by Aldrea Alien
Tracker cleared his throat, causing Dylan to jump, and stood. “Well, I guess I should get some rest and leave you to your watch. Unless you would care to tell me the reason you stare so intently?”
Was there a reason? He thought the mantle of torturer would put another light on the hound, but that was perhaps the problem. What the man had done wasn’t new. Tracker had always been capable of such deeds. He’d just never been so open about it. “Your arm,” Dylan managed. His gaze dropped to the sewing case and flicked back up. “Let me see to it.”
“I am uncertain you can do much without your magic.” The man shrugged. “It is mostly superficial anyway, nothing to worry about. It does not even hurt anymore.”
Dylan patted the ground in front of him. “Sit. I can sew it shut.”
“Oh? So he sews as well, does he? I had not placed you to possess such skills. What will I discover next? That you have been holding out on us and can actually cook?”
“You don’t want to eat whatever I cook. People have been known to die. Unless you can find me some pig trotters.”
Curiosity tweaked the man’s brows before he laughed. “Pity. I was beginning to think I may have found my one.”
“You shouldn’t tease a man like that,” he murmured, feeling a little more comfortable with the man’s usual teasing. “You might get his hopes up.”
It could’ve been the flickering campfire shadows, but it seemed that Tracker’s grin was wavering on the corners. His gaze dropped to Dylan’s lap. “Is that what you call it? Your hopes? I have heard stranger names.”
Shaking his head, Dylan gave the dirt another pat. “Just sit down, already.”
“As you like.” Shrugging, he positioned himself cross-legged on the ground.
Dylan set aside the sewing case to slowly unravel the bandage. Mercifully, the wound underneath no longer bled as profusely as before. “Give me your arm, I’ll help you disrobe.”
“Why Dylan!” Tracker gasped. “Out in the open? How very saucy of you.”
He mutely glared at the hound. The elf had carved his way through a great deal of people, thrown himself between Dylan and his attacker and, to top it off, had just returned from torturing a man for information. And yet he chose to attempt flirting?
“What did I say to deserve such a fearsome look?”
“Top half only.”
“Oh?” His bottom lip jutted out almost as far as the tip of his nose. “Does this mean no sympathy sex? Or perhaps a little thank you hand action? I did save you from getting struck, after all.”
Dylan bit his tongue. He was beginning to think Authril might be right, the man didn’t ever stop. “By putting yourself in harm’s way when I had a shield up?”
Tracker waved his uninjured arm. “Those are semantics. I am meant to protect you.”
“Excuse me if I don’t swoon. Now, does my hero want to be stitching his own wound shut or is he willing to stop being a smart arse and let me help?”
The elf wrinkled his nose before tugging at his clothes. “Not if you are going to be that way about it.” He unbuckled a few of the belts and struggled for a while with the others, grunting and huffing into the night air, until at last conceding and placing the injured limb in Dylan’s hands.
Dylan aided him. Blood darkened the leather, turning it sticky, especially on the right sleeve. The elf’s quilted shirt and undershirt were in a similar state. “It’s a shame it happened to your sword arm.”
“That is not so bad. I can fight left-handed if need be. It is not as elegant, but it will keep a blade from our necks. My arm will not, however, be able to support my weight for a few days.”
“Why would that be of concern?”
Tracker grinned. “I guess that depends on whether you plan on continuing your little nightly visits. Of course, I could just lie on my back if you cannot wait until I am healed. I do not recall us doing it that way. Yet.”
Dylan rolled his eyes. Of course the hound would try and lead things back to that. “And who says I’d want anything to do with you when you’re injured?” He carefully lifted the man’s arm, trying to get a better look at the injury in the light of the campfire. The wound sliced straight through the intricate woven band design encircling his bicep. “It doesn’t look like too deep a cut.”
Tracker peered at the cut and grimaced. “Ah, a pity,” he mumbled. “I was rather fond of that one.”
