by Aldrea Alien
Tracker peered over his shoulder, the gleam of those honey-coloured eyes just visible beneath the russet lashes. “You wish to learn to defend yourself without relying on magic before we reach Wintervale? You will start now.” He smiled. “Do not worry, I promise to be gentle.” With that, the elf vanished behind the tree, leaving Dylan to follow.
They poked through the forest for a time until they came across the clearing they’d passed several hours ago. Whilst the area was too small and uneven to hold three tents without hacking away a great deal of bush or felling one of the enormous trees, it seemed large enough for a few basic sparring techniques.
The hound strode around the clearing, mumbling to himself and nodding. Occasionally, he’d kick aside a cone or toss a branch near the bushes. “This will do for now.”
Dylan straightened. “What’s the first lesson?” An odd, nervous bubble hit his stomach. It had been years since anyone taught him something new. “Stabbing?”
Tracker shook his head. “By the gods, no. Let us begin with something simple.” He unsheathed his sword and held the hilt towards Dylan. “Show me how you hold it.”
“That’s all?” Dylan took up the weapon, his fingers closing around the leather-wrapped hilt. The sword was heavier than it looked and refused to stop wobbling, its fang-like point never quite swinging where he intended. Still, he tried to keep the length of blade under his control. Gripping the hilt with both hands helped. He raised the sword and struck the same pose he’d seen Authril do.
The hound circled him, those long fingers stroking his chin as he hummed. His brows drew together and those eyes grew intense. It was a side Dylan wasn’t used to seeing from the man.
At last, Tracker halted before him. “If I am to be entirely honest, I am uncertain I can make much of a swordsman from you in the given time. Most start with some sense of form, even if it is a rather poor one. But with you…” The sentence trickled off into a groan.
“My form can’t be that bad.”
“Bad?” Tracker gave a low chuckle. “No, no. It would be better if it were merely bad. Atrocious is a far more fitting description.”
He grimaced. “Ouch.”
“Perhaps you would be more suited to a dagger.”
Dylan shook his head. A shorter blade would require closeness and a swiftness that he lacked.
“Very well. Although, I have not had to teach something so basic before. Most people have a certain understanding of at least how to hold a weapon so it will not fly off on the first strike. But I suppose a spellster child is unlikely to spend their spare time fighting with sticks.”
Dylan frowned. Apart from the evening, when they were bundled into their beds to sleep, he didn’t recall having much in the way of time to spare.
The hound kicked up a short branch, catching it in one hand. He gripped the end like a sword, slashing through the air. “The cities are always full of children scrapping as if they were warriors. It is not exactly the strict training hounds grow up with, but those children do manage to learn through trial-and-error.” He pointed at Dylan with a flourish of the stick. “You however, do not have such a luxury.”
“I don’t?” The journey to Wintervale would take a little over a month at their current pace. Surely, he could become proficient in sword fighting within such a timeframe.
“No.” Tracker tossed aside the stick. “Fortunately, you have me to teach you.” The elf returned to circling Dylan, stopping behind him. The man’s long fingers overlapped his own. “Your grip should be firm,” the hound murmured, his cheek pressed to Dylan’s bicep. “The last thing you desire is for your weapon to fly from your fingers at the first strike. Nor do you want to squeeze too hard and tax yourself needlessly.” The hand inched its way up Dylan’s arm. “Your wrists must be sturdy, your arms firm but supple.”
“Right.” He could remember that. Fighting with fire or ice demanded a similar stance.
“This.” The elf’s other hand fell on Dylan’s midsection. “You should endeavour to keep your core strong like the trunk of a tree. And your legs…” Tracker whispered, his shin slipping between Dylan’s. “They must be spread wider.” Tucking his boot against Dylan’s instep, he gently slid their feet further across the ground.
Dylan glanced over his shoulder at the hound. Having Tracker at his back whilst the fabric of his robe climbed up his leg had him feeling awfully exposed. “We are still talking about sword fighting?”
