In Pain and Blood

by Aldrea Alien

  The coarse hands gripping his arms jerked him to a stop. His heel barked on the rough stone underfoot. He grunted and bit his lip. There was the soft scrape and click of metal sliding along metal, swiftly followed by the creak of a door.

  “In you go.” The men holding Dylan launched him forwards.

  Darkness enveloped him.

  Dylan stumbled a few steps, uncertain what lay ahead. His shoulder bumped into the unforgiving structure of a wall. He slapped his palm against the surface. Rough, dry stone greeted his questing fingers. He put his back against it and hesitantly grabbed the sacking. No one made a move to stop him.

  Sounds of a scuffle came from in front of him. Tracker’s snarling voice, a little too desperate to be threatening. Through the sacking, Dylan made out the glowing hole of an open door. Dark figures filled the opening. There was a grunt as Tracker was thrown bodily into wherever they were.

  Then the door banged shut, sealing them in darkness.

  Dylan hauled off the sacking, tossing it as far from him as he could. It slapped against the door. Dim torchlight peeked around the doorframe, just enough to see by. He rammed the door with his shoulder, gasping as the ironbound panel refused to give. Still, he hadn’t expected it to budge on the first try. Rubbing feeling back into his arm, he tried again with similar results.

  Tracker slumped to the floor, leaning against the far wall. “The only good that will do is tire you out.”

  Gritting his teeth, Dylan thumped his fist against the wood. There didn’t seem to be any give and the gaps between the iron were little wider than his hand. Tracker was probably right, but he had to try. There had to be some way out of this. He shook the door, filling the tiny room with the clunking of metal on metal. “Is that all you’re going to do?” he snapped over his shoulder. “Sit there and criticise?”

  Tracker sighed. “You will not get out. I was unable to last time. There is only…” He twisted, turning his face to the wall. “I am sorry,” he whispered. “This is all my fault. Such a stupid—” He snarled. “I well and truly cocked this up. But you were in such pain… I should have known, should have guessed he would have people following me.” He thumped the floor and the musty smell of rotting straw filled Dylan’s nostrils. “Idiot!”

  Dylan crouched at the man’s feet. “There’s only what?”

  There was the ghost of movement as the elf waved his hand. “You will see soon enough. I never thought I would find myself here again.”

  “Again?” he echoed. So he had done this before, but what exact part did he refer to? Him sleeping with a spellster? From what Dylan gathered, that wasn’t new. Or even as frowned upon as Tracker had made it seem. “Track… What Hunter said… ‘You, of all people’…? What, exactly, did she mean?”

  Tracker remained still. Only his harsh breathing told Dylan the man was still conscious. Dylan considered repeating the question when the elf spoke. “You remember I told you hounds are not meant to get involved with anyone?”

  “I do.” Dylan shrugged. “It’s the same rule the tower had.” What did that have to do with them being thrown into this cell?

  The shadow that was Tracker’s head lifted. “What was it you said your guardians did when a couple disobeyed it? Segregation?”

  Dylan rubbed at his arms, impatient. “Yes?” Why didn’t the man just get to the point?

  “That sort of solution would be impossible to mandate here. It would interfere with a hound’s job. So, the trainers devised a more… permanent way to deal with the problem. We have the Pit. Lovers go in, only one comes out.”

  I was right. He was going to die down here. With no way to retaliate. Dylan felt his way along the collar. Would they slaughter them outright if Tracker removed it? He considered asking when another thought surfaced. “You said you’ve been here before.”

  “Once, yes.”

  “And, seeing you’re still here, I assume that… She…?” He searched Tracker’s face in the gloom for a hint and found nothing. “He…?”

  “They. There were four of us, all of about fourteen—maybe fifteen—years of age, and…” Tracker sighed. “Curiosity leads to familiarity,” he mumbled.

  Frowning, Dylan slid to the floor to sit beside the man. It seemed like years since Tracker last said those words. “…which leads to closeness,” he finished. “Or so I’ve been told.”

  A low, mirthless chuckle rumbled from the elf. “I have heard that, too.”