Dylan looked over the band. The ink was old, bleeding and blurring the swirling design within. There seemed to be words amongst the lines. At least three of them, the sword slicing on an angle through one. He twisted his head, trying to make out the letters. Was that a name? “Did it have some sort of special meaning?”
A wry smile twisted the hound’s mouth. “Not for some time.” He fingered the wound, tracing the line to where it cut into one the scrawls. “Had to be through that part,” he mumbled. “Why could the bastard not have chosen to be a little more to the right?”
“It wouldn’t have happened at all if you hadn’t jumped in front of me.” With his shield strong enough to repel a blade, the dagger wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near as close to him as it had with the hound. “Frankly, you’re lucky the blade wasn’t poisoned.”
“Oh, it was. The Talfaltaners always treat their weapons with such. Makes it easier to board ships if the crew’s busy turning all sorts of interesting shades.” His lips parted in a tooth-clenching grin. “But I have some variety of immunity, remember? It just stings like crazy.”
Dylan uncorked the bottle of whisky. “I thought you said it didn’t hurt?” He poured the whisky over the wound.
Tracker hissed. He closed his eyes, but otherwise remained still. The elf relieved him of the bottle once Dylan was done and took a tentative sip of the contents, then several large swallows. “This is strong stuff. Where did you get it?”
“Marin had it stashed in her pack. I didn’t ask where she got it.”
The elf hummed questioningly around the whisky bottle. “Well, she is a resourceful woman. And I do recall her rummaging through the gear of those unfortunate souls we stumbled upon.”
He glanced up from threading the needle he’d already sterilised. If he hadn’t known better, the elf looked rather remorseful. “You think she took a dead man’s drink?”
“Why not? He has no need of it.” Tracker took another long swallow. “It is very good.”
Dylan turned his full attention to the first stitch. Blood welled around the needle and dyed the thread. It’d been years since he’d done this, but it all came back so easily. “That man you planned on questioning? Did you—?”
“Get answers from him?” The smooth way Tracker quipped could only mean that the man knew exactly what Dylan intended to ask him.
Dylan broke the thread with his teeth and rethreaded the needle for the next stitch. “That, yes. But did you kill him?”
“I did. What else was I meant to do? Leave him strung up to starve? Release him to tell his cohorts about us?”
Dylan paused in the middle of threading the needle for a third stitch. “You think there are more of them?” He had begun to think these men were stragglers. He’d not considered the other possibility.
“What I know is that they were indeed a part of the company that marched west.”
To the tower. He set the needle down. His hands shook too much to be of any use. They’d only assumed Talfaltaners were involved, or at least a handful in a much larger company. It had never made sense until now. Somehow, enough of them had made their way to the tower… deliberately. And it wouldn’t matter if the servants and guardians had no magic, they were deemed tainted just by aiding in a spellster’s survival.
“Dylan?” The hound grabbed Dylan’s arm. Tracker’s free hand slid up to cup one side of Dylan’s jaw, those long fingers warm against his skin. “Hey, come back to me.” The man’s thumb brushed across Dylan’s cheek, wiping away the trail of tears that he wasn’t aware he’d been crying. “Whatever those men did, if they wer
e truly responsible for the tower’s downfall, then they have been punished.”
“It doesn’t make anyone less dead.”
The man’s russet brows drew up in the middle. “No, that it does not. But it is the best we mortals can do, yes?”
Nodding, Dylan picked up the needle and resumed stitching the elf’s wound shut. “What did he tell you? I assume he said something of note.” Especially if his gut feeling was correct and the hound had tortured the man. A part of him hoped it had been nice and slow.
The hound grunted in affirmation. “He told me a great many things.”
“Anything useful?” The words fell like blocks of wood from his mouth, his mind elsewhere. Excruciatingly slow. Make the man wish he’d never heard of Demarn… Never seen it. Never set foot on it.
