by Aldrea Alien
A small sigh escaped the man as Dylan ran the soaped-up cloth over Tracker’s back. Tattoos peeked out from between the suds. Dylan averted his eyes before he became lost in the designs that begged for him to follow their casual descent to places far more interesting than Tracker’s back. His gaze settled on the man’s head, but even this wasn’t as free from marks as he’d originally believed.
“What’s this?” He brushed the tiny paw print tattoo adorning the skin just behind the man’s right ear. Water trickled down the hound’s neck and the elf gave a shuddering gasp.
“It is the symbol of the hounds,” Tracker replied, his smooth, rolling accent growing gravelly, the usual trills and hisses Dylan had become accustomed to hearing took longer to pass the man’s lips. Even without the pressure of the cloth on the man’s back, he remained in place. “All of us are marked with it, just not in the same place.”
Finished with bathing the hound’s back, Dylan slowly tugged on the man’s hair, looking to free it from the owner’s grasp.
Tracker’s grip tightened. “I would prefer you left that alone, if you please. It does not need to be any wetter than it already is.” One hand toyed with the end of his braid. “Damn thing takes hours to dry.”
Dylan recalled that morning in the pond. The man’s hair had certainly looked damp for much of the day. “I can probably help with that, but I’m pretty sure it’s been weeks since you last did anything with it.”
Sighing, the hound relinquished his hold on the braid. “As you like, but if I end up sleeping with wet hair, I am confiscating your robes until Wintervale.”
“You’d have me travel weeks in my undertunic just for spending one night with damp hair?”
“You are quite right. I will confiscate that, too. And your boots.”
Slowly, Dylan unravelled the braid. Free of its bindings, the strands sprang into loose coils. He tentatively ran his hand through it, searching for knots. It straightened under his fingers, only to bounce back once released. The texture was coarser than his own hair. Thicker, too.
When he was certain he wasn’t about to turn the man’s hair into one big matt, he slowly coaxed the man back so as to gently scoop the water onto Tracker’s head. It seemed that, no matter how much he poured over the man’s hair, it didn’t look wet enough.
His small grumbles must have reached the hound’s ears, for Tracker chuckled. “I did warn you that it is a sponge.”
Finally conceding that the coils were more likely to drain the bath before getting to the same soggy state as his own hair, Dylan set about washing them. He lathered his hands with the soap and gently massaged the resulting suds into the man’s scalp.
The hound’s small, contented hum drifted through the space between them. “All right,” he murmured, tipped his head back. “I will let you keep your boots.”
“How magnanimous of you.” His finger brushed the paw print behind the elf’s ear. A little mark to denote that this man owed his fealty, his very life, to the crown. And here I thought Demarn had abolished slavery. It’d been one thing to keep spellsters locked away, but they were far more dangerous to the average man than a hound. “So,” he murmured. “This mark is a brand?”
Tracker cleared his throat. “It is not so bad. It helps identify those within the pack.”
“I would’ve thought, given your rarity, that you’d know everyone by sight alone.”
“I do, for the most part, perhaps not the younger ones. It has been some time since I have familiarised myself with my fellow hounds and the royal line has been collecting us for several generations now. We are not exactly as numerous as spellsters. I think most of you seem to believe there a great many more of us than there are.”
“And how many are there?”
He hummed. “I would not be able to give you an exact number. We are often scattered about the kingdom. Although, I am certain there used to be more fully-fledged hounds living beneath the castle when I was a boy. I would say, fifty or so? Who knows, we might even be pushing half that again by now, although I doubt it. It really depends on how many young ones are born and whether they all make it through their training.”
Dylan withdrew his fingers from the man’s scalp. “That’s… that’s enough for a small mercenary company.” Fifty or so men and women capable of facing a spellster without fear of their magic.
“If we were all in one place, we would make a reasonable sized troop, yes.”
Certainly big enough to be a spearhead for the army against Udynea’s spellsters. “So why doesn’t the king send you to the front line alongside us?” One spellster could shield several hounds at once from mundane attacks. If they were all as stealthy as Tracker, then they’d have no trouble slipping through the enemy’s defences. Udynea’s army could be slain in its bed.
