by Aldrea Alien
He heard the clanging of the smithy long before it was in sight. The sound brought his mind’s eye back to the tower. A small wooden awning huddled in the shadows of the wall and the inner building where the servants did the laundry. Underneath it sat a forge, its mouth always glowing and heat-hazy. Beside it sat a single anvil and, most days, the rhythmic ring of metal on metal encompassed the outside training grounds. On a good day, it could even be heard in the gardens on the opposite side of the tower.
Tracker halted. “Here we are.”
Blinking off the after-effects of the sun’s glare, Dylan looked into the building before them. He wasn’t quite sure what he had expected when Tracker first spoke of the place. Anvils, certainly. Maybe a slightly bigger forge than the one back at the tower, but this?
The main building stood several stories tall, the top two levels suggesting that this was also a place of residence. There was a massive chimney poking from the roof, pouring smoke. The ground floor seemed to be mostly smithy. With three brick walls and little light, it was akin to staring into the maw of a cave. One that was perhaps home to a fiery beast of legend.
Movement came from within. Stepping closer put Dylan in the building’s shadow. Four people worked in the gloomy space, three men and a woman. They each worked at an anvil, their hammers leaving very little room for any other noises.
Completed works stood by a door that looked to hold more of the same. Tongs and hammers and other strange things encircled each anvil. More implements lined the walls, odd twists of metal and wood that really wouldn’t look out of place in some dingy dungeon.
A plough horse stood off to one side. A man lingered near the massive animal, leaning against the wall the horse was hitched to.
Tracker waved his hand. “Reji!”
One of the men glanced up, his pointed ears framed by the light of the forge at his back. His hammer echoed Tracker’s gesture before it came down on the glowing metal.
The hound leant on the stone wall. “Now we wait.”
Dylan crunched on his apple, trying to determine what the blacksmiths were making. They all seemed to be on different tasks. The women was almost done with what was definitely a horseshoe, whilst one of the men alternated a narrow length of metal between the forge and his anvil, and the second man hammered away at what looked to be a poker or spear point.
The woman strode over to the horse, tested the shoe and disappeared back into the shadows to give the steel another few taps. She fitted the animal with its new shoe and, after a brief exchange of words and coins, waved the owner away.
And still they waited for someone to acknowledge them.
Eventually, the elf who had gestured came out, wiping the soot off his hands onto his apron. Dylan thought it’d been a trick of the shadows, but the man was perhaps the darkest man he’d ever seen. He appeared quite bulky for an elf, too, with broad shoulders better suited to a man several feet taller.
“Tracker.” The man who could only be Reji slapped his hand into the hound’s. Reji vigorously shook the other elf’s hand—and most of Tracker with it. “It’s good to see you’re still alive.”
“You were expecting me to be dead?”
Reji grimaced. “After all the hounds just up and vanished? Yes. How has my girl been treating you?” He indicated the scimitar sitting snugly in its sheath.
Smiling, Tracker caressed the weapon’s pommel. “She is serving me quite well.” He eyed Dylan and the rest of their company before clapping a hand on the man’s back. “Come, my friend. There seems to be a matter we must discuss. Let us go somewhere private.” The hound glanced over his shoulder at the rest of them. “Wait here. This will not take long.”
The pair walked a little ways into the shadows and through a doorway.
Dylan paced before the smithy. If he turned his head at just the right angle, he could see them. That they talked was certain, their mouths moving in obvious conversation, but any hope of hearing the words was drowned out by the clanging of hammers and the roar of the forge.
What was the man telling Tracker that couldn’t be said in public?
“Hey,” Marin blurted, nudging him in the ribs as he swung about to pace some more. “Cut that out, will you. You’re making me tired just watching you.”
“Sorry, I—”
“Want to go get something to eat?” Her gaze dropped to his half-eaten apple. “Something with a little more substance. I think I smelt pies just down the road.”
