by Aldrea Alien
Dylan pulled on his boots and stamped his feet deep into them. “Then I should make it count,” he muttered under his breath as he strode out of the bathing chamber.
The light, hurried steps of the hound following him echoed down the corridor. He waited for Tracker to say something else, but the man was strangely silent as they trailed through the hallways, their path lit by a small flame balanced on Dylan’s palm.
That didn’t stop his mind from echoing with the hound’s words.
Run. Could he run? Who knew he was alive? Three women and one hound? No, there were others. Even if Tracker said nothing, word of his passing would eventually escape someone’s lips. But after all this…
His gaze settled on a young man slumped against the wall. Scorch marks adorned the stonework of the wall opposite him. A strange imprint of what appeared to be a torso. He glanced at the floor, already knowing there’d be no body. Just like the wall in the children’s school. Dylan frowned. How had he not noticed that yesterday?
Sounds reached them before the stairs leading to the level above came into sight, footsteps and mumbling voices.
Snuffing his little flame, Dylan crept along the corridor to peer around the entrance. Had the attackers returned to ensure no one had survived?
The rest of their group stood spread out at the bottom of the stairs. Their heads swung from side to side, stretching to see around corners. Clearly, they’d been waiting for some time.
Relief flooded his limbs. Dylan went to take a step into the light of their torches, when another thought had him rooted to the spot. Would the women be able to tell that Tracker and himself had spent a large chunk of the night being intimate?
He lingered in the darkness, considering the possible reactions. Despite Tracker’s revelation that the man had slept with more spellsters than Dylan, he was uncertain just how common such actions were or even how they were looked upon in the outside world. He was sure that, had anyone within the tower known, they would’ve been disgusted at the elf. After all, Dylan was under the hound’s command.
Tracker halted at Dylan’s side and cleared his throat.
Marin’s head snapped around much like an owl’s. “Where have you two been?” She blurted. “Authril went to check on you and—”
“Bathing,” Tracker said, smoothly interrupting her. “The tower has a large chamber for such an activity. We merely made use of it.”
“What?” Authril snapped. The warrior marched across the space between them, her hand raised. Before Dylan could twitch, she swung at Tracker.
The hound was faster. Her wrist hit the man’s palm with a muffled thwack. Where his expression had been openly jovial a moment beforehand, it was now very much impassive. “I assume you have a good reason for trying to strike me?” The man’s words came softly, each syllable carrying a sliver of ice in its core.
Authril glared at him over their upraised arms. “Here we are wasting daylight searching for the pair of you, worried that some psychotic murderer had stayed behind, and you were just bathing?”
“My apologies, dear woman,” the hound replied, bowing ever so slightly. “I shall remember to clear any future departures from the group with you.” He cocked his head to one side to look up at Marin. “We have decided that we are travelling together, yes?”
The hunter nodded. “Until we’ve reached Whitemeadow, at least. I’ll decide then if we’ll part ways.”
“So soon?” Tracker straightened. He placed a hand on his chest. “I shall be sorely wounded by the absence of your presence.”
Marin rolled her eyes. “You’re not going to need me all the way to the capital.”
“And I need to return to Dvärghem,” Katarina added. “Sooner would be better, just…”
“Not alone,” the hound finished for the woman. He nodded, seemingly to himself. “But we are wasting daylight standing around, yes?” In one swift move, he spun about to stride off down the stairs, leaving them to follow.
Dylan tried to ignore the corpses as they made their way to the tower’s bottom level. Shock had numbed him yesterday. He had mourned through most of last night. Now, the sight of his deceased brethren infuriated him.
The king would want to know who did this, if only due to the threat they posed on others within the kingdom. Whoever did this was going to pay. And, as possibly the last spellster that the crown’s command, Dylan would be there. He would rend them apart, with his bare hands if need be.