  “So, what happened? How did the four of you end up here? If you don’t mind telling me.”

  “Might as well, it is not as if I am going anywhere.” The rattle of his breath was loud in the darkness. “It started off so innocently several years beforehand. We were friends who used to slip away from the temple sermons and cavort through the city. Then, we became lovers, always having to find new places where we could be with each other. We managed to hide it for some months. So very sure that they would never catch us, that we were somehow better at concealing the truth than those who trained us.”

  “But they found out.” Dylan’s eyes had all but adjusted to the low light, allowing him to see the man’s face.

  Tracker’s trembling breath was far too loud for so small a room. “Yes. We got careless, showed a little too much affection for each other in our training. They must have sent spies to watch us seeing how swiftly they sent us to the Pit. We were stripped of everything but our skin and—” He took another gasping, ragged breath. Oddly familiar sorrow strained his features. In the dim light, the tears staining his cheeks were all but invisible. “They made us—”

  Dylan wrapped an arm around his lover’s shoulders, pulling him close. Tracker shook with silent sobs. Even without being told, Dylan could picture the man fighting them, struggling between not wanting to kill those he loved and a refusal to die.

  But he’d won. In the end, the elf won the sole prize of mourning the lives he’d been forced to take.

  Sudden recollection of where he’d seen that pained expression before hit him. It’d been back when Dylan had tried to goad the man into killing him in the woods after Riverton. He silently cursed himself. But how could he have possibly known Tracker had been forced to kill his past lovers? He hadn’t even realised the elf was in love with him until the man all but spelt it out.

  This is my fault. If he’d only listened to Tracker earlier, believed the man when he said he meant no harm. “I’m a little surprised you’re still alive.”

  “What? Did you think I would try to take my own life? How? We had no clothing. No weapons but our bare hands. And you cannot strangle yourself that way; your grip loosens once you lose consciousness.”

  The stark certainty behind that statement had him wondering if Tracker knew because he had tried. “What of after?” There would’ve been all manner of weapons and poisons to do him in.

  Tracker sat in silence for what seemed like eternity. He rubbed at his arm, the one Dylan had stitched shut weeks ago. Finally, he sighed. “When you learnt of the tower, when you thought everyone you loved was dead, did you want to die?”

  A little. At the time, it’d felt as if things would’ve been easier if he had. “I didn’t see them die.” If he’d been there, if he’d seen anyone on the wrong end of a blade, he would’ve laid waste to them. “I certainly didn’t end anyone’s life.”

  “But you did consider it, yes?”

  Briefly. “If I had taken my life, there would’ve been no one left to remember them as people.” To most people beyond the tower, spellster was just another word for monster.

  “And that is why I did not. Zinnala and Wynne deserved at least that.”

  Those names. One of them sounded human, but the other was most certainly elven. Normally, he wouldn’t think twice on them, but after hearing how hounds were normally addressed… “They don’t sound like hound names.” Did that mean the crown had grabbed ordinary people off the street for the sole purpose of them being slaughtered? Just to prove a point?

  “No, they do not sound lik
e hounds, but they were. Or at least, they were training to become one. Most of us know no other life than this, but not all. Some are born amongst normal folk, just as spellsters are. Unless it is known that there is a spellster in the bloodline, they are often overlooked. In Zinnala and Wynne’s case, they were found during the raid on the underground slave trade in Stonebay.”

  “And the other one? You said there were four of you.”

  “I did, yes. He was Six-one-eighteen-seventy. We grew up together.” A gentle bitterness pulled at the corners of Tracker’s mouth. “He betrayed us.”

  “I thought the elder hounds found out.”

  Tracker waved his hand. “Not then. Later, in the Pit. We all refused at first. Then he… I learnt so many things that day. None of them as sharp as knowing how swiftly a lover can turn on you when their life is on the line. It still haunts me from time to time, the sound Zinnala made whilst he strangled her. She was a small woman, quite short and slight, whereas he was a big man. Big enough to lift her without effort. Snapped her neck for good measure. He used her body to bludgeon Wynne to death.”

