In Pain and Blood (Spellster Series Book 1)

by Aldrea Alien

  “That we are. Although I cannot see how we could possibly mount a defence without spellsters of our own to counter the enemy’s.”

  “We couldn’t counter them even then.” It would’ve taken the entire tower to hold back the Udynea Empire attacking in earnest.

  “You perhaps have the right of it there.” Tracker sighed. “There are too many possibilities to be certain of much right now. That is why I sought out my fellow hounds, they would not have ignored the presence of so many armed men, but…”

  “They weren’t there,” Dylan finished for him. Just like at Oldmarsh. The guardians always said hounds were never far from a city.

  So where had they all gone?

  Tracker’s gaze drifted to the window. His eyes turned distant for a breath or two, before he shook himself. “You are right. We should find the others and see Reji as soon as we are able. I can only hope the answers are with him. I am somewhat adverse to the idea of entering Wintervale blind.”

  Dylan’s stomach issued a gentle growl.

  Tracker snickered. “I suppose we should feed you first, especially after last night’s exertion. All that magic must have worked up quite the appetite.”

  “A bit,” he admitted. Although, the physical portion of last night had taken a lot more out of him.

  “And yet you eat so little. It is a wonder you have any meat on your bones.” He shouldered his pack. “Come, they should still be serving breakfast in the tavern.”

  “Do you think they make flat cakes?” Dylan asked as they left the room, a little wistful for the comfort of home. “With syrup and cream.” His cheeks warmed as Tracker arched a brow in his direction.

  “We have something of a sweet tooth, yes?”

  He shrugged. “Not particularly.” But after the barely edible food on the road and the poor excuse for a stew here, he did crave something that didn’t make him wish his tongue would drop off.

  The hound’s chuckle was almost lost in the thud of their boots down the stairs. “Well, fortunately for you, I am in an indulgent mood. I will see to it that they make whatever you desire.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I’m fine with—”

  Tracker snorted. “Nonsense. After everything you have been through, buying a few flat cakes is not exactly a great task.” They’d only begun to cross the courtyard to the tavern entrance when the man halted, his head tilted as if listening. “On the other hand, perhaps we should find the women and another place to eat.”

  The distinct sound of a person crashing into a table hit Dylan’s ears. Cries of pain and outrage fast followed.

  He eyed the door, expecting it to burst open. The scuffle inside was definitely getting worse. “What if they’re in there?”

  “I am certain they would also seek another place rather than stick around to brawl.” Tracker turned on his heel. “Perhaps they already wait for us out on the street.” The man took a few steps and stopped. “Gods, do not tell me—”

  Above the fighting, came Authril’s cry, “Marin, stop!”

  They’re inside? Thoughts of the brute Willy having returned with similar hulking friends flashed through his mind. Dylan ran for the door with Tracker at his heels. He burst into the tavern, ready to defend his companions, and froze in the doorway.

  Tables were overturned or broken. Chairs scattered about. He had expected that. A man cowered against the bar, his face bloody. The sight he shrank from was an angered Marin brandishing what appeared to be a table leg.

  The normally placid hunter had become rage incarnate, screaming obscenities at the man and trying to win herself free of Authril’s grip. Dylan frantically searched for Katarina and found her crouched near the bar, her little dagger ready to fend off the two men advancing on her with pokers.

  “Oh, for gods’ sake,” Tracker muttered as he squeezed under Dylan’s arm. “I cannot spend one day, just one day, in a tavern without someone starting a fight?”

  A figure from the nearby shadows lunged for them, their fist raised.

  The hound grabbed the offending arm before Dylan could think to retaliate. With barely a pause, the elf decked the poor sod. He hopped onto the bar counter and drew his sword, the blade glittering in the sputtering candlelight. “That is enough!” Tracker bellowed.

  People stilled, their attention immediately drawn to the man who’d levelled his weapon at the whole room.

