by Aldrea Alien
Authril cleared her throat. “It started at the tower.”
Tracker’s mouth dropped open. “Dylan!” It could’ve been an act, but the hound sounded genuinely shocked and a little hurt. “You told her?”
“Last night,” he admitted. “She asked.”
“Wow.” Marin leant to one side, tipping her head to peer at the warrior from around the fire. “So you two have slept together without sleeping together for that whole time?”
Dylan glanced at Authril, then back at the hunter.
“Wait.” Marin sat up, holding out her hands. “Are you telling me that you two have been at it?” Her brows lowered as she eyed Dylan. “Then, what? You snuck on over to his—” She jerked a thumb towards Tracker. “—tent to do a little under-the-blankets sparring with him? I didn’t think men had that much energy.” Whipping her head around, she glared at the hound who was attempting to muffle his laughter behind the weak excuse of a cough. “What’s got into you?”
“It goes something like that, yes.”
Those soft brown eyes narrowed at the man. “Something like that, hmm?”
Tracker grinned at her. “Dear woman, I have already told you that you will get no such details from me. It is entirely up to Dylan what he shares with whom.”
“Sounds to me like he’s been sharing an awful lot with you.” Marin shrugged. “But suit yourself. I’ve no interest in what you’re doing during your little night-time sword fight sessions so long as I can’t hear it.”
Fresh heat blazed across Dylan’s face. He lowered his head and took a small bite from his breakfast in the hopes of cooling his cheeks. The cheese was sharper than he liked, but he ate it anyway. Staying quiet whenever he was with Tracker hadn’t exactly been easy and now that the others were aware of it, he rather doubted he’d be able to attempt much of anything.
The hound’s gaze settled on Dylan for a little longer than it should have. “Good,” Tracker mumbled, snapping his attention back to Marin. “Then you will stop talking about such things, yes?”
Marin mimicked the man’s action, although a mite bit faster. She frowned and mumbled, “Sure.”
The rest of their meal went by in hasty silence. Slightly less awkward than it had been, but still uncomfortably stiff. They broke camp and made their way through the undergrowth. As they’d been hurried into this new position, and with the hound having taken extra care in covering their trail, it took twice the usual time to reach the roadside.
Their seemingly endless slog along the road went by without incident. Large caravans carrying various bits of cargo passed them by in both directions. As it had been for the past week, the majority appeared to be coming from Whitemeadow way. Clearly, the boats hadn’t yet been returned.
Part of him hoped that meant the Talfaltaners had been caught, but he recognised the foolhardiness of such a wish. By the time anyone with some authority got wind of what had happened to the tower, it would already be too late.
The sun beat down, growing hotter as the day drew on. There was wind, its passage too erratic to have any hope of chasing away the heat.
Sweating heavily, Dylan slowed his pace as the afternoon reached its hottest rather than try to keep up with the women. They weren’t too far and, as long as Tracker remained at the rear with him, he stood a good chance of finding them when they made camp.
He eyed a wagon as it trundled past, its load mostly sacks. How much would it cost to hitch a ride on one? Even for a short time? The hound likely had enough coin to pay for the inconvenience.
Dylan scuffed his foot along the ground and watched the wagon pull away. Probably wouldn’t take a spellster, anyway.
The brush of another’s hand across the back of his own jolted him from his thoughts. Tracker still walked at his side, seemingly relaxed and uninterested with the world. Dylan knew better.
The man’s finger stretched across the minuscule gap between them and a shock ran through Dylan’s body
Flinching from the contact, Dylan glanced down. He half expected to discover a bolt of lightning had flared between them. Nothing.
“Are you all right?” the hound asked, his voice pitched low even though the others were too far to possibly hear. “You seem a little jitterier than usual. You must have looked over your shoulder a good dozen times by now.”
“I have not,” he shot back, pointedly turning his gaze to the women. They walked perhaps three cart lengths ahead.
Tracker chuckled. “My apologies. I must be seeing things.” They’d taken perhaps a handful more steps before the man spoke again. “About last night.”