Clearly, she’d forgotten the pasty he’d devoured early. And, apparently, so had his stomach, judging by the low rumble it gave at the mention of more food. “A pie would be nice.”
“Come on, then.” She waved him to follow her down the street. “Let’s go flush out whoever’s selling them.”
Dylan hesitated as the crowd obscured the smithy’s front. “What if we get lost?” That Tracker couldn’t find any hounds at their base last night didn’t mean there wasn’t a chance of stumbling upon one returning today. With how poor his luck had become since leaving the tower, losing the smithy—and the hound’s protection—would be just the sort of cruel joke he’d expect from the gods.
Marin snorted. “What sort of hunter do you take me for? If I can navigate us through the forest to a village, I can certainly find a smithy. Let’s go.” She grabbed his wrist and, over her shoulder said, “Wait here. We’ll bring something back for you two.”
“Something hot!” Authril shouted back.
Finding the bakery was a matter of following their noses. It led them down a side street where a few shops cringed out of sight of the main market square. Even so, the place seemed to have no lack of customers.
They were returning from the bakery, each in the process of wolfing down a warm beef pie, with more carefully stowed in their packs for the others, when a multicoloured array of twinkling lights caught his eye. Dylan followed the rainbow glints, halting outside what looked to be a makeshift stall of knick-knacks.
He polished off the remainder of his impromptu meal as his gaze swung over the merchandise. A vast majority of the table was covered in an assortment of runes, stones and potions. Little dreamwebs dangled from a horizontal pole, their intricate designs fine enough to put a spider to shame.
The gleaming light that had drawn him came from a collection of necklaces set up on a rack sitting just on the inner edge of the table. The pendants were little more than stones and what looked to be bits of polished glass and metal. A few of them bore runes and some of the stones had strange carvings that appeared to be seashells.
“Can I help you?” asked the elderly trader. She grasped a handful of the necklaces. “Perhaps a trinket for your love?”
Dylan glanced in the direction the woman nodded. It seemed Marin had followed him on his little detour. “She isn’t— We’re just friends,” he clarified.
“My apologies,” the woman murmured, returning the cords to their hooks.
Marin smiled. She fingered a few of the dreamwebs and ran a considering eye over the necklaces. “Is there a law I missed that says friends can’t buy jewellery for each other?”
“No,” Dylan said. “But firstly, I don’t have any money.” Not now he’d bought the pies. “Also, you don’t strike me as the glittery baubles type.”
“I’m not. But…” She unhooked a necklace from its friends. “I have money and I want to give you this.” In one swift move, she slipped the string over Dylan’s head.
He inspected the ashen-coloured pendant. The stone was oval and smooth. An Ancient Demarner rune had been scratched into its surface.
“Lovely choice that one,” the elderly trader said, nodding to herself. “Means good fortune and strength in the old tongue.”
“No it doesn’t,” Dylan mumbled. It had been years since he had needed to translate Ancient Demarner. Still, he recalled enough to know she was wrong. Not by much, but there was a huge difference in this and the symbol for good fortune, or strength for that matter.
The old woman scoffed.
“What would you know?” she snapped. “If you’re not buying, give it back.” Her bony fingers clawed at him, trying to snatch the stone whilst the cord still hung around his neck.
He jerked back on instinct, just enough to stay out of her reach. “Hold on, I—”
“Guards!” the trader shrieked. “Thief! Thief!”
Dylan hastened to remove the necklace, very much aware of people slowing at her cries. He glanced around the square, desperately looking for any sign of armoured men. If they found him wandering the square without Tracker, they might choose to deal with him themselves.
“Now wait a moment,” Marin said. She fumbled in her coin pouch—which looked rather on the lean side after their visit to the bakery—and withdrew a copper. “Here,” she said, slapping the coin into the woman’s outstretched hand.
The woman eyed her, a greedy light gleaming in her pale eyes. “Rogues,” she squawked, somewhat more frantically than the last cry. “Swindlers. Out to beggar an old woman.”