  “I will have order,” he growled, “and I will have it now. You two!” He pointed his sword at the thugs attempting to skewer the hedgewitch. “Drop your weapons and back away from my friend.”

  The men obeyed, hastily tossing aside the pokers and raising their hands. “We didn’t mean anything by it, sir,” one of them gabbled.

  “Of course,” Tracker said in a tone that was far too pleasant. “Because running someone through is all in good fun, yes?” He kept watching the pair, even when Dylan couldn’t see how they could be a threat. “Now then, if someone could kindly tell me what is going on…?”

  “This man here,” Katarina said, indicating the bloody-faced human at the foot of the bar who was now wobbling to his feet. “He insul—”

  The man slapped his hand on the bar, growling incomprehensibly under his breath. He felt his face, wincing as his fingers touched his broken nose, and glared at Marin. “Gods thrice damn you, woman.”

  Marin lunged for the man, held back by Authril lifting the hunter’s far taller frame off the floor. The woman thrashed in the warrior’s grip. “Put me down!”

  “Soddin’ pointy-eared lovers, almost as bad as the real thing.” The man spat onto the floor, staining the ground red. “Give them some fancy sword and they think they can push around us normal folk.” His hand curled around the ankle of Tracker’s boot. “Well, I ain’t afraid of some whelp getting all high and mighty with me.”

  Sneering, the hound dealt the man a kick to the head. “Everyone will stay put.” The words came softly, each rich syllable dripping the threat of violence and sending an oddly pleasant shiver up Dylan’s back. “If anyone tries to move without my say-so, their throat will be the first I slit. Have I made myself entirely clear?”

  “Indeed, Master Tracker.”

  Dylan turned to find a rather angry, fair-haired woman in the doorway. She carried a short length of leather-wrapped wood, which she slapped against her brown hands in a manner that suggested she knew how to use it.

  The woman strode into the room, the keys on her belt jingling with every step. “I believe you’ve made yourself quite clear. Although I would prefer you don’t resort to slitting throats, blood is so very difficult to clean and my customers tend to get a bit squeamish at the sight.”

  The hound jumped down from the counter and sheathed his sword before addressing the woman. “I sincerely apologise for my friends’ behaviour, Madam Gwen. Allow me to pay for the damages.” He produced one of the royal sigils and placed it into the woman’s hand. “We will, of course, be leaving. At once.” The hound shot Marin a scathing look that would’ve withered the woman had he been a spellster.

  Authril released the hunter, who stumbled a few steps before righting herself. Marin glared at the man Tracker had booted, sneering when he did little more than stare vacantly back. She straightened her attire, tugging at both leather and cloth with equal viciousness.

  “Now, if you please, my dear women,” Tracker growled, indicating the door.

  All three filed past Dylan and out of the tavern. Apart from the hunter, the looks they shot him were rather guilty. The hound swiftly followed, the man’s expression reminding Dylan of the last time he’d disappointed his guardian.

  “What did you think you were doing?” Tracker demanded of Marin as they stepped onto the street. “This is not the back of nowhere. There are rules here.”

  “And apparently a marked lack of manners,” she snapped. “We only went in there to eat and that sack of swine shit starts shouting at Authril.”

  “Diseased, pointy-eared tart was the most palatable of the things he c
alled her,” Katarina added.

  Tracker sighed. “Seasonal dock-workers are not the worst of the bunch. And that does not explain why you were the one so bent on attacking them, my dear hunter.” He turned to side-eye Authril before continuing his conversation with Marin. “Or perhaps you thought our dear warrior was incapable of her own retaliation. It was dark and my eyes perhaps deceived me, but she looked to be holding you back, yes?”

  Marin folded her arms and grumbled, “Only because I planned to shove that table leg up his arse.”

  “As much as you believe he deserved it, I doubt that would have accomplished anything beyond you being escorted to jail.”

  Dylan didn’t agree. Done right, it would’ve ended the world of one less bigot. And they could’ve sorted the whole jail business. Even if Tracker couldn’t be persuaded to use another of his royal sigils to secure Marin’s release, Dylan was willing to bet the hound was probably more than capable of picking locks.