  Dylan stared at the elf, dumfounded. That hadn’t been close to what he’d pictured. “If he was that formidable, then why are you still alive and not him?”

  “Because I learnt my lessons well. Anything can be a weapon. What does it matter if that weapon is a dead woman’s broken femur? And… Well, it does not take much to ram the point through the eye. Even the strongest bull-like man will fall if you stab deep enough.”

  Gods, Track. The picture in Dylan’s mind twisted, much like his stomach. He clung tighter to the elf. He’d wondered several times how the hounds’ trainers made them uncaring to the pleas of others. Now he knew. They shattered them, removing the pieces that didn’t fit the mould. “You were just a child.” How could Tracker speak of it so calmly? Dylan was pretty certain that, had it been him, he would’ve turned into a gibbering wreck.

  Tracker shrugged. “As they say: old enough to screw, old enough to kill. They sent me to The Gilded Lily after that. It was meant to be a lesson on how easy the illusion of love was to weave. Once I spent a few years there, I was made a hound as I have told you. Then I left this city, went as far as I could without leaving the kingdom.”

  And never returned. Until now. For Dylan’s sake. They could’ve left so much sooner, had he listened to the man. He should’ve taken the chance to head for Dvärghem when Tracker first suggested it. “Why didn’t you? Leave, I mean.”

  “There was no reason to run and they would have hunted me.”

  “Wouldn’t they have come after us, then?”

  His lover chuckled, the sound strained. “They would have tried, yes. But I am rather good at covering my tracks. Even if they knew you were still around, I would have seen to it that they thought you dead. Although the point is moot, now.” He sniffed. “At least I had a good run at life.”

  “A good run?” Dylan echoed. “Your mother died having you. You’ve been beaten, tortured… poisoned. And, when you dared to show affection, they forced you to kill your lovers then whored you out.” He doubted he could’ve survived a fraction of what the elf had been through and still be sane. “To be frank, your life sounds like shit.”

  Tracker’s laughter deepened into a warbling noise that seemed perilously close to crying. “All right, yes, when you say it like that, it does sound rather horrid. But I swear, there were enough good things to make it bearable.” He caressed Dylan’s cheek with trembling fingers. “Like meeting you.”

  “Is that really a blessing?” If he had ignored the letter, Tracker never would’ve been dragged down here again. “It’s my fault we’re here.”

  His lover smiled. “Not entirely.” Tracker brushed his lips across the back of Dylan’s hand. “And I do not regret a moment of knowing you. Well, maybe this part. I really could do without being thrown into a cell again.”

  A thin stream of laughter trickled out Dylan’s throat. “If I had listened to you when you first suggested staying away from Wintervale, we wouldn’t be here.” He should’ve admitted what he felt for the man sooner. His guardian was wrong, a hound’s word could be trusted. At least this one’s. Even if he was a hound no longer.

  “Yes, well. The fact of the matter is that we are and…” His sigh turned into a choked sob. “I cannot do this again,” he whispered. “I cannot lose another one like this.”

  Dylan stroked the elf’s hair and back, all the while making little soothing noises. I’m so very sorry. It was his fault, no matter what his lower said, and he wasn’t about to let Tracker die because of it. “It’s going to be all right.”

  “No, it is not.” The man jerked out of Dylan’s grasp, upsetting his balance and knocking him back onto the straw. “They expect me to kill you. If I refuse, if we both refuse, they will do the job for us.”

  Dylan slowly got to his knees and crawled back to his lover’s side. “So do it. Take my life. I won’t fight you.” He would die. Whether by Tracker’s hand or that of another hound’s. There was nothing he could do to change his fate. That didn’t mean the elf’s life had to end as well.

  Tracker shook his head. “I cannot. My heart would never—” He clutched at his chest. “I… I—”

  Can’t even say it. They were expected to fight, and Dylan to die, for something the man couldn’t admit aloud. Was it any wonder, after what they’d done to him?

  Dylan softly kissed his lover’s forehead. “Then, we’ll figure something out.” There had to be a way to escape this cell before the other hounds returned to drag them off to this Pit.

