his robe and tripping him. There’d been a sea of bloated corpses that’d exploded into flies. And in between… Incense and a woman’s laughter chased him through the winding pathways. Naked and rotting bodies turned into dancing men with eyes the shade of honey.

  Dylan looked up at Tracker’s frowning face. How long had the hound been waiting for answer? “I…” He recalled a brothel and a woman with powerful thighs and the most incredible mouth. But any other details were just as hazy as his nightmares. Authril had been there, too. And Tracker… His gaze dropped to the man’s lips. Had all that been a dream? “You…”

  Concern moulded the man’s brow. “Are you plagued by nightmares often?”

  “I didn’t have a—” The lie halted on his tongue as the man’s brow rose in a perfect example of disbelief. “They only started since the attack on the army.” Sleeping with Authril had abated them for a time, but they never truly left.

  The hound glanced up from buckling his vambrace. “If you like, we could talk once we have set camp for the night. Horrific scenes and I have become close friends over the years. I am sure I can relate.”

  Can you? What regrets would a man who’d slain a defenceless bandit have? What horrors could a hound stumble upon? But then, what possibilities couldn’t he be faced with? The tower was rife with stories of fleeing spellsters going mad. He’d never believed them, but if what had happened at the main camp was anything to go by, one such person could easily decimate a small village. “I suppose being a hound isn’t always pleasant.”

  “If that is your way of asking if there have been times when my work did not involve an easy stroll to the tower, then… No, it is not always pleasant.” The man gathered up Dylan’s robe and tossed it into his lap. “But we are wasting daylight. We can speak of it further tonight, if you wish. For now, it would be best if you dressed before the women come barging in.”

  Dylan ran his fingers over his jaw, sighing as hints of stubble greeted his fingertips. Ordinarily, he’d settled down to shave. But even without the factor of time, he’d be better off leaving it in favour of the next morning when his hands wouldn’t be shaking quite so much. Hopefully, it wasn’t enough to be terribly noticeable.

  Donning his robe, he hastened to buckle his belt and hop into his boots. He’d just managed to shrug his pack into a comfortable place on his shoulders when there was a knock at the door.

  Tracker answered it to find all three women standing outside.

  “Finally,” Authril muttered, uncrossing her arms with a huff. “We’ve been waiting for a good half-hour for you to come down. You said you’d be quick.”

  “My apologies, dear woman,” Tracker said, giving the warrior a low bow. “We were held up by technicalities.”

  Those sea-green eyes narrowed. Her gaze darted between them. “I hope you weren’t the technicality holding him up.”

  Tracker laughed and threw his arm over her shoulder. “What is this? You think I would dare attempt anything after the workout my dear Treasure and your darling self gave him?”

  Hearing the hound speak was akin to being doused in cold water. It wasn’t a dream. The brothel visit, and everything within, had happened. That meant Tracker…

  Dylan took a deep breath in an attempt to calm his racing mind. It was just a kiss. People kissed all the time without things leading to anything else. If the hound attempted to go further, then he’d simply rebuff the man.

  Tracker shook his head, still in conversation with the warrior. “Our dear spellster is merely tired after last night. Is it any wonder he needed more sleep than the rest of us?”

  Authril’s gaze shifted to the man’s hand resting casually on her shoulder. “I believe I told you not to touch me.”

  The man merely smiled and removed his arm. “It is nothing to get upset about. I am not trying to get into your smallclothes.”

  “Just make sure you keep it that way,” she muttered over her shoulder as they descended the stairs leading down to the tavern.

  Their journey out of the city was slowed by Tracker’s meandering through the stalls, restocking their supplies with a hardier array of food than Marin had been able to procure at Toptower. He was never long and, however much the merchants wrinkled their noses and pursed their lips, was always pleasant.

  By the third stall, Dylan couldn’t help but observe the increase in a product’s value. Where the man before them might buy something at one price, those same merchants would demand almost double from the hound.

  Tracker didn’t seem to notice.

  The same couldn’t be said of Authril. She frowned at the man’s every stop, eventually speaking up as Tracker acquired his fifth purchase—a cloak that actually fitted Dylan. “You know they’re overcharging you, right?”

  The ho
und’s lips curved, flashing teeth in what should’ve been a grin. There was a marked lack of warmth to the expression. “You think me unaware of that, my dear warrior? I am merely in no mood to haggle. Besides, it is not my coin.”

  Her orange brows quirked in disbelief. “Do we still thank the wealthy bandits for their donation?”