  Marin threw her hands up and let forth with a frustrated scream, much to the shock of those in the crowd who looked on with alarmed concern. “This is precisely why I hate coming near cities. Bunch of—”

  “Enough,” Tracker said. “Your dislike has been noted, dear woman. But we are already leaving here and I would like to be able to return someday if at all possible, let us not make our departure any worse than it already is. I have no desire to be kicked out of Whitemeadow before I have had the chance to speak with Reji.” The hound lengthened his stride as if that would serve to stem any chance of them running into another confrontation with the locals.

  Tracker led them through the warehouse district, away from the docks. The crowds grew thicker and noisier. Carts and wheelbarrows of all sizes filled the streets. The chatter of the crowd blurred. Dylan picked out a few conversations—mundane words of a widower’s day, the exorbitant price of another’s wares. He paused upon the mention of a boat. Alas, that was little more than talk of repairs.

  A cart, bearing little pots of flowers, trundled down the street in the opposite direction. Bundles of lavender hung on cart sides. Dylan slowed as they neared, breathing deep. He’d not come across the scent since the pond, a time that seemed like yesterday and years ago. His hand strayed to the coin purse still in his possession. He’d a few coppers left. Surely, it wouldn’t cost more than that for a few stalks.

  “This way,” Tracker said, turning down a side street and away from the cart.

  The others dutifully filed behind the hound.

  Dylan gave one last wistful glance at the cart before trotting after them. Perhaps they’d come across another wild crop during their travels.

  They rounded the corner where the side street emptied out into a market square. Here, armoured men on horseback rode through the crowd like ducks on a pond. They glared at everyone in passing, occasionally bumping their horses into those who weren’t fast enough to move out of their way.

  One such man was carrying a sack over his shoulder. He fell, spilling grain all over the road. Large sections of the crowd slowed to a crawl as some attempted to help the man back up, whilst others berated him.

  The smell of baking bread tweaked Dylan’s nose. He looked about and spied a young boy exiting a shop with a basket of dark brown loaves. His stomach grumbled at the reminder of food and he was soon tugging at Tracker’s sleeve. “I didn’t get my promised breakfast, you know.”

  The hound ruefully smiled up at him. “Nor did I. And do not think I am incapable of hearing this beast.” He gently poked Dylan’s stomach. “Sadly, it is likely best if we deal with the matter of feeding you whilst we restock our supplies, lest some other foul-mouthed person offends our dear hunter’s sensibilities.”

  “You didn’t hear what they called her,” Marin growled.

  “The usual, I suspect,” Tracker replied over his shoulder as they veered towards the bakery. “No one who possesses a pair of pointed ears is immune to the slander of the small-minded, dear woman. Retaliating only makes it worse.”

  “Says the man who kicked the same bastard in the face,” the hunter snapped back.

  “He laid hands upon my person. Just look at this.” He halted before the bakery doorway and lifted the foot the man back at the tavern had grabbed. “Completely soiled the leather with his grubby fingers. It will take some good cleaning to get those marks out.”

  Katarina grunted. She’d not removed her hand from the hilt of her dagger since leaving The Sheppard’s Axe. “Dvärghem doesn’t tolerate such hatred.”

  Now, perhaps, but Dylan remembered his history lessons on Dvärghem quite clearly. The country was only created through the concerted efforts of many dwarven tribes. They’d lost a great deal when the Udynea Empire expanded her borders. The hedgewitches that had visited the tower wouldn’t say what, but he’d been left with a distinct impression of it being more than mere land.

  “That may be so, my dear hedgewitch,” Tracker was saying. “But here is not there.”

  This close to the bakery, the pungent aroma of cinnamon was thick in the air. The smell mingled with the citrusy scent of a nearing fruit stall and set Dylan’s skin to tingling. He’d begun to make certain associations with that scent over the past week and, with his face flushing, found he had to work harder than usual to suppress the stirring in his gut.