“I do not know. Perhaps it has not occurred to him. Hounds generally work alone. They do not exactly train us to fight together.”
“Do you think the hounds could’ve attacked the tower?” It made sense. Send in those least likely to be harmed in a counterattack.
Tracker sighed. “I believe we have already had this talk.” He pushed himself away from the edge and dunked his head, resurfacing in a great spray of warm water. “But let us say the king has suddenly lost his mind,” he continued as he combed his hair with his fingers. “That after all this time he decides to do away with years of tradition and send every hound across the land to slaughter thousands of innocents. And let us also assume that the pack is no stronger than fifty. That many against a thousand or so spellsters? Even with our abilities, that would be suicide.”
“Not every spellster would have the ability to retaliate.”
Tracker looked at him thoughtfully, then nodded. “Yes, we should also factor in those who are too young to fight back with much effect. Babes, frightened children and such. That would perhaps be maybe a quarter, a third if we are to be generous. That is still a lot of people.”
“People who aren’t at all experienced with fighting.” Or defending. Would a shield hold back a hound’s advance? It hadn’t kept Tracker from stumbling through Dylan’s shield when the Talfaltaner struck the elf.
“Even then, I have yet to include your guardians or the servants both of whom would surely fight back if threatened. You witnessed firsthand that we can get hit despite our training. We die just as easily as any other man.”
“Not by magic you don’t.” If lightning had no effect other than leaving a pleasant tingle in the air, he couldn’t see how a fireball or ice would do much. Unless the fire caught. But he’d seen little evidence of scorch marks in the areas he’d looked.
The hound’s lips pressed together. Had the man seen different? “All it would take is an arrow. A lucky hit with a blade. You say there is a guardian for every spellster. Fifty hounds facing a thousand guardians?” Tracker slowly shook his head and droplets of water trembled free of his hair. “If I was to assault the tower, I would not even think about attacking that place, let alone go near, without at least a thousand men at my back. Twice that if I could manage it.”
“Where would a thousand men disappear to, let alone more?”
“Precisely so.” The man bobbed along in the water, halting before him. “Dylan, I suggested we come here to help you relax. But if this is not working I fear I shall have to take more drastic measures.”
Despite himself, a small chuckle passed his lips. “I just feel so… hopeless.” It shouldn’t have been this way. He’d done everything right and it hadn’t been enough.
Tracker caressed Dylan’s cheek, the thumb leaving a wet trail along his skin. “I know you do, my dear man.” He coaxed Dylan’s head down and kissed his forehead. “You really do not belong in the army.”
“You don’t think I’m dangerous enough to be a weapon?”
Those honey-coloured eyes peered at him, searching. “What I think is that you vastly prefer not being as dangerous as you could be, even in the midst of battle.” The hound pressed closer. “You hav
e no idea how rare it is to know someone like that,” he breathed. “I almost…”
Dylan waited for the man to continue. “Almost what?”
A wry smile curved Tracker’s lips. “I am rambling. Pay it no mind, it is unimportant.” He walked his fingers up Dylan’s chest, his other hand groping along the edge of the bath until it settled on the cloth. “But if you are not going to bathe yourself, I am quite willing to do it for you.”
He tugged the cloth free of the man’s grasp, knowing full well where it would lead if he gave Tracker the chance. “I’m more than capable of doing it myself, thank you.” Not that didn’t want to go as far as Tracker was looking to go tonight. He just preferred to be clean of their travels before then.
He placed a finger beneath the hound’s chin, tipping Tracker’s head back. “If you can refrain from teasing me, I might let you wash my back.”
Those glorious eyes widened. He grinned, a low rich laugh slipping between his teeth. “A promise is it?” Tracker purred. He slunk to the edge of the bath and sprawled out on the submerged seating. “If you think I will not hold you to that, my dear spellster, you are sadly mistaken.”