Tracker hummed, those full lips flattening and his brows knitting together. “I cannot be sure. There was his confession, of course. They always start with that. But he…” His frown deepened, wrinkling his nose. “He had seen other hounds. Recently.”
“Do you believe him?” The man could’ve told the elf anything if he thought it would keep him alive.
“We do send the occasional scout to monitor conditions around the tower from time to time, but I have found no sign of movement along the usual routes. It is likely he was mistaken.” He waved a hand distractedly at the discard jerkin. “This is a uniform, no different to the robe you wear. It is possible the man didn’t see what he thought. Or someone was foolish enough to duplicate the look. Or…”
“Or they were in the tower.” His mind leapt to the memory of charred outlines adorning the walls. He’d thought it perhaps an attack from the Udynea Empire, that they’d brought Nulled Ones to deal with the spellsters in the tower and boosted their ranks with Talfaltaners.
But if it wasn’t Udynea, then who? As far as he knew, Talfaltaners slew every spellster they found. Even if one of them lived long enough to carry a child, he doubted they’d let that life continue once the mother’s magic was discovered. “The hounds…” Dylan wet his lips, an altogether sick thought permeating his mind. “Do you think they helped?” Surely if that were the case, then Tracker would’ve known of the intent well before the deed was done.
“Helped?” the man echoed. “In attacking the tower?” Tracker shot him an incredulous look. “Of course not. That would go against everything we have been trained for. No, if that man truly saw hounds, then it was likely someone sent to investigate the attack not initiate. Our orders are to contain spellsters. They are not deemed a threat once within the tower. Even if we had the numbers for such an assault, there is no reason to attack.”
“They?” Dylan mumbled. “I’m one of them.”
“You I do not consider as a threat, in or out of the tower. Not to me, not to these dear women, not to anyone who is not foolish enough to try harming you first.”
“That so?” Dylan bent close to cut the last of the stitches with his teeth.
The man’s long fingers brushed his chin, lifting his head. Before Dylan could think to speak further, the elf’s mouth was on his. Their lips brushed together, soft and languid. And far briefer than he would’ve liked.
Tracker drew back, a half smile tilting his mouth. “Has anyone told you that you have very sure hands?”
Blushing, Dylan picked up the fresh bandage and began wrapping it around the man’s arm. “It’s not the first time I’ve stitched someone back together.” Although it’d been some time.
The elf’s brow twitched querulously. “I did not think they would teach you such mundane healing techniques.”
“They have to. The only way to learn how to repair a body through magic is in understanding how things work. It took years to learn everything and that’s before my tutors would even let me use magic to heal, but I know I won’t run the risk of sealing a vein or atrophying a muscle.” He tied the bandage ends together. “All done.”
Tracker flexed his arm and frowned. “Definitely going to be fighting left-handed for a little while.” The elf gathered his clothes and stood. “I really should get some rest before you wake me for my turn.”
Dylan glanced up from the task of packing away Katarina’s sewing kit. The man couldn’t be serious. “I’ll take your watch tonight.” He doubted he’d get much sleep and there might as well be only one person awake.
“That—” The hound jerked his head around. “That is not necessary. I can still hold my own if someone attacks.”
“You need rest more than I do right now. And give me your shirts. I’ll wash them whilst you sleep.”
“Oh?” Tracker whined as he handed over the garment. “But if I leave now, then I miss out on seeing you dancing with my clothes.”
“Gods,” Dylan moaned. He combed his fingers through his hair. “I thought you’d forgotten about that.” He had certainly hoped.
The hound chuckled. “How could I possibly forget the sight of you dancing through the lavender in your smallclothes?”
Shaking his head, Dylan shooed the man away. “Go rest, healer’s orders.” He waited until Tracker had disappeared into his tent before turning his attention to the fire. A few pokes of a stick spread the coals out enough to let the flames die down.