  Get it together. Anyone would think him some randy adolescent the way he reacted. And yet… there was certainly something about the man that he found irresistible.

  A brief foray into the bakery had them leaving with several loaves, and a small pasty that Dylan had finished in a matter of minutes. They continued down the road, bouncing from stall to shop to procure supplies, much like in Oldmarsh. Much of what Tracker bought was food, but there were a few other items that seemed odd. The strangest being a small collection of herbs, including a pouch of small pale root-like bulbs.

  “Planning on fancying up our meals?” Marin asked.

  “Fancy?” The hound laughed. “I would hardly consider adding a few herbs and spices to the pot as being particularly imaginative. But we will be travelling alongside a river that holds a great deal of fish and—”

  Dylan had been silently munching on an apple until the mention of fish. He screwed up his nose and made a small gagging noise.

  “—as you can tell from our suddenly seven-year-old spellster,” Tracker continued, albeit with a smirk as he indicated Dylan with the jerk of his thumb. “It is not an option he happens to be fond of.”

  “How did you even know I don’t like fish?” Dylan asked. “Before now, I mean.” He recalled there being but one time when their group had been able to catch such a meal. True, he’d opted to stick with the paltry remains of the pheasant Marin had trapped the day before, but he hadn’t thought the choice had been noticed.

  “I am a very observant man.”

  “So, you plan on pandering to his dislikes?” Authril asked.

  “I would not consider being considerate towards my travelling companion’s dislikes as pandering, dear woman. I would simply prefer to not have him starve before we reach Riverton.”

  “Bah,” the hunter grumped. “He’ll eat raw rat if he’s hungry enough.”

  “I do hope it does not come to that.”

  “It might,” Dylan said. It wouldn’t take much of his magic to turn it into a cooked rodent. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be sick no matter what you do to fish.” He couldn’t recall one time in his life where a meal hadn’t come straight back up. He recalled breaking out in hives in his youth, but now it just taxed his energy whilst the latent healing repaired whatever damage had been caused.

  “We shall see. Have you ever tried eel?”

  Dylan shook his head.

  “Well, I am sure our dear hunter has the appropriate equipment for catching such a creature.” The hound smiled at the woman in question. “Yes?”

  “Bait’s easy to come by,” she said. “Just need some raw meat. You’ll want a stronger line, though. What I’ve got is only good for little fi
sh.”

  “Then that will be our next stop.”

  “You know,” Marin continued, her voice gaining a light-hearted note that immediately made Dylan suspicious. She nudged Tracker with a friendly elbow. “The way you’re fussing over him, I could almost imagine you two as a couple.”

  Dylan’s chest tightened at the declaration. He shoved the apple into his mouth, biting a great chunk from the fruit before he said something stupid. This was just her needling them. No chance she knew.

  Tracker halted. He turned on the hunter, those usually warm honey-coloured eyes cold and flat. “Firstly, dear woman, if that were so, it would be none of your business. More importantly, for a hound such as myself to fraternise with a spellster is highly frowned upon. I would not put my life on the line for something I can get at a brothel risk-free.” He made a show of eyeing Dylan. “Where I could also find someone with a little more meat on their bones.”

  Dylan glared at the man. Although he was certain the hound lied, such a statement still stung. “Ouch.”

  “Well, maybe you should consider eating more.”

  “I eat plenty.” It had always been that way. He could stuff himself almost as much as an elf half his size and never gain much weight. Yes, using magic burnt through a great deal of energy, but refraining from even the smallest flame made no difference. That very fact helped him win a bet after abstaining from magic for a month and barely gaining a thing.

  They left the huge market square and headed further east. The sun blinded them whenever it was able to creep over the top of the buildings, forcing Dylan to throw an arm across his brow. Marin joined him in this act, as did the dwarf from time to time. If the elves were affected, they showed no sign.