“That is what you wanted me to teach you, yes?” The man circled to stand before Dylan, withdrawing one of his daggers.
Dylan hadn’t paid much attention to the array of weaponry the hound carried, but this particular dagger looked rather like a long, thin knife. Unlike the sword, the dagger’s blade gleamed silver. It was quite a bit longer than the alchemist daggers he was used to seeing.
Tracker nodded at him. “Now we fight.”
“What?” he blurted. “Y-you haven’t taught me anything.” No ways to attack, no blocking moves, nothing he’d seen the two elves do during their sparring.
The man spread his hands wide. “You wanted me to teach you and my methods are rather hands on. If you learn quickly, then we may have time for you to focus on perfecting your technique, but for now…” He lunged at Dylan, the dagger coming up fast.
Dylan threw up his arms. The clash and jar of metal striking metal jolted him through to his teeth.
“Good,” Tracker grunted. There seemed to be a genuinely pleased edge to the smile he gave. “Your reflexes are as I expected.” His brows twitched together, slight disapproval marking their curves. “But please do less of blocking my blades with the edge. I do not fancy fighting with dented weapons if we are attacked on the way to Whitemeadow.” Swinging Dylan’s arm aside with a twirl of his wrist, the man attempted a second lunge.
This time, Dylan saw it coming soon enough to deflect the dagger’s tip with a sweep of the sword’s blade.
The hound faltered. Shock widened his eyes as if he had expected Dylan to do no better than the first attack. “Better.” He straightened, idly twirling the dagger between his fingers. “But can you do it again?”
“I think so.” It was a relatively simple movement, although the weight of the sword dragged at his arm. He briefly switched to the other hand, shaking and stretching the offended limb until his muscles didn’t ache quite so much. He glanced up from the sword hilt to find his movements being tracked by the man.
“If you are finding it too much for one arm, you can always use two.”
He’d seen such warriors on the field. Their swords looked far beyond his capabilities. “Would I be able to lift a two-hander?”
Tracker tipped his head from side to side. “Fair point. Probably not.” He swung his arm at Dylan’s middle, in a motion that would’ve gutted him had Dylan not blocked the attack and the man had truly been trying. “Do let me know if you start to tire. I would not wish to hurt you needlessly.”
“I’ll be fine.” Dylan stepped back as the hound switched his dagger to the other hand and made a lazy swipe for Dylan’s legs.
“I would stay put if I were you. Unless you wish to test your footwork?” The man slowly circled him, keeping out of Dylan’s immediate reach. He strolled by one of the larger pine trees, dragging the tip of his dagger along the bark and causing bits to flake off. “Combat can be much like a dance. And I know how well you can do that on a flat surface, but the battlefield does not grant such luxuries.”
Dylan’s gaze fell to the ground around them. Although the area was littered with small rocks, humps of dirt, branches and the like, it held little in the way of major obstacles. “I’ll manage.”
Something cold and thin ran down the side of his neck, prickling his skin. The blunt edge of the man’s dagger. How had the elf managed to move so quickly and quietly?
“I am certain you will,” the hound purred. “The question is, will you choose follow or lead? You seem to do both rather well.”
Dylan swung about, the sword arc
ing into a wide circle with him.
“Ha!” Tracker jumped beyond the blade’s reach, a feral grin parting his lips. “Predictable.” He eyed the spindly top of a low bush the sword had shaved in the strike. “The element of surprise is a vital tool. You must use it to your advantage if you want to keep your enemy on their toes.”
Growling, Dylan swung again, and again. It didn’t matter how he struck, the hound effortlessly leapt back every time.
“Come now, my dear spellster. Flailing aimlessly with your weapon will only tire you. Plan your strikes. See the moves in your mind.”
“There you two are.”
Tracker spun at the sound of Marin’s voice, his arm raised. Dylan frowned as he spied the slim length of dark steel in the man’s once-empty grasp. When had the hound drawn a throwing knife?