Sighing, Dylan kicked a stone along the road. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Because you are still embarrassed, yes?”
“I’m not ashamed,” he curtly replied. Not entirely. Perhaps a little bit, but that wasn’t what gnawed at him. Dylan picked up the pace. If they caught up with the others, then perhaps Tracker would desist with attempting to dissect his feelings.
The man lengthened his stride, not quite skipping at every other step, in order to keep up. Tracker’s brows twitched together as he hummed to himself. “No, you are right. Ashamed is not how I would have described your face last night. Terrified, perhaps. More so than being in battle. What did you think was going to happen?”
Dylan slowed at the question.
Is it that they know about us? Or that they know about you? Words the hound had spoken last night drifted through his thoughts.
‘Both’ had been his answer then, but that wasn’t true. It was in the knowing, rather than that they knew. Having someone aware at all placed them in a position of power, of leverage, over others. All it took was one whisper in the wrong person’s ear and—
Dylan took a deep breath. This isn’t the tower. He understood things outside the world he’d once lived in were different, but after having everything suddenly thrown into the light when he’d only begun to accept it…
His chest squeezed at the memory of last night. It was so hard, breaking the flow of panic that coursed through his veins. The cry to pull away, to not show too much affection. Maddening how it clashed with what he logically knew to be true, but it grew no weaker.
He went to distance himself from the hound’s side only to find he’d stopped dead in the middle of the road.
Tracker stood before him, his brow creased with concern. “Dylan?” The man caressed Dylan’s cheek. Those honey-coloured eyes seemed to be seeking some sort of response. How long had he been standing there?
“I’m fine,” Dylan managed. His chest was still tight, his voice even tighter.
The hound peered up at him. “Any man who reacts like that from a mere question is far from fine.” He clasped Dylan’s hands, pressing them to his chest. “Speak to me. Let me understand what is wrong. Let me help.” The hound’s thumbs ran over Dylan’s knuckles as he talked.
Dylan wet his lips. “Do…” His breathing came harshly, but easier than it had a moment ago. “Do you recall what I said about the tower and what they did to those who were caught in intimate relations?”
Tracker inclined his head, a soft smile curving his lips. “I do. But there are no guardians here to chastise you or keep vigilance over your actions. Just me. And them.” He twisted to look over his shoulder at the women that Dylan now noticed had stopped a short distance away. “You are safe with us.” The hound lifted Dylan’s hands to his lips. “I swear it,” he whispered.
Dylan’s chest tightened again. This time, butterflies joined in the knotting of his stomach. “I—” Looking into Tracker’s eyes, seeing the sincerity glimmering in their depths, he could almost believe Katarina was right. “Thank you.”
“Hey, loverboys!” Marin called, cupping her hands around her mouth.
Dylan winced at the address. From the way the hound had stiffened in his grip, he was pretty sure Tracker hadn’t been amused by it either. One mistake. It seemed that was all it took.
The hunter continued to bellow across the dista
nce. “We aren’t going to get to Riverton before our food runs out if you keep stopping to smooch every five seconds.”
Tracker rolled his eyes. “Oh, be quiet,” he yelled back. “We will be right there.” Taking a firmer hold on Dylan’s hand, he marched up to the rest of their group and passed them. “And will you stop with your insipid prattle about affection, my dear hunter? It is not like that.”
“Says the man who has a vice grip on his hands,” Marin continued, falling into stride with them. The others trailed behind, quietly.
Tracker looked down at his hand as if surprised to find it full of Dylan’s fingers. “That is only to keep him from running away from your dreadful needling, dear woman, but if you are prepared to desist.” He released Dylan as one would a hot coal. “Come, we should keep an eye out for a suitable camping site. Preferably a little ways from the water.” He jerked his chin in the direction of where the forest seemed to be thickest. Dylan had barely seen any sign of the river, although he would hear things splashing in it on really still nights.