  “No, but the money I carry belongs to the crown. I am merely given leave to use it as I see fit. If they seek to swindle me, they will only be lining the crown’s pockets when the taxman appears.”

  They left the city via the northern gates and stuck to the roads until the sun began to sink on the horizon. Like it had on the other side of the city, cultivated land stretched before them as far as Dylan could see. It’d been quite a shock the first time he saw them on his way to the army camp. The huge fields of wheat he’d heard about from those who had lived outside were nothing like the oversized garden plots he had originally imagined.

  Fat hedges and low stone walls marked boundaries, some almost encroaching on the road. Marin paused whenever they came upon a tree, hacking off the more promising branches with her hatchet for later use.

  They set camp on the roadside, poked into a small area between two walls caused by a fork in the road. There was just enough space for one tent, which the women claimed without argument. Sleeping out under the stars this once promised to be a pleasant night. The sky showed little in the way of clouds and, if he tucked himself into the section between the two walls, he’d have enough shelter from the wind.

  Dinner had been courtesy of The Sliver Flagon’s innkeeper. Oval pies built from cold pastry so thick that it could’ve been used to roof a house and filled with a pale meat that his tongue couldn’t quite decide whether it was chicken or pork. Either way, it left him comfortably full.

  With little else to do as the day drew to an end, their group settled on menial tasks. Marin set about checking the contents of her pack, unravelling several lengths of thin rope that she used for traps and testing their strength. One snapped and was sacrificed to the fire.

  Katarina had procured a new map—he wasn’t quite sure where from, but suspected it once belonged to the hunter—and was busy scouring over it, measuring out distances and checking her compass. Authril had removed her armour and was busy running a hand over the surface, muttering and tut-tutting to herself. Even the hound seemed occupied with sharpening one of his many throwing knives.

  Dylan shuffled off towards the area he’d already pegged for a sleeping spot and huddled beneath his blanket. It’d be some hours before anyone would wake him and, after the nightmares of the previous night’s sleep, he could do with an early night.

  He sat atop a bed. A luxuriously soft four-poster. Dylan flopped back, the sleek iciness of silk welcoming his descent. He wriggled across the sheets, indolent in the way his shoulders slid along them.

  Rolling onto his side, he snuggled up to one of the plush cushions, burying his face into warm flesh.

  Confused, Dylan lifted his head to find Tracker’s lean chest before him. He swiftly unravelled his arms from around the man’s torso and scurried back across the bedding.

  “Come now, my dear man,” Tracker purred as he slunk across the bed after him, a vision of hot skin and wicked smiles. His eyes glowed in the low candlelight. “There is no need to be like that.”

  Their mouths met. The man’s lips soft and welcoming as they slid over his in the gentlest of caresses. Dylan drank in the man’s breath for the few seconds it took for Tracker to fill the space with his tongue.

  The elf’s knee slid between Dylan’s legs, slowly making room for himself. The whole time, never once relinquishing their kiss. Those long fingers snaked down Dylan’s body, grazing over his groin. Tracker tugged on Dylan’s undertunic, inching it ever higher, the drag of cloth over his legs its own exquisite torture.

  Dylan’s name fell from the man’s lips, rich and hot with desire. The hound’s fingers slipped beneath the fabric, teasing as they rubbed Dylan’s length through the thin linen of his smallclothes.

  A low moan shuddered in Dylan’s throat. His hips rose, desperately seeking more contact.

  “Come now,” an exasperated voice grumbled. “You simply must wake up.”

  Dylan’s eyes flicked open to find a figure leaning over him, backlit by the gibbous moonlight. Launching himself backwards only served to slam his torso into the uneven face of the wall and wind him. He stared up at the figure, his chest heaving as he fought to regain his breath.

  The figure straightened, throwing Tracker’s grimacing face into the light. “My apologies, I had no intentions of giving you a fright. Was it another nightmare?”

  “Of a sort,” Dylan mumbled, his face growing hotter the longer the man stared.

  Something that looked very much like concern furrowed Tracker’s brow. “I know it is meant to be your turn to take the watch.” He glanced over his shoulder at the road leading back to Oldmarsh. “But there has been no one so far and I think it will stay that way until the morning.”

  As Dylan listened to the man, he came to the realisation that he was very much erect. Wonderful. He drew his blanket around him, trying to hide his true intentions behind a careful mask of neutrality. The last thing he needed was for the hound to notice.