  The door clanged open. Torchlight flooded the space. Dylan brought up a hand, shielding his eyes. Figures stood in the doorway. One of the shadows entered to haul Dylan out by the arm. Once free of the cell, a woman latched on to his other side.

  “All right, dog,” a man snarled into the cell. “Let’s get this over with so you can rejoin the pack.”

  Tracker got to his feet. He didn’t sneer, didn’t try to fight. The man just walked through the doorway and into their grasp. In the light, the blankness of his face became all too apparent. Dylan wasn’t yet dead and, already, the elf was breaking, readying himself to be remoulded.

  They trudged through seemingly endless corridors and tunnels, more herded than confined this time. Their escort led them down, the light growing dim again as the torches were replaced by a single lantern held by the woman marching at the front.

  The walls pressed in, tight passages hewn from bare stone. At his back, he caught Tracker’s quickening breath.

  “No,” his lover softly pleaded. “Please. Not down there.”

  “Oh, show some dignity, Track,” one of the men grumbled. “You did not whimper this much last time. Just walk, it will be over soon enough.”

  He hates tunnels. Dylan had wondered why, but he hadn’t wanted to know this badly. He reached behind, searching for Tracker’s hand.

  Found, he entwined their fingers, holding on. I’m here. He couldn’t be at his lover’s side on the way up, but for now, for as long as he possibly could, he’d be here for him.

  More light came from somewhere ahead, flickering. Torches. The glowing opening to a far larger area beckoned them onwards. The Pit. Tracker’s hand tightened around his fingers.

  Dylan squeezed back as tightly as he could. This was it. The culmination of his life, all his training, everything he’d ever fought for, boiled down to this final moment. Born to die at the hands of his lover. I suppose there are worse ways to go.

  He closed his eyes and breathed deep. Soon enough, the hound behind him had said. There was no outcome in trying to fight for his freedom that Dylan could see himself surviving. Running was death, entering the Pit was death. I will not fight this. What point was there in drawing out this execution any longer than it needed to be? A few more seconds of life? Better to make it quick. He’d gift Tracker that much.

  They entered the Pit to the roar of the hounds.

  Tracker planted himself
in the middle of the Pit, his arms akimbo as he glared up at the people in the cavern above. “Vultures,” he muttered.

  Dozens of hounds ringed the edge of the pit. Dylan couldn’t be entirely sure without a headcount and the figures milled about like chickens around seed, but it seemed far more than the thirty-odd Tracker claimed was left of the fully-trained hounds. Had they brought the younger ones to watch alongside the rest of their pack? Or had Tracker been lied to about their numbers?

  “Why are they already naked?” a familiar voice boomed through the room, silencing the jeers. “Is it not your custom to strip them in the Pit?”

  “You requested them straight away, your highness,” a woman answered. The same one that’d caught them. Hunter. Dylan was certain of it. “We found them like this. Together.”

  “Well, well. I do love being right. The spellster and the hound. A tragic love story for the ages. How… sickening. Is that how you convinced him to walk the breadth of the kingdom to be leashed again, dog? By bedding him?”

  Out the corner of his eye, he spied Tracker’s hands balling. The elf all but vibrated with anger.

  The figures on the edge of the Pit moved, allowing another to step into the light. The king’s nephew and the hounds’ new master. “What was it my mother used to say about you hounds and obedience?” He smiled. “Ah yes, bad dogs must be put down.”

  Tracker’s lip curled. “You are the one who ordered the tower destroyed.”

  “Naturally. My uncle insists on letting these… pests live. They are a drain on our resources. They give nothing back but a few imperfect weapons. It was bubbling pot and no one could see it was ready to explode. Not my mother and certainly not my uncle.” He grasped the low railing encircling the pit, bending over it until his upper body jutted over the ledge. “Just look at how many were allowed to live! Those soft overseer fools didn’t even have the forethought to cull the weak ones! I did my kingdom a favour in ridding the world of them.” The man straightened and gave a decisive nod.

  “And I suppose the irony of us hounds being from the same stock is lost on you.”