They walked along the road for several more hours before venturing into the forest. Finding a place to set up camp was relatively easy. The sun wobbled on the horizon as they finished pitching the tents. It was strange, seeing two of them. They took up so little of the small clearing they’d stumbled upon.
Now that he saw it, Dylan wondered why no one else had suggested selling one of the tents back in Whitemeadow. Of course, it would’ve meant he shared Tracker’s tent that much sooner, but it also would’ve left them with more places to camp. And might even have led to avoiding last night’s fiasco altogether.
Tracker tapped him on the shoulder. “Come, there is a flat area under the trees.” He jerked a thumb at a nearby stand of pines. “We can train there.”
Dylan eyed the opposite end of the clearing. “Train?” The hound had been teaching him how to fight with a quarterstaff starting with their very first night away from Whitemeadow. He’d relished such times, not only because he very rarely wound up injuring himself, but also because it gave the man a reason to be close enough to smell without anyone caring. But now? “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Tracker frowned up at him. “Is there a reason it would not be?”
“Because…” He scratched at the side of his neck. “You know?” His gaze flicked to where the women sat near the fire. Just two? A more thorough look confirmed it. Marin must have gone off to scout the surrounding area for any signs of danger, be it man or animal. She’d be a while, too, setting traps or trying her luck fishing in the river.
Sighing, the hound pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dylan, if you are going to treat the knowledge of others being aware that we have been intimate as something to be feared, no one is going to be able to get past it. Especially you.”
“But—”
Tracker gave Dylan’s arm a warm pat. “Training will do you some good. Focusing on attack and defence will allow your mind to stop running in foolish circles.”
Dylan dropped his gaze to the ground. “And here I thought you were going to help me through this.”
The hound moved his hand to Dylan’s shoulder. “I will. I am. But sometimes, helping means dealing that person a swift kick in the seat of their trousers for being an idiot. You are used to hiding how you feel, even from yourself. I understand that.”
He glanced up at the man. Tracker seemed serious. But how could the hound possibly understand? By Tracker’s own admittance, he’d known where his desires lay for quite some time, he’d never hidden it. How could he possibly know what it was like to doubt his own feelings so completely?
“But there is no need for you to be afraid. No one is coming to whisk you away. Nor will our dear women mock you.” The hound smirked. “No more than usual, anyway.”
Dylan grunted. By the gods, how he hated when the man was so insufferably right. Sure, Marin had teased them, but Dylan had endured worse taunts than that in the tower. If her ribbing was all he’d have to weather, then it was nothing at all. If only that stopped the tightness in his chest.
Unwilling to concede so easily, Dylan bumped shoulders with the man and whispered, “How do you know they’re not just waiting for you to be elsewhere?”
Tracker smile grew hard. “They would not dare.” There seemed to be an extra spark to his eyes as he spoke, a suggestion that such utterances would cause more trouble than they were worth. He thrust the quarterstaff into Dylan’s hands. “Come, let us see if we cannot improve your technique before the sun finishes setting.”
Dylan followed the hound to where the ground flattened beneath the pines. Unlike the first time Tracker had tried to teach him how to wield a sword, they’d come across few precious spaces giving them the luxury of a private practice area. Thanks to the lack of an extra tent, their small clearing had enough space, but it also meant that the tents were pitched not all that far from where they trained.
The flickering light of the fire danced on the edge of his vision. Fortunately, the women were too occupied to lend their usual helpful quips. Katarina saw to the fire and, he hoped, to their dinner. Whereas the last he’d seen Authril, she was tending to the new dents the bandits had left in her armour.
“Remember how I taught you to hold your weapon,” Tracker said as he drew his sword and tossed his sword belt aside. After the first time Dylan’s legs became tangled in the scabbard and almost had the pair of them falling on the unsheathed scimitar, the hound deemed it an extra precaution.
Dylan slid his hands along the quarterstaff. Firm, the man had said. Like you would clasp a lover. His fingers tightened around the banded wood.