The instant darkness descended over the camp, he regretted banking the fire. His mind churned away at the thoughts. If the company was only made of Talfaltaners, then how had they reached this far inland? Any major stream would take them straight by the capital and upriver to—
Whitemeadow. They’d reach the city in four days. If the Talfaltaners had passed through there, then they would hear more about their passage from the city.
Dylan leant back on his arms and stared at the cloud-shrouded night sky. He knew his target. They could inform the king, who would likely declare war on Talfaltan when they hadn’t the resources to hold back Udynea.
Sighing, he closed his eyes. No matter what path the king took then, it was going to be a bloodbath. And Dylan didn’t fancy his odds of it being in his favour.
People crowded the road as they grew closer to Whitemeadow. They hadn’t met too many travellers on their four-day trek, opting to cut a line straight through the forest to the winding road for the first few days rather than risk stumbling upon more of the Talfaltaners. The folk they did come across seemed harried and altogether lost.
Dylan’s bones still itched for another fight. If the bastards were travelling in small groups, then they might even be able to avenge the tower before the king even heard about it.
Except Tracker was of the opinion that the Talfaltaners would take the swiftest way back to the sea. This far north, it would mean entering Whitemeadow. And, after seeing what had become of the tower, he almost dreaded nearing the city to find it in a similar state.
He needn’t have worried.
Whitemeadow was a far bigger place than Dylan had expected. He’d envisioned a town sprawling throughout the lowlands, like Oldmarsh only at the riverside. Or perhaps a larger version of Toptower, which huddled around its namesake.
The reality was easily twice the size of either village or town. The river split the city down the middle with bridges, arching high across the water, connecting the two halves.
From afar, he spied small boats dotting the river with slightly larger ones huddling near the docks and surrounding riverside. A few were further downstream from the city, riding the current that would eventually lead them to Wintervale. And the sea. For days, Tracker had spoken of travelling the rest of the way aboard a boat.
He’d discovered far sooner how the city got her name. The land surrounding both sides of the river was blanketed in shimmering plains of white, speckled by darker patches as people walked through the fields and the towering silhouettes of windmills.
As they walked along the road, the solid colour broke up into individual flowering buckwheat stalks. The crop these fields alone would produce seemed far greater than Whitemeadow could consume. Was this where the tower got its grain and flour?
&nbs
p; Dylan’s stomach rumbled at the thought of decent food. Hard to think back on how much he used to moan about the soft, brown bread that was part of their daily breakfast. There’d been scones with the stew in winter and, every nameday, his guardian would surprise him with a plate of flat cakes buried under a thick layer of syrup and cream. Dylan’s mouth watered at the memory.
A cart rattled down the road, forcing their group to walk along the ditch. His gaze drifted across the fields to the people. Some seemed intent on the plants, whilst a couple hammered away at a fence. If the tower was the destination, then all these people worked to preserve a crop that no one would buy.
There were no walls on this side of the river. The fields almost seemed to serve as a funnel, subtly guiding people to the city via wooden fences. Without gates and guards, there wasn’t the same desperate press of the crowd as there had been in Toptower or the suspicious eye of authority as in Oldmarsh. He barely noticed they’d entered the city until the buildings started to tower over him.
Stone composed much of the lower levels, bricks and plaster, with wood taking up anything above and even over. There were the ever-present lines of clothing and sheets flapping high in the breeze. Bridges, too. Albeit, the structures looked far sturdier than the ones in Oldmarsh. They connected buildings all over the place, with some of them being completely covered as to look like a separate room had been erected across the street.
As he had in Oldmarsh, Tracker led them through the streets, always heading closer to the river. The streets themselves seemed to be on a slope and they were forced to traipse down several sets of stairs before finally entering what had to be the warehouse district.
The streets steadily became a maze of crates and barrels. They wove around carts and ducked through alleyways whenever the path was blocked. People he assumed were workers in the various warehouses did naught but sit on their wares and watch them pass by.
“Is it usual for the streets to be so congested?” Katarina asked. “Wouldn’t that pose as a danger to folk?”