The hunter stood amongst the foliage on the far side of the clearing, leaning against a tree trunk. “I wondered where the pair of you had wandered off to. Wasn’t expecting to stumble into a sparring session.”
Dylan took a lazy swing at the man whilst Tracker was distracted. Surely, he could manage a little tap on the hound’s shoulder.
The elf’s arm came up, deflecting the blade with a mere flick of his wrist. The throwing knife had seemingly vanished, no doubt tucked away in some hidden sheath. “I see we are becoming quicker at this. Good.”
Marin’s gaze flicked over Dylan, her brows raised. Her inspection paused briefly at the sword dangling in his grasp. “I didn’t think spellsters were allowed to touch normal weapons, much less use them.”
“And you would be right, my dear woman,” the elf replied. “They are not typically trained in such a manner. But, given the possibility that someone is hunting them—”
“Other than you hounds, you mean?” the woman interrupted.
Tracker bowed his head. “Yes. Someone who clearly means lethal harm, a little extra fighting knowledge is hardly a bad thing.”
The hunter settled herself cross-legged at the base of the tree. “Is he any good?”
The elf hummed consideringly. “Not really, no. But I am in the middle of determining whether he’ll be able to improve fast enough to make this worthwhile. Except…” The man swung his attention back to Dylan, one brow raised in query. “He appears to have stopped?”
Grimacing, Dylan waved the sword tip between the hound and the woman. “You two were talking.” Even as the words escaped his lips, he realised the weakness of his excuse.
Tracker laughed. “My dear man, do you not know that proper sparring is always done under battlefield rules? When your opponent is distracted is precisely the time you should be attacking.”
Dylan fiddled with the sword hilt, running his fingers over the designs etched into the pommel. His face blazed as if he were twelve again and back in the tower chapel. Only this time, it wasn’t a simple matter of a breaking voice. “I know.”
The hound turned on his heel to fully face him once again, lifting his dagger in preparation to defend. He jerked his chin at the weapon. “If you are ready…?”
Resuming the grip Tracker had taught him to use with the weapon, Dylan raised the sword into a prepared stance before trying a manoeuvre he’d seen the hound use against Authril. He swung the blade high, bringing it over his shoulder and rotating it near his head before slashing it down front of him…
To where the elf had been.
Dylan spun, ready to strike again, and froze as a slight tingling of his magic pervaded the left side of his head. He touched his ear, feeling the slick coating of liquid. Blood? A swift check of his fingers confirmed the thought. “I didn’t think it was that close,” he mumbled.
“Do be careful,” Tracker said. “That is not some simple training blade. It will remove bits of you as surely as it can from an opponent.”
“So I see.” How the elf could do the same action without harm was beyond Dylan. The man had a far bigger target when it came to ear size and there didn’t appear to be so much as a scratch on them.
“Are you badly injured?” The hound stepped closer, rising on his toes as he reached up to examine the wound. His fingers ghosted across Dylan’s neck and earlobe.
Dylan shivered at the touch as the hairs all over his body stood to attention.
“Fortunately for you, it seems to be intact.” Tracker stepped back, his face contorted in concern. “Perhaps we should stop?”
With his grip tightening on the sword hilt, Dylan shook his head in a very firm negative. “I can do more.”
“Very well. But please do not attempt that move again until you have more than a few hours of experience.”
Dylan curtly bowed his head. His magic might’ve been able to mend the cut easily enough, but there were limits. He was in no hurry to risk removing the entirety of his ear.
They returned to simpler, slower, motions. Tracker led him around the clearing, although not as fast as he’d seen the man do with Authril. The hound would veer around anything that might pose as a threat to their safety, letting Dylan pick his way through the rest.
Nearer the trees, the land became less reliably flat. Roots pushed up the dirt in irregular bumps, making for slippery and crumbling footing, and Dylan soon found himself spending more time staring at the ground than his opponent.
“Focus!” Tracker snapped. The man darted under the swing of Dylan’s arm to tap him on the shoulder with the back of his unarmed hand.