“Wait,” Katarina said as they reached the tower entrance. “We can’t leave them like this. Maybe if we dug a big enough pit, we could—”
“A pit?” Marin interjected. “There are several thousand people here.” She spread her arms wide as if trying to conceive encircling the whole structure. “It’d take days to make a hole that big, even with Dylan working his magic. Then we’d have to cart each one down.”
The hedgewitch seemed to consider, and perhaps agree with, the other woman’s point, but she didn’t move. “A pyre then. Giving to the flame is a worthy burial.”
“Like our dear hunter says,” Tracker said, “there were thousands of souls here and in far worse state than what you have seen. A pyre that big would need to encompass the tower.”
“So burn it down,” Authril said.
The rest of them swung to face her.
She stared back, her face equally as incredulous as theirs. “What? Look at this place. If anyone managed to escape, they’re not going to return. And it can’t be any different to bringing down some lord’s mansion.” She pointed to the ceiling. “Those beams will be drier than any kindling. A few torches in the right places and the tower will collapse under its own weight. Same with the wall.”
“We are speaking from experience, yes?” Tracker asked. “Set a few mansions on fire in our time, my dear?”
“Enough,” Authril replied.
Dylan’s mind readily recalled the sight of the smoke from the garden curling around the tower’s peak. Only now it was thick and greasy, the stones soot-stained and crumbling under their own weight.
“Dylan?”
He turned at the hound’s voice, blinking back the film of tears.
Tracker stood before him. The man’s hand alighted on Dylan’s shoulder, squeezing just enough to be felt. “This was your home, your people. How do you wish to honour them?”
Dylan’s gaze lifted to the beams, then down to his hands. His magic could make a fire hotter than any torch and have this place burnt out before midday. He even knew the place to start. But there was something he had to do first, something he couldn’t let burn with everything else. “Katarina, follow me, please.”
The hedgewitch trotted after him as he strode through the corridors, quietly curious. The others trailed behind.
Dylan slowed as they entered the library, his chest catching at the thought of all these books alight. Sadly, he couldn’t save them all. A few would have to suffice.
He pulled a pair of books from the shelf and faced the dwarf. “These are the records of everything dwarven we’ve ever unearthed. Placements, descriptions, drawings. You likely have your own records, but I want you to have these, too.” He handed her the books.
Katarina hugged the volumes as if they were priceless. Dylan doubted it, but the dwarf wouldn’t be a hedgewitch if she treated his gift as anything less.
The hound cleared his throat. Wrapping an arm over Katarina’s shoulders, he gently turned the woman until she faced the entrance. “You three go on ahead. I will keep our dear spellster company.”
Dylan watched them go, none of them the least bit hesitant to depart from this shell of a place. “I don’t need you shadowing me,” he mumbled over his shoulder as he started to hurl books into the middle of the room. “I’m not going to run.”
“No,” the man agreed. “But that is what worries me.”
Dylan halted by the pile of books and scrolls he’d made in the middle of the library. He closed his eyes, fighting the screaming voice deep inside. All these books�
� The pages that were tinder-dry, the shelves that were as flammable as any branch. Beams and railings. Chairs. Tables… So much fuel in one room. Just the place to begin his unstoppable inferno.
He turned his focus on the pile. His vision blurred as his gaze latched onto the splayed pages of a book he recognised from his advanced history lessons. So many years he’d spent in this room. It had to be done. Best to make it quick.
Fire poured from his hands. All his anger, his feelings of helplessness, blasted through his fingers in one great torrent of smokeless heat. Single pages curled and crumbled into ash. Scrolls burned, book bindings smouldered.
Dylan pushed more into the fire until the whole pile was alight. A short blast of air directed to the mezzanine toppled a bookcase. It fell against the railing, dispensing more books into the flames. Spreading his arms wide, he turned the scorching blast on the surrounding furniture. The flames licked at the wood, charring shelves and dancing their way along each row of benches.
The pings and snap of ropes spoke of a chair’s binding giving. The flames stretched into the air. A gentle whirl of wind was enough to let the fire blaze higher. Still, he continued with the fiery assault.
