by Aldrea Alien
Those long fingers sank into Dylan’s hair, coaxing him down to an eagerly waiting mouth. There was no heat to the kiss. Instead, they spoke with the vehemence of a zealot and the possessiveness of a madman. Mine, each press of his lips screamed. Mine. Mine. Mine.
Dylan’s legs finally gave. He slid to the floor, taking the elf with him and gulped down great lungfuls of air as if he were a man struggling to keep from drowning.
“There is no need to worry,” Tracker breathed, each word hot on Dylan’s lips. “I am here. I will protect you. But we really should leave now.” He released Dylan and turned back to the wreck of the doorway.
“What about the tunnel?”
Tracker shook his head. “With the amount of time they have had, there could very well be people waiting at the exit. I would prefer not to risk that. They will not expect us to go this way.” He picked his way through the corpses, crawling through the pile to squeeze under the grate. “Quickly, now.”
Dylan clapped a hand over his mouth, swallowing the bile sliding up his throat, and followed the man’s passage through the bodies. The sickly sweet stench of charred flesh was overpowering. Some of them still twitched and the footing was treacherous with blood—along with other matter that squelched underfoot, which he steadfastly refused to think about—making everything slippery. At least there wasn’t the same smell as within the tower.
He stumbled, his foot slipping on gods’ knew what, and fell on top of the pile. His face sank beneath the still warm flesh. Thrashing, he managed to free his head and found himself looking straight into the blank eyes of a woman. The grate had crushed her. What was left of her jaw hung in a soundless scream.
His stomach rebelled. The little that remained of last’s night meal dribbled out his mouth, slicking the bodies even further. The acrid taste coated his tongue and made him shiver. He heaved. There was nothing left to bring up but his stomach tried anyway.
Shaking, his body still trying to throw up, he blindly crept the rest of the way through the doorway, half crawling half slithering across the corpses. His arms slipped between the gaps, landing on leather and flesh clammy with blood.
Finally, he was free to flop onto the bloody floor.
Murderer. He was an impure weapon. He should just lie here and wait for the reinforcements to come. Let the Seven Sisters claim him on this night. He deserved his final punishment for the mindless carnage he’d caused. This is why they leash us.
Hands, warm and familiar, dug under his arms, lifting him. “Come on,” Tracker grunted as he hauled Dylan to his feet.
“They’re dead because of me,” he mumbled.
“They are, yes.”
“I’m a murderer.” They were smeared in the blood of the dead. Murderers both. He straightened his shoulders. Only one thing to do. “You have to turn me in.” That’s what they did to dangerous spellsters.
His lover sighed. “I am not going to do that. You are no murderer. They were set on killing us. All you did was defend yourself. Just like anyone else would.”
“Everyone can’t defend like that.” Even if he could claim defence, it didn’t end that way. His later attacks with the collar and grate had been pure offence. “I should be leashed.”
“I will not let that happen, either.” He patted Dylan’s shoulder. “The first blooding is never easy, I understand. But you have to hold it together for a little longer, all right? Can you do that? For me?”
He nodded. For him.
Still shaking, he looked about them. Tunnels branched off in all directions. Their way to freedom could be down any of them. This wasn’t an old dungeon, this was a rabbit warren. “How do we find a way out?”
“I grew up here, remember?” Tracker grabbed his hand. “This way.”
They ran.
Dylan trailed behind his lover, his chest tight, as they made their way through the castle. They mainly stuck to the smaller corridors, following a path that he hoped Tracker actually knew after so many years away from this place.
It didn’t help that everything was so quiet. The very building seemed to be holding its breath. With the passages they took, they should’ve stumbled upon someone like a servant or a guard. Even night wouldn’t leave the castle feeling abandoned.
And it was night. The glimpses Dylan had garnered from the windows they’d passed showed only dark sky. Dawn had been close when the hounds had caught them. Which meant this was a new night. And the army has moved on. He’d considered voicing the idea of hiding amongst the ranks, for if the hounds didn’t have authority over the lieutenants then they might’ve been safe for a little while with Tracker posing as a common mercenary whilst Dylan…
He clutched at his bare neck. That opportunity stopped being available the moment Tracker unleashed him. Even if he’d wanted to go back to the army, he couldn’t without a collar and there was only one person here who could leash him again. Except the king’s alchemist couldn’t use her magic without sanction, nor could they trust her to remain silent.
His gaze swung back to Tracker. There was something strange about the man. It nagged in the back of Dylan’s thoughts every time he looked at the elf, but he couldn’t quite place it. Was it his lover or him?
“In here,” Tracker whispered, beckoning Dylan to move faster with the wave of his hand. Candlelight shone through the open door, backlighting the man’s hair.