Dylan smiled as he lathered himself in soap. “I’m counting on it.”
Dylan busied himself with removing the day’s travel from his own skin in silence, his every move observed by the elf who seemed content with leaning against the bath edge. Just knowing Tracker watched him was enough to make his stomach bubble, but every time he looked up, he’d catch that small, knowing smile curving one side of the man’s mouth. And the way Tracker’s gaze ran over him like invisible caresses…
Each time they forced him to look away before his legs gave.
Tracker shifted as Dylan went to wash his own back, closing the small distance between them to relieve him of the cloth. “I think I have been patient for long enough,” he whispered, grinning as a hungry light leapt into those honey-coloured eyes. “And I believe it is my turn now.”
Dylan didn’t bother wasting his breath on arguing that he was more than capable of doing it himself. Instead, he knelt on the submerged seats and let the man have his way. The cloth ran over his back in gentle, but firm, circles.
Between the water’s heat and the elf’s touch—methodically slipping lower as Tracker scrubbed—all the muscles in his body finally gave. His eyelids lowered and Dylan laid his head on the pool’s edge. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt this pampered. A pity that they’d be leaving such luxuries behind as early as tomorrow morning.
The cloth slid lower still, becoming far more personal than fabric had any right to be.
Jolted fully awake, Dylan jerked upright with enough force to have his stomach collide with the bath wall. “Th-that’s not my back.” The words erupted through his lips before he could stop them. Warmth slunk its way across his face. Of all the stupid things to say. “You probably already know that.”
The breath of the hound’s little chuckle wove its way up the nape of Dylan’s neck, raising every hair on his body. “I do indeed.” Tracker’s hand slipped from Dylan’s backside around to his hip. “I just thought, seeing that we are now both clean and rather undressed, that you might be amenable to picking up where we left off?” The man’s long fingers wrapped around Dylan’s semi-erect length, drawing a quivering gasp from his lips.
Dylan swallowed. He very much wanted to do just that, but… “N-not here.”
“And where would you prefer?” Tracker murmured, further heating Dylan’s neck.
He twisted in the small space the hound had left him to glance over his shoulder. “A bed would be nice.”
“Oh?” Tracker leant back. His lips curved in a small, playful smile. “Then a bed you shall have.” He slid along the edge of the bath and slithered out. “Let us not waste any more time here.”
“It’s that easy?”
The hound twisted to sit on the edge, his legs gently swinging back and forth. “Should it be complicated?” His gaze brushed across Dylan’s skin, the honey-like colour dark in the lantern light. “I thought you would prefer I lay off the teasing… for now.”
Dylan joined the man outside of the bath, shivering as the cooler air fully embraced his bare form. Snatching up the towel Tracker tossed his way, he hastened to dry himself and dress.
Half-stifled growls and muffled curses had Dylan glancing the hound’s way to find Tracker at the bath edge. The man was bent over the bath, squeezing the water from his hair.
“Remind me why I let you talk me into washing this beast at this time of the day?” The hound gave his hair another twist, sending a small trickle into the bath. “It is going to end up completely unmanageable and sodden.”
Dylan bit his lip to repress a snigger. “Talking you into it, as you put it, consisted of a few words and a promise. Which reminds me.” He allowed the dense heat of a fireball to dance between his hands, not permitting it to burst into flame. “Stand up.”
The hound straightened at the command, the tilt of his shoulders suggesting he didn’t entirely trust Dylan. To the hound’s credit, Dylan probably wouldn’t if he was the one facing a pool of water either. “Exactly what are you planning on doing?”
“Just this.” He held his hands either side of the man’s head, not letting the palms touch but instead radiating heat. “It’s a trick I learnt from an old friend.”
Tracker shivered. “And it is… safe for you to be doing this?”