Grumbling under her breath, Marin produced another copper. “And that’s all I’m prepared to offer for it.”
Those bony fingers folded around the money like a claw trap at the very second the coins clinked together. “Thank you muchly for your patronage, my dear.”
Marin turned from the stall. She stalked off in the direction of the smithy, muttering obscenities.
“I was about to give the necklace back,” Dylan said as he strode alongside her, tucking the pendant underneath his clothing. “We could’ve just walked away.”
“And have her keep shrieking until the guards arrived to lock us up?” Marin tilted her upper body, peering over his shoulder as if expecting such a group to emerge from the cobblestones. She clapped him on the back. “Come on. Let’s see if Track’s finished chatting up that blacksmith.”
“He’s not—” Dylan snapped before catching himself. “I mean, he’s attempting to find out what happened to the Talfaltaners.”
“And that requires him to be in a room with the guy? Alone?”
He eyed the woman and caught the faint curve of a smirk trying to twist her lips. Was she trying to bait him? “Maybe Reji doesn’t feel comfortable divulging information in public.”
“Sure,” Marin murmured. “Few people would make a habit of—what did you call it?—publicly divulging information.”
Dylan ignored the poor attempt to turn his words into an innuendo. Instead, he fished an apple from his pack and silently munched on it. He’d really used far too much magic last night.
By the time they’d reached the smithy, Tracker stood outside with the others, holding a slim length of wood. The hound frowned at their approach and, before Dylan could speak, he growled, “I clearly recall telling you to wait.”
“I was hungry,” Marin replied, already digging out the pies they’d bought and passing them to the other women.
“What’s with the stick?” Dylan asked, indicating the object with a jerk of his chin.
“This quarterstaff,” the hound amended, thrusting the pole towards Dylan, “is for you. I understand it will take some training to use it properly, but at least the worst you could do in the meantime is knock yourself out.”
“You bought me a… staff?” He eyed the length of wood. In all, it stood pretty close to his height. Metal capped the ends and there were several spiked bands a little further up the shaft. “How am I supposed to defend myself with this?”
Tracker wordlessly relieved Dylan of his half-eaten apple and threw it into the air. There was a blur of wood and the fruit exploded. “Quite well once trained,” he said, handing over the weapon.
Dylan fingered the quarterstaff, suddenly aware of just how many people were staring. And the cat-who-caught-the-pigeon smirk Marin wore. His chest tightened at the sight. He bought me a weapon. This wasn’t at all like the cloak or even the hunter’s little trinket. “You really didn’t have to—”
“Nonsense,” Tracker interrupted. “I am, of course, under no delusion that you will be allowed to continue practising in the army, but we should be able to cover the basics on our way to Wintervale, yes? Especially seeing as we are relegated to the roads.”
“There are no boats capable of taking us upstream?” Katarina asked as they turned from the smithy.
The hound shook his head. “According to Reji, the city’s dockmasters are under orders to only let wares travel the waters until the full complement of boats are returned.”
“Returned?” Authril echoed. She trotted on the hound’s other side, forced to squeeze her way through the crowd as they left the square for a street heading east. “So they were taken? Did your contact have anything to say about the Talfaltaners?”
“Indeed, dear woman. For starters, the men had been travelling upriver for some time before the attack. Someone commandeered most of the river boats. And not only those at Whitemeadow.”
Dylan’s heart sank. If the Talfaltaners had boarded those same boats, they would be halfway down the river by now. “So they’re gone.” The main bulk of them, anyway. All they could ever hope to find would be a few stragglers.
Marin squeezed his arm.
“Did your man know who commandeered the boats?” Katarina asked. “I can’t imagine who would have either the authority or the coin.”
Again, Tracker shook his head. “Reji could not tell me who, no. Those living in Whitemeadow did not see much of the Talfaltaners beyond them sailing past the city. It seems they kept to themselves for the most part.” He glanced over his shoulder, caught Dylan’s gaze and gave a small, reassuring smile. “Riverton will hold more answers, yes?”