  “If you would prefer,” Tracker continued, “we could talk about your nightmare. Air any uncertainties you might have?”

  “No!” Dylan stood and sidled away from the man, keeping the blanket tight around him. “I’m fine. You should get some sleep.”

  “If that is your wish,” the man replied, sinking to the ground where Dylan had lain. “Feel free to wake me if you change your mind.”

  Dylan grunted, hoping the man would take it as acquiesce, before settling next to the banked campfire. The chill night air slunk beneath his robe and nipped at his bare legs. Checking that there was no one else awake, he rearranged the blanket to cover his lower half before bringing the embers back into life with a few pokes of a stick.

  He stared into the burgeoning fire, feeding small branches into the flames one at a time. A dream. That’s all it had been. A very vivid, stirring dream. Not again. He hadn’t been plagued by these sorts of visions since his adolescence. He shouldn’t be having them anymore. Granted, they were somewhat of an improvement on the nightmares, but not by much. Not if he was going to wake up like he had.

  It’d take them a week or so to reach the tower. He’d just have to limit his time alone in the hound’s presence to very little and—

  “The evening has continued to be uneventful, yes?”

  Dylan jerked back. He’d not heard the elf leave his bedding, much less walk the short distance between where he’d camped by the wall and the campfire. Or perhaps the man had been standing nearby this whole time.

  Chuckling, the hound settled next to him on the ground. “I do not recall you being quite this jumpy before. Is it the lack of trees?”

  He eyed the man. “Shouldn’t you be getting some sleep?”

  “Oh, I dozed for a while, but I—” Tracker cleared his throat. “Well, you have been doing your best to avoid me since we left The Gilded Lily—a most tricky thing to attempt when we must travel together—and I am certain I can surmise why so…” He halted, his steepled fingers pressed to his lips. “I wanted to apologise… for the kiss. It was impulsive and entirely my fault. I was rather caught up in the moment. Throwing myself at people like that is not common of me.”

  “That’s good to hear.” And a little unsettling. Had he given the man some indication that he’d be receptive to such an act? He was certain he’d made his stance on that line of thinking plain. “Not that it was bad.” Heat slowly slunk across his face as his ears registered the words that’d poured out his mouth. “I mean, it was nice f-for a—”

  “Nice?” The hound’s mouth twisted into a smirk, one brow lifting along with Dylan’s pulse. “My dear spellster, puppies are nice. A warm fire in winter is nice.” He leant closer. The firelight threw strange sha
dows over his face and picked up the golden thread in his honey-coloured eyes. “I am not nice.”

  Dylan’s throat constricted. He tried in vain to swallow the lump in his throat. The slight purr as the elf spoke that last word. The small, and just a little self-satisfied, quirk of Tracker’s lips… No chance at mistaking it for anything but flirting. Dylan had ignored the subtler attempts that’d followed the rather transparent suggestion in the pond, thinking that the man would eventually give up. But this, coupled with the kiss…

  He tried to move, to put some distance between them, but found himself rooted to the spot. In truth, he missed this sort of harmless flirting. A part of him even enjoyed the familiarity. It wasn’t something he got from Authril. The warrior might sleep with him and dance at his side, but she didn’t respond, or even seem to appreciate, his attempts at flirting with her. Marin did, and was good-natured about it, but it was rare for her to linger long at camp. As for Katarina… Being that she rather reminded him of his guardian and was a hedgewitch to boot, he’d no desire to try.

  What was the worst that could happen if he let the man continue? They were just words.

  His gaze dropped to the elf’s mouth. His lips tingled at the memory of its touch. The exploratory sweep of the man’s tongue. So sure and gentle. The taste oddly familiar.

  Dylan cleared his throat. “So...” he drawled. His heart pounded, most certainly not because he wanted to kiss the man again. Maybe under his own terms. “Since we’re somewhat alone, would you mind telling me what your real name is?”

  Chuckling, the hound sat back. “Been waiting to ask that long?”

  “Well, Tracker’s an unusual name for an elf. I mean, it’s not very—”

  “—elven?” The man scoffed. “First the hedgewitch asks me and now you? In truth, I see little point in continuing this tradition most elves seem to insist on. All the tales say we fled wherever we came from. Why keep honouring it?”

  “I guess for the same reason Katarina’s people honour their ancestors. It’s your heritage.” In the tower, where an elven man or woman was born with no more ties to the outside than a human, the guardians made sure each one was named according to tradition. Even if only a handful were able to be raised by elven guardians.