Dylan stood there, watching the flames devour everything in their path. Heat akin to an oven bathed his face. The tips of his fingers were trying to blister from the continued outpouring of flames. Fortunately, his innate healing magic repaired the damage before his skin had a chance to.
Just a little longer. Then the fire would be unstoppable. Already pops and groans of burning wood echoed from above. They would have to leave or… Die. Oddly tempting, that notion. It whispered of remaining in place, of allowing the fire to consume him and be one with the tower again.
“Dylan?” Tracker tugged at his sleeve. “That is enough. We must go, before it is too late.”
He lowered his hands. What reason had he to leave? Run and be hunted or follow the hound to Wintervale and be leashed. “Go on without me.” It didn’t matter what path he followed, it all led to an early death.
This just promised to be quicker.
The tugging at his sleeve became more insistent, then the elf’s hand wrapped around Dylan’s forearm. Tracker heaved and Dylan stumbled to one side moments before the bookcase from the mezzanine smashed into the pile of books, throwing bits of burning debris in all directions. Smoke, thick and grey, fast blanketed the rafters.
“By the gods,” Tracker growled. “If I have to carry you out of here, I will. Do not think I cannot.”
After similar feats yesterday, he believed the man fully capable. “I belong here.”
A blade flashed in the flickering light. Close enough to his face that Dylan jerked back on instinct.
“If you want to die so much, then so be it.” The calm, even tone in the man’s voice was enough to make Dylan’s skin prickle even with the heat at his back. “I am willing to grant you as swift an end as I can manage. But do not think I will walk away and leave you to burn to death.”
Closing his watering eyes, Dylan tipped his head up. The oddly dusty aroma of smoke tickled his nose. Soon, he wouldn’t have to worry about the flames.
“There is no way you can avenge your people if you are dead.”
Of course he couldn’t. Dying here would be taking the coward’s way out. It would absolve him of any responsibility. But he would face the Seven Sisters knowing he could have avenged the dead. Dylan couldn’t rejoin the tower without ensuring the murdering bastards who did this had paid. He peered through his lashes to find Tracker had sheathed the dagger.
In one smooth move, Dylan hooked his hand into the crook of the hound’s elbow and pulled the man close. The hum of his shield tingled around them. He hardened the filmy barrier until it blocked out most of the air. It left them with precious little to breathe, but better than letting the smoke choke them.
Tracker jumped as a beam fell not far from where they stood. A table leg flipped into the air, smacking against Dylan’s shield with enough force to make him wince.
Those honey-coloured eyes, molten with concern, turned on him. “Will that hold up to the ceiling falling on us?” The hound pointed towards the shield. Beyond, flames crackled along the bookcases, curling spines and warping the shelves. The sooty light turned the man’s face brassy.
Squaring his jaw, Dylan shook his head. A single beam, maybe. Nothing heavier. Not from that height.
A small, tight-lipped smile took the man’s mouth. “Best we leave then, yes?”
He entwined his fingers with the elf’s and, keeping a strong grip on the barrier, ran for the doorway. All around them, the roar of the fire grew stronger. Groans and cracks followed in their wake. Visions of the ceiling caving in at their backs only served to make his legs wobble. The hound must’ve noticed, for Tracker wrapped an arm around Dylan’s waist to keep him steady.
They exited the library to the horrid groan of masonry. That sound was all he needed to find the strength in his legs. With the smoke still clinging to the rafters, Dylan abandoned the barrier to conserve what energy he had left. They raced through the corridors, hurdling everything in their path. His longer stride slowly left the elf panting at his heel.
Dylan’s legs finally gave as they crossed the tower threshold. He collapsed at the top of the stairs, doubled over and light-headed. He gulped in as much clean air as his lungs could manage, the tang of blood hitting the back of his throat with every swallow.
The hound hauled him to his feet. “Come now,” Tracker rasped. “You can rest later.”
Clinging to the man, he staggered down the steps. His gaze lifted to the gates. There was no sign of the others. They’re gone. Was it just the hound and himself now? No, there was a flash of a figure in the shadows beyond the outer gate. Three. Waiting. “I have to find a place to ignite the wall,” he mumbled, uncertain if he had enough in him to light a candle.
Tracker patted his shoulder. “We will see to that, my dear man. You just focus on regaining your strength. We have a long journey ahead of us.”
He nodded as, slowly, the figures became recognisable. The path to Wintervale wasn’t any longer than the one they’d taken to here, but that only meant they were likely to face similar dangers. More so once they neared the bigger towns.
Faced with that prospect, rest sounded divine.
They set up camp in a small clearing out of sight of the road. Dylan hadn’t dared to look back at the tower since leaving its embrace, couldn’t bear to watch its descent into rubble. Bad enough to see the thick black smoke pouring out the upper windows as the others set a similar fire within the outer wall.
A deafening rumble had rolled across the ground as the sun reached its peak. Even then, Dylan hadn’t looked back. It was enough to know. He didn’t need another image to haunt his dreams.
Instead, he was left to pace in a clear path beneath two trees. No one had let him pitch the tent or even light the fire, despite his insistence that he’d more than enough energy for either task. His body demanded he do something, whilst everyone else seemed content in winding down for the day.
Marin, after checking the strength of her traps, had gone to a place or two where they could be set. Katarina was busy leafing through the books he’d given her, Authril was tending to the fire, and their meal, whereas Tracker…
The man leant back against a tree trunk. He had out one of his many daggers and was busy running a stone along the blade’s edge. Dylan shuffled closer to the hound, a slow-burning thought sparking to life. This rhythmic sweep briefly slowed at his approach before carrying on.
Dylan cleared his throat. “Were you serious about teaching me to fight?” He’d considered the idea of learning to handle a weapon beyond his natural abilities ever since Tracker first mentioned it. That’d been back before Oldmarsh. His mind hadn’t stopped ticking along since last night, flicking through a multitude of other notions. This was the only one that made sense to act on.
Tracker glanced up from the dagger. “You already know how t
o do that. I remember how you handled those bandits.”
“I don’t know how to wield a weapon like you do.” He’d considered asking Authril, but that sword she swung about single-handedly with ease looked rather on the heavy side. Tracker’s sword—the bladed weapon, that was—seemed manageable. “I want to take you up on your offer to train me in fighting with a sword, if it’s still on the table.” It would take the better part of a month to reach Wintervale, plenty of time to familiarise himself with the basics.
Frowning, the hound sheathed his weapon. “Why would you want to? Blades are messy.”
Dylan rubbed his neck, focusing everywhere but at the man’s puzzled face. This was trickier than his mind had made it seem. “Last night, you said most spellsters use magic before all else.”
Tracker’s nose wrinkled. “I said a lot of things last night. Pay them no mind.”
Dylan sighed. If only it was that easy. “But you’re right. We do. I want to fix that. Learn of a way to defend myself in such a situation where magic won’t work.”
“Like against a hound?” There was a humorous quirk to the man’s lips now.
He shook his head. If the other hounds fought anything like Tracker, he had no chance of matching their skill. “They’ll leash me once we reach Wintervale. I won’t be able to use my magic unless given sanction.” And all the vibrancy in the world would once again be diminished. All he could hope for was to be treated better as the last spellster in the army’s possession. “If whatever destroyed the tower reaches the capital—”
Tracker flapped his hand. “Yes, yes. I get the idea. You wish to learn sword fighting. Fine, but not here.” He bounced to his feet. “Come, let us see if we cannot locate that smaller clearing.”
Dylan’s brows shot up. “Now?” The hound had been adamant Dylan couldn’t have enough left in him to light the campfire, yet the man was keen to begin this? Granted, Dylan felt stronger having had several meals and a little rest, but he’d seen how much a sparring session could take out of a person. “Weren’t you advocating for me to rest not that long ago?”