Dylan groaned. It was the ears, or rather the lack of seeing them. At this drastically shorter length, Tracker’s hair puffed about his head, concealing the points. Dylan had grown so used to the faint gleam and swing of Tracker’s earrings that he found himself missing them.
He followed Tracker into the castle’s laundry. Unlike the rest of the castle, there were overturned buckets and piles of clothing strewn about the room. “This place looks like it was abandoned in a hurry,” Dylan said. “Recently.” Had word already spread of their escape?
Tracker bent over the wide copper tub sitting in the middle of the room. The fire underneath was out—doused judging by the water pooling around the coals—but steam still rose from the water. “That it most certainly does.” He dipped a hand into the water a shrugged. “Warm enough,” he mumbled before climbing into the tub.
“Do you think that means—?”
“That they have sounded the alarm?” Tracker finished. “I do, yes. Which means we must be quick.” Tracker scrubbed the blood off his arms and chest. He pointed at the far wall where several baskets of clothes sat. A number of them had been tipped over, their contents soiled by the water and people’s boots. “Look through those. See if you cannot find something to fit you.”
Dylan wandered aimlessly around the laundry, his feet splashing through the puddles. He picked up various articles of clothing and fingered them before moving on. His gaze strayed to Tracker’s soaped-up figure. He mutely watched, not really seeing as his chest tightened. In one act, this man gave up the only life the elf had ever known, for him.
Tears blurred his vision. Why? He was nothing. No, that wasn’t quite right. He was one thing.
A murderer.
He’d become everything he’d ever heard of spellsters. The manipulating, evil side that everyone feared. He could’ve found another way to stop the hounds. Blocked off the entrance with something beyond the rack. It had just been easier to slaughter them.
“Dylan?” There was the gentle splash of a body leaving the water and Tracker was suddenly right beside him. “Darling?” Tracker caressed Dylan’s face. Those long, freshly-cleaned fingers came away bloody. “Hey now, stay away from that dark place. Come back to me.”
“I killed them.”
Tracker nodded. He drew Dylan closer to the tub and coaxed him in. “You have killed men before.” Slowly, the elf began washing the blood away.
Dylan shook his head. It wasn’t the same. In the past, he defended himself, killing only when there was no choice and even then he’d take them out directly. This was… different. He could still hear their screams, the shock. So v
ivid the picture of them twitching and bleeding, still clinging to life long after he’d dealt his blow. “They were your people and I killed them. How can you love me after that?”
Those honey-coloured eyes, hooded with concern, lifted from their task. Tracker wiped a wet cloth across Dylan’s face. “Well,” his lover said, giving a small humourless smile. “I have always been drawn to dangerous things, but do not think of it that way.” The cloth fell to Dylan’s neck, growing bloodier with each wipe. “They struck the first blow. They attacked the tower. And they paid the price for it.”
“Not all of them.”
Tracker frowned. The man carried on cleaning Dylan, moving on from his neck to his chest. “If they come after us, then we will remedy that oversight.”
“I don’t want any more death.” Everywhere he went, someone tried to kill him or he was forced to kill them. He was sick of fighting. A small laugh bubbled through his chest. “Some weapon I am.” What good was a blade that wouldn’t cut? “I’m worthless,” he mumbled.
Tracker had fallen to scrubbing Dylan’s stomach. He sprang to his full height, his brows knotting and lifting in the middle. “Worthless?” Water splashed everywhere as the man clambered into the tub with him. Those long fingers cradled Dylan’s head. “Darling, never. You are of infinite worth to me, more than what anyone believes you to be as a weapon. No one is ever just what they can do. At the heart of it, you are a living, breathing man and I—” His lips worked soundlessly for a breath or two before he closed them.
Fresh tears slid down Dylan’s cheeks. He closed his eyes, praying his lover didn’t notice. The gentle trickle of water filled the silence and tiny waves lapped at Dylan’s knees.
The cloth returned to wash his arms. “Before we met, I never thought I could… feel this way again. Not after losing them. But you… you came along and everything changed. I was not even aware of how attached I had grown to your company until I realised how much losing you would hurt. You did that, no magic required.”
A sob caught in Dylan’s throat. “Track…” He peered through his lashes, searching the blurry, shimmering world for his lover. His hand collided with a shoulder.
Tracker’s warm cheek brushed the back of Dylan’s fingers. “Keep your eyes closed.”
He obeyed and water trickled over his head, washing away whatever clung to his hair. There came more splashing, then the wet pad of feet across the stone and the rustle of cloth. Dylan peeked out from beneath his sodden hair. He shuffled across the tub to clamber out, sloshing water everywhere.
Tracker was busy rummaging through the clothing and glanced up as Dylan righted himself. “Catch,” the man said, the command swiftly followed by a towel hurtling his way.
Dylan caught it and hastily dried himself, the rough fabