In Pain and Blood

by Aldrea Alien

  Tracker scowled at the ground. “My heritage is buried amongst the rest of the hounds.”

  Dylan frowned. He seemed to have hit a bone of contention with the man. But if Tracker was unhappy with being a hound, then why did he remain? “That’s not what your tattoos say,” he pressed. “The one on your left arm? If I’m not mistaken, it’s a classic Demarn floral motif interspersed with angular elven patterns.” If the man wasn’t honouring his heritage of being both an elf and a Demarner, then Dylan didn’t know what such a design was meant to represent.

  The skin-prickling silence coming from the hound had him facing the man. Tracker’s full attention lay on Dylan, the firelight turning is eyes into twin pools of molten gold. That faint quirk to his lips had returned. Repressed humour.

  Dylan shrugged his shoulders and shuffled a little further around the fire. “What’s with the look?”

  The gentle twitch of Tracker’s mouth widened into a definite grin. “Oh, I was merely wondering how long you had to stare at my naked arm to make out the two patterns.”

  “I-I didn’t stare,” Dylan managed. He turned his face from the man and ran a hopeful eye over the moonlit fields, searching for anything untoward.

  “Of course not,” Tracker continued. “It was merely an innocent perusal of my skin. For academic purposes, yes? I thought you were a little more preoccupied back in The Gilded Lily for such a careful examination.”

  Would it be too much of the gods to send a traveller to distract the man? Or a lone caravan? Even a few outlaws like the one they’d come across in the forest would be better than this.

  “I was,” Dylan confessed. Whether or not the hound was aware of what had drawn his attention was a whole different matter he’d rather prefer not to venture into. “But I noticed the ones on your arms during your sparring sessions with Authril and it just struck me as odd that you’d deny your elven heritage when it adorns your skin so readily. It’s not as if you can’t have more than one.”

  The man grunted and threw a branch on the fire. “You say that so easily, but this is my lot in life. We hounds do not chose our duty, we are born to it and we must live for it or—” He shook his head.

  Dylan shuffled around to better face the elf. “Or what?”

  Tracker’s gaze drifted to the fire. “Be put down.”

  “So, the name is…”

  The hound sighed. “If you must know, it is because I am exceptionally good at finding those who would prefer to remain hidden. That is my duty. Others have different tasks set before them and are named as such.”

  Dylan’s thoughts flitted back to Fetcher. A title, not a name. “What is your name, then? Your actual name, I mean. I’m assuming they didn’t call you Tracker as a child. They’d have to have quite a bit of luck to call you something you just so happen to be good at.”

  Tracker stared silently into the fire for some time. “Well, if you would consider being called by a series of numbers as a name. Before I became a fully-fledged hound, I was just One-four-eighteen-seventy.”

  He peered at the man, trying to determine whether Tracker was serious. “That…” No hint of jesting in the elf’s expression. There was a suggestion of something else, though. Shyness? “That sounds like a date.”

  “It is.” Tracker’s gaze dropped to where his hands were neatly folded in his lap. “The day I was born, to be exact.”

  Uncertain how to respond to that, Dylan fell silent. His mind quietly churned away at the figures. The first day of the fourth month in the year eighteen seventy. “You’re thirty-two?” he whispered. The man looked as if he hadn’t yet reached his mid-twenties, but it was always harder to guess an elf’s age. The years tended to slide off them like water over a rock.

  A small smile creased the hound’s eyes. “Give or take a few months. Since we’re prying, you?”

  “Twenty-nine this summer gone.” Just a few months ago now.

  Tracker bumped Dylan’s arm with his shoulder. “Ah, practically a child. Why are you so quick to return to the tower? You should be out in the world, having adventures.” He smirked. “Meeting handsome elves.”

  The ghost of a smile curved his lips. “Handsomer than you? I don’t think such a person exists.” He clapped his hand over his mouth. Had he really just said that out loud? “I…” he squeaked before falling into a bout of coughing. “I meant—”

  The hound held up his hand. “No, no. There is little point in denying it. I know I am quite the specimen.” He tipped his chin up. “Just look at this profile. Is it gorgeous, yes?”

  Yes. The combination of his narrow face and those generous lips—which silently promised to roam every inch of skin until he was in ecstasy—were undeniably attractive. The intense, honey shade of his eyes only added to the effect. “Will you hurt me if I answer differently?”

  “Such a mouth!” The elf clutched dramatically at his chest and threw his head up, the back of a hand resting daintily on his forehead. One eye cracked open, gleaming in the firelight. “What have I done to deserve such cruel slander?”

  Dylan rolled his eyes. An unwanted chuckle huffed through his lips. “You don’t need me to stroke your ego.”

  “You wound me, dear man.” The hound pressed both hands to his heart as if in prayer. The man pouted and his eyes grew big, the pupils widening in the dim light. “I am but the epitome of humbleness.”

  Dylan snorted, then a small squeak slipped through his lips that, before he could stop it, turned into a giggle. He clapped his hand over his mouth, stifling the sound. Turning his deeply-flushed face from the man helped, but not by a lot. It felt good. He hadn’t genuinely laughed since leaving the tower.

  When he finally managed to stop and turn back, the elf was reclining on the ground, his head propped on an upraised arm. A small, slightly bemused, smile lifted one corner of the man’s mouth.

  The hot thread of embarrassment wove its way across Dylan’s cheeks. That didn’t used to happen quite as often as it did of late. If the man would stop staring at him so intently, he might be able to get his blushing under control. “So,” he mumbled from behind his fingers. “I—”

  “Is it true that you and our dear warrior are intimate?”

  Startled, Dylan whipped his head around. “We are.”

  “But you are not lovers?”

  He shook his head. He’d never allowed anyone close enough to let that happen. He’d learnt from a young age that it was far safer when both parties agreed to casual intimacy. “You seem a little surprised.”

  The man’s brows rose. “Do I? I suppose that is because I have not come across someone willing to lie with a spellster. Especially considering she has also been fighting them.”

  “Clearly, you’ve never been near the army camp. Apparently, it was quite common.” His gaze fell to the fire. “Whether they wanted to or not.”

  The man’s silence had him turning his head.

  Tracker stared at him, his expression a mural of emotions. Concern for the most part. “Our dear warrior is most protective of her desires. However, since she is unlikely to hear us, I would like to ask… Is she forcing you to…?”

  “Lie with her?” Dylan shook his head.

  The hound shuffled closer. “Do you think she would mind if I—?”

  “Propositioned her?” Dylan blurted before the elf could suggest what he believed the man was leading up to. “Quite likely. I don’t think she’s your type.”

  One russet brow rose in brief query. “That wasn’t quite what I was going to ask, but now you have made me curious. Exactly how is an elven woman not my type?” He peered up at Dylan through his lashes. “I like a lot of things.”

  Dylan wet his suddenly dry lips. The faint gleam of the man’s eyes did strange things to his gut. “I meant personality-wise. She can be a little abrasive.”

  “Bah. What does that matter? Even if I did actually have any wish to sleep with her, I am not looking for marriage. Besides,” Tracker purred. “I am well-versed in the art of being anythi
ng a person desires.”

  “Anything?” Dylan rasped.

  “Indeed.” The word left Tracker’s tongue in such a breathy, intimate fashion that Dylan felt the hairs on his arms stand.

  Shivering, his gaze flicked to the man’s mouth and back up to those intense honey-coloured eyes. They really did glow in the firelight. “I…” He cleared his throat. His face seemed warmer than the fire could account for. “I was wondering.”

  Grinning, Tracker sat up and sidled closer. “Yes?”

  “D—” Panic all but sealed his throat shut. He coughed to clear it and rasped, “Does the crown know its hounds get their information by soliciting whores?”

  The rather predatory grin melted into a wry smile. Tracker chuckled softly. “It knows this hound does.”

  “And what was that black coin you gave her?”

  “One of the royal sigils. They’re a promise of payment. Each one is worth fifty gold.”

  Dylan frowned. “They let you walk around with one to give to whomever?”

  “Not exactly. They do not pay us as one would a soldier. They give us the royal sigils to exchange for actual coin at certain cities. I still have three of my original six on me.”

  “Then, why haven’t we bought horses?” They could make the journey in half the time on horseback.

  The hound brushed the idea away with the wave of his hand. “Such a thing would be fine if we were only travelling a short distance. But we would need to care for them, feed them… Plus, it would alert others of our presence. You heard Treasure, there is a strange armed company occupying the direction we travel.”

  Dylan chewed on his lip. He had, but… “How much do you actually trust her information?”

  “Her and I, we…” A small, fond smile creased the hound’s eyes. “Well, let us just say we go back quite a way and leave it at that. She has no reason to lie to me. That is not to say others have not lied to her, but she is exceptionally good at getting the truth. Almost worthy of a hound’s status.” He leant back on his hands. “However, if it eases your mind, I did check on other contacts whilst you slept last night. Their absence was curious, but it does corroborate with what she has heard.”

  “How?” Did the man think those people would’ve been a part of the group to the north? Or merely that they would be the sort of people to check the facts of the matter if word had reached them? “If they weren’t there…?”

  “Well, if they are not where they should be, then they must be heading for the tower. Perhaps word of the army’s decimation reached the king and he has sent out an order for more spellsters.”

  Sighing, Dylan closed his eyes. He hadn’t even considered that the crown would order more spellsters to throw at the empire. That’d been exactly what he’d hoped his leashing could avoid.

  Only, it was worse now. The overseers wouldn’t call for another brawl, they’d merely leash everyone who’d participated in the last. From Sophie with her all but useless fire tricks, to the man with the green eyes, all the way to Fredrick and his strange trick of making people collapse with a tap to the head.

  It wouldn’t affect just them, either. Whilst he didn’t know if Sophie had a lover, Fredrick did. The man had won in the bouts just so his lover could win a bet and now he was going to lose everything.

  This was precisely why he never allowed anyone that close. Love was dangerous. It brought nothing but heartache and bitterness.

  He stared into the fire. Not for the first time, the insidious toxic wondering snuck up on his thoughts. If he’d been at the main camp when they attacked, would it have been enough? Even if he couldn’t have stopped the full destruction of the army, if he had been capable of saving a mere few… Would it have been enough?

  “Of course,” Tracker said and Dylan came to the sudden realisation that the man must’ve been talking this whole time without him listening to a single word. “There is the question of what so large a company is doing in the north. Is it Udynea? I know Treasure said the company was heading west, but… Do you think maybe the reason the empire attacked the camp and left is because they have an alternate route we have no knowledge of?”

  Dylan recalled the maps back in the tower and of Launtil’s tale of how her mistress risked a perilous journey across the mountains that blocked the Udynea Empire from spreading an army right across their border. The woman had died in the trek over the peaks, leaving her slave to carry on without her, but two people could traverse a far smaller path than an army. “The mountains are impassable to a large force. They have been for centuries.”

  “I may not be in the army, and there are perhaps some aspects of your magic that I may be unfamiliar with, but I know we have been at war with Udynea for countless generations. Surely, a single spellster has the ability to carve a passage through the mountains in such a time.”

  Dylan frowned. It was possible. “It’d take a lot of energy and you couldn’t blast a path through.” The deeper they pressed into a mountain, the more chance there would be of an avalanche. “Demarn has nothing worth that risk.”

  “How about a tower of trained spellsters? Did you and our dear warrior not say that they took the leashed ones?”

  He had. It was one man’s word, but the Udynean spellster had no reason to lie and he’d been so intent on having Dylan give himself up. “You think they’ve been after us all this time?”