“Let me guess,” Authril said. “You’ve a contact there, too?”
“Not as such, but coin loosens a great many lips.”
Katarina glanced up from the map she’d pulled out at the mention of the fishing village. She measured off the distance, mumbling numbers under her breath. “It’ll take at least a fortnight to reach this Riverton on foot.”
“Then we should pick up our pace.” Tracker frowned at the hedgewitch. “Although, Dvärghem is closer from here than Wintervale, yes? I would have thought you would choose to part ways here.”
She glanced up from the map, her soft brown brow wrinkling. “Without an escort?”
“Ah, yes, of course. The issue of escorting you to your people’s land.” Tracker hummed. His gaze drifted in the direction of the river. “There are messenger pigeons over in the hound complex. I could send word ahead of the attacks and we could take you to the border?”
Dylan raised a brow at the man. Surely, he couldn’t be serious. Such a trip would take over a month and that was just travelling straight.
“We could not,” Authril snapped. “Aren’t you forgetting him?” She thrust a finger at Dylan.
Tracker looked Dylan up and down as if they’d never met. “What part am I forgetting exactly?”
“The part…” she yelled, before catching herself and hissing, “…where he is unleashed.”
The hound’s brows lowered, although he continued to stare at Dylan. Something dark flickered in those honey-coloured eyes. “He is doing nothing dangerous. Our dear spellster has threatened no more lives on our journey than we have.” His gaze slid to Marin. “Even less than some of us.”
Authril harrumphed. “That’s a long time to let him wander unleashed. Could you guarantee he’d remain harmless all the way to Dvärghem and back?”
Tracker’s scowl deepened. “I could ask the same of you, dear woman.”
The warrior turned on her heel, halting straight in front of Tracker so abruptly that the man was left with the choice of stopping or barging into her. Fortunately for the both of them, he chose the former.
“The longer he’s left unleashed,” she said, “the less of a chance he has of the army believing what happened to his collar. You barely believe him and we’ve all seen the proof. Kat was the only one who was there when he woke. She can attest to the condition she found him in.”
“But Track’ll be there,” Marin pointed out. “Surely he’ll be more than capable of declaring Dylan as being harmless to those who do not threaten him.”
“That might’ve worked when we were taking him back to the tower, but consider this: we’re marching an unleashed spellster into the capital. Have you ever heard of a spellster getting free of their collar before?” Authril turned her querying gaze on each one them. “Nor have I and I’m willing to bet not many people in the army have either. And Track wasn’t there at the beginning. None of us were. Except Kat. They might not accept her word even now, but if she leaves before he’s leashed again, they’ll believe he’s a deserter, if not a runaway. Or worse, they could think he’s a Udynean spy. I don’t fancy marching him to his death.”
The contemptuous sneer that tugged at the hound’s lip faded the longer Authril spoke. His gaze swung to Dylan before his eyes closed and small sigh slipped out his mouth. “I forgot that our dear hedgewitch was the first to stumble upon him.” He gave Katarina a small, mirthless smile. “It would seem your homeland will have to wait for your return, my dear.”
“I’m sure the Coven will manage without me for a while longer,” she replied, one side of her mouth hitching as she spoke.
“And so it will,” Tracker mumbled. He cast a glance at Dylan and, for a brief moment, a bone-deep sadness shone bright in his eyes. Then he shook himself and turned to Authril. “Very well, my dear warrior, we will head for Wintervale.”
“Stop,” Dylan managed to mumble in the space that he was given to breathe in between kisses. It was night, the tent barely lit by the light streaming through the fluttering tent flap.
The warm, muscular body above him did little to heed his command. If anything, it pressed more insistently against him. But that was often Authril’s way.
Last night, after finally leaving Whitemeadow, they’d made camp on the fringes of the forest surrounding the buckwheat fields. She’d been adamant on using his body for her pleasure. He had complied, and seemingly to her apparent satisfaction, but…