Dylan jerked back. His heel snagged on a root, twisting. Pain lanced up his leg. He hit the ground with an almighty thump. Dust and bits of twig billowed around him.
A woman’s hearty laughter caught his attention over the shard-like agony in his ankle. He rolled his head to one side to see Marin lying on the ground, clutching at her middle. He hadn’t even been aware she was still around.
Tracker stood over him. “Yes, he fell. Very amusing.” He glared at the hunter, his lips flattening. “However, I cannot teach him if you are going to chuckle at his every misstep.”
Dylan grasped his throbbing ankle. Gritting his teeth, he twisted his foot to set the bones before his magic could heal them in the wrong place.
“What are you trying to teach him, exactly?” Marin managed between wheezing gasps. “How to fall on his arse? The most painful way to lop off a limb?”
The elf thrust out his chin, amplifying his already unimpressed expression.
“Fine,” she grumbled, clambering to her feet. “I’ll leave you to your little mating dance.” Still giggling, she snatched up her bow and made her way back to camp.
Dylan sat there, watching the woman leave, her last few words rattling about his head. “Does she know about—” He faltered as the awareness of what he was about to say kept the word from his lips. Us. Last night was… He wasn’t even certain what last night was anymore. “—you know?” he finished.
“Doubtful.” Tracker joined him on the ground. “She would likely have a great deal more to say on the subject if that were so. Personally, I am a little surprised you are so eager to move about let alone as swiftly as you have been doing. I could barely stand upright after my first time with a man.”
He eyed the elf. Were they really having this conversation? So much for pretending last night never happened. Not that he’d been able to so far. “Maybe I had a more considerate partner?”
The man chuckled and, for a moment, Dylan could’ve sworn Tracker’s cheeks darkened. His gaze dropped to Dylan’s ankle. “How badly does it hurt?”
“Pretty bad,” he admitted. If he turned his attention to the injury, the sensation of his bones knitting back together was like a swarm of tiny, prickly ants crawling beneath his skin. The pain was subsiding, but slowly. “It’ll be fine soon. Don’t worry about it.”
“No.” Tracker rolled onto his knees. “You yelped awfully loud when you fell. I insist we take your boot off and check.” The elf grabbed Dylan’s leg, one hand cupping his calf. “If it is broken—”
“It’ll heal.” Was his face getting warmer? Had to be
the sun coupled with the unexpected exertion of sparring. “Surprisingly quickly,” he mumbled.
One russet brow lifted querulously. The curiosity burning behind those honey-coloured eyes increased.
“I studied healing in my teenage years. I thought it might give me an edge in being chosen for the army.” He shook his head. Now he knew how foolish such a thought was. He was a weapon to them, nothing more. “It’s not an easy skill to master. Very few ever have, actually.”
“I take it you rank amongst them?”
“No.” As much as he wished to say otherwise, the truth was far less impressive. He could mend bones and flesh easily enough. Drawing those who were near death back from the brink was harder, but doable. Yet it was said that a master could bring the recently dead back to life. “But the process leaves us with a… residual healing effect.”
The elf’s expression became one of disbelief. Unsurprising. It took years of studying and practice to become proficient enough to gain the talent. The hound had likely never come across a spellster who knew such magic.
“Here.” Dylan took up one of the man’s daggers. “I’ll show you.” A shallow cut from an ordinary blade was a laughably simple thing to repair, but it was also the easiest way to demonstrate the ability. He drew the sharp edge across his forearm, hissing as the metal bit into his flesh. Blood oozed from the cut, running across his skin as he tipped his arm.
He waited until the stinging subsided, then wiped his arm clean on the grass. Beneath the barely congealed blood lay smooth, unmarred skin.
Tracker shuffled closer. “Fascinating.” He reached out, stopping just short of touching. “May I?”
Dylan hesitated. Just having the hound’s hand so close was starting to do strange things to his insides. He tried to shrug off the feeling. “Sure.” The elf had already touched far more intimate places than a mere arm.