  “I would opt for the people who were most likely to make it worth the inconveniences of a war.” Tracker shrugged. “If I was going to the trouble of enslaving someone.”

  Dylan turned his gaze to the silvery blue darkness beyond the firelight. All this time, the thought of his home being in danger had never occurred to him. The tower walls were fortified and both gates were solid enough to repel an ordinary force. But magic? He hunched his shoulders. Even hazarding a guess at what it would take for a Udynean spellster to bring down the tower walls felt worthy of punishment.

  A week. That’s how long it would take on foot. A week on the roads, of wondering when their little group might meet this mysterious armed company that traversed the land near his home, of not even knowing if they meant harm.

  They should’ve bought horses.

  Their journey to the tower was the quietest Dylan had experienced since leaving. They took the road for the most part, hunkering in whatever space the roadside offered during the night. No bandits leapt from the bushes. Not that there’d been much in the way of undergrowth to hide in for some days. Farmlands stretched across the hills for miles.

  Or rather, they had.

  The closer they got to the tower, the less civilised the land became. Fields full of crops gave way to cattle and flocks of sheep, then the forests returned. What there was of that seemed to carry a marked lack of any armed company. Not even a hint of their passage.

  That absence only twisted his gut further. How far had this company been when Treasure was told? How fast could it travel? The questions gnawed at him even as the peak of the tower appeared over the treetops.

  Home. So close, he could feel it in his soul. The sight of it lengthened his stride, not entirely with joy. There seemed to be a strange mist lingering near the tower’s peak. He tried to rationalise it, that perhaps it was a common occurrence and he’d just never bothered to look up. It was possible.

  All the same, the sight knotted his gut.

  “Bloody prison, that tower,” Marin muttered as they descended what he hoped would be the last wooded hill between them and the building. “I don’t know why you all just accept living there.”

  Dylan slowed his pace enough to shoot the woman an incredulous look. “Are you joking? A place to sleep, to study in whatever area you excel at, regular meals—”

  “I bet there is. Along with the constant watching of whether you’re doing something wrong and the punishments whenever you’re a bad spellster.” She raised her arms until they were shoulder height and wriggled her fingers in some peculiar imitation of casting a spell that he’d witnessed from the soldiers. �
��Did they beat you often? Or were you a good little boy?”

  “Beat? No one’s ever beaten.” Not that he’d heard of. “The worst you get is a week’s solitary.” He’d done two days once, all because a foolish prank went wrong and led him to being caught at the tower’s inner gates. He recalled pacing alone in the dark with only the sound of his footsteps for company, unable to bring to life a single flame due to the room’s infitialis lining. It wasn’t something he wanted to repeat.

  Tracker glanced back at them. “You know solitary confinement is a form of torture, yes? Usually reserved for enemies.”

  He shrugged. “The alternative is leashing.”

  “See,” Authril said. “That’s what I don’t get about the tower. If the collars stop you from using magic except when you’re told you can, then why not leash everyone?”

  Dylan rolled his eyes. The same question had been whispered by fearful spellsters throughout the decades. He’d almost believed them, until he met Sulin and the alchemist explained how it wasn’t viable. “First of all, we must be taught how to control our power, just like you learnt how to swing a sword or Marin with her bow. If you leash a child still learning, they’d rely too much on those safeguards. If they ever found themselves unleashed, they could endanger a great many people through sheer ignorance.”

  “But leashing doesn’t stop them from using magic, does it?” Authril pressed. “Just not without sanction. What’s to stop your guardians being the people who sanction a use of magic whenever they need to?”

  He nodded. She was partially right on how it worked, but there was so much more to it than that. “The order has to come from a place of authority, that’s why a common soldier can’t order a spellster to do their bidding.” His thoughts turned to the sergeant’s recollection of forcing himself on one of the women and the haunted looks in the eyes of those he’d first met on his arrival.