Tracker’s disapproving tsk-tsking seemed far louder than it had any right to be. “Not so hard. You are holding your lover firmly, not trying to squeeze the life from them.” The hound waited until Dylan had finished adjusting his grip accordingly before continuing, “Do you wish to go over the basics again? Or shall we jump right into it?”
Dylan thrust the point of the quarterstaff in the elf’s direction. “I’m not going to get better if you keep going easy on me.”
Bowing his head, Tracker assumed a ready stance, waiting for Dylan to attack.
He thrust the end of the quarterstaff ahead of him, aiming for the man’s head. As expected, Tracker jerked back, brushing aside the staff with a sweep of his sword. Dylan jerked the staff back between them, knocking the blade aside.
The hound grunted. “Good.”
He glared at the man as they circled each other and, through clenched teeth, growled, “I said, don’t go easy on me.”
“My apologies.” Smirking, Tracker bowed low. “Would you prefer I played the role of the aggressor?”
“Well, aren’t we meant to be replicating a battle scenario?” He couldn’t imagine any time he’d choose to engage an enemy with just a stick. Not unless he was really desperate.
There was a subtle change in the way the hound gripped his sword. Tracker lunged for him, the scimitar a blur. Dylan countered each attack, oftentimes barely. His heart hammered harder with each singing swipe of the blade.
The scimitar’s cool edge slid along his bare leg. Dylan gasped and braced himself for the pain. None came. That meant the man had turned the blunt edge to face him. So if he swung the butt of the quarterstaff to his left…
On the edge of his vision, he spied Tracker flinch. A little more and he’d be able to get past the man’s defence. Dylan twisted and felt the barely perceivable brush of the man’s foot wrap behind his leg.
All of a sudden, Dylan found himself lying on the ground with the hound standing over him.
Tracker shook his head. “You are letting your thoughts wander. There is no time for that on the battlefield.” He held out a hand and helped Dylan to his feet before stepping back. “Again.”
Dylan circled the man, trying to determine Tracker’s next move. The hound seemed indifferent to his presence, but he’d been fooled by that before. No way Dylan could afford to be so lax a second tim
e. His smarting backside was a rather sharp reminder of what would happen.
Tracker lunged, but Dylan was ready for him this time. He darted to one side, trailing the quarterstaff. A quick jerk of his wrist had the length of wood snapping up in front of the man as he circled behind.
Dylan grasped the quarterstaff in both hands, drawing the weapon closer until the man’s back was pinned against his chest. His breath skittered over the elf’s shoulder and, if he wasn’t mistaken, that hitch in Tracker’s breathing wasn’t because of the suddenness in which they’d collided.
Pure wickedness filled Dylan’s thoughts, driving him forward. He licked along the bottom angle of the hound’s ear, his tongue toying with the earrings as he slid on by.
A soft moan left Tracker’s lips. He sagged against Dylan’s chest, the hand that gripped the quarterstaff loosening.
Dylan slowly inched up the ear to suck on the tip, a smirk twisting his lips. What had the man said? Don’t get distracted? He slid a hand along Tracker’s arm, relinquishing the man of his sword. “Disarmed,” he declared, pushing the hound away in one smooth move. “I win.”
Tracker took a few stumbling steps before halting. “W-what?”
He tilted the quarterstaff behind the man’s ankles and swept Tracker off his feet. “And dead. I most definitely win.”
The man landed on his stomach with a grunt. In one smooth movement, he rolled over to sit up and glare up at Dylan, utterly shocked and indignant. “That was unfair.”
Dylan grinned and twirled the quarterstaff. “All’s fair on the battlefield, right? You said to make use of every advantage I have.”
Tracker laughed. “I did, yes.” He propped himself on his outstretched arms. “But I doubt an enemy would allow you close enough to do that, let alone permit it.”
He held out a hand, offering to assist the man back onto his feet. “Then you’re a terrible opponent.”
“No.” The hound grasped Dylan’s wrist. The hint of the man’s suspiciously neutral expression was all the warning he had before finding himself lying on the ground next to Tracker. “Not terrible, just patient.”