“I use it on my hair all the time. Haven’t set myself on fire so far.” A fireball might’ve been quicker but, apart from the certainty of the hound finding a distinct lack of humour at being used for target practice, he wasn’t sure if the coils of hair were as immune to magic as the rest of Tracker. Yes, the man had run through that fireball back at the abandoned farmhouse, but it was possible Tracker moved too quickly for the flames to take. Either way, Dylan certainly wasn’t about to risk the curls catching and turning magically-conjured flames into an all-too-normal fire.
Drying the elf’s hair took a little longer than he’d expected. The thick strands really did act like a sponge. “Why do you keep it at this length, again? It doesn’t look like it’s at all easy to keep under control.”
Tracker chuckled. “It is a beast to maintain at times, yes, but…” His smile wavered at the corners. “It is mine. There have been so few things in my life that I can control.”
Dylan stepped back. “That ought to do it.”
Gingerly, the hound patted his head. The coils stuck out much farther than Dylan expected now that they were dry and unbound, enough to cover all but the tips of the elf’s ears. Those long fingers ran through the curls and Tracker nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Something else I should add to your ever-growing list of skills, it would seem.”
“Hardly. It was just a simple application of heat to evaporate the water in your hair.” Dylan sat on the bench as the hound started what he assumed was going to be a long process of returning the hair to its single braid.
Watching the three sections become one was almost hypnotic. Tracker’s fingers moved in a rather deft and elegant manner, bunching each section in a firm, practised rhythm.
The hound turned, likely sensing Dylan’s gaze. “Was there something you wished to say?”
“N-no,” he stammered. “I just— You seem very adept at that.” He nodded at the man’s hair, the final length of which was now being braided over Tracker’s shoulder.
“My fingers have always been very nimble.” Those honey-coloured eyes glanced down long enough to secure the leather thong around the braid’s end.
“I’ve noticed.”
Chuckling, Tracker crossed the distance between them as he flicked the braid over his shoulder. “I thought you might,” he purred. “Shall we retire before it gets fully dark out?”
Dylan couldn’t help the grin that took his face, although he managed to stifle the giggle rumbling in his chest. Clearing his throat, he shouldered his pack. “Lead on,” he managed.
Th
e hound grabbed his hand and directed him through the dark passageways until they arrived at a wider, well-lit hall. They staggered up the winding stairs, pausing at the landing to reaffirm their desire with haphazard kisses and candid gropes. Tracker rubbed against him until Dylan was certain he would burst. He grasped at the man’s jerkin, desperately wishing to rid Tracker of all vestments and take the elf where he stood.
Tracker slowly led him to the second half of the stairway, clutching Dylan just as tightly and seeming as reluctant to abandon their kiss as Dylan. The difference in their height constantly shifted as they climbed in small hesitant steps, evening out every so often as the hound continued up.
Dylan stumbled as his foot came down in search of a step that wasn’t there. He pitched forward, grasping for the railing and finding nothing. An unexpected extra squeal assaulted his ears as they crashed into someone.
“Well, I never…” the familiar-sounding man blustered, his protest falling into huffs as Tracker and Dylan started giggling like a pair of adolescents caught outside of curfew.
“Do excuse us, Alan,” Tracker said, sniggering as he helped Dylan to his feet. “Are you certain you are not a little bit drunk?”
Dylan snorted. “What sort of lightweight do you take me for?” He dusted off his robe, taking pains to avoid eye contact with the man they’d collided into. Alan, huh? It was darker in the corridor, but Dylan was certain he was the same man who had served Tracker his drink in the tavern and propositioned the hound.
Alan eyed them, his expression turning cold as his gaze settled on Dylan’s face. “Can I help you sirs find your rooms?”
“No, no, my dear man.” Tracker grabbed hold of Dylan’s robe, snaking an arm around his waist and pulling him close. “I know the way.”
Alan cocked one blond brow at them. “Are you sure? I am quite willing to help you—and your friend, of course—settle in for the night. I could perhaps ensure your bed is warm enough for you?”
I bet you could. The possessive thread coiling through his gut twisted. If the man thought Dylan was going to step aside, he was sorely mistaken. Looking Alan straight in the eye, Dylan bent to flick his tongue across the tip of the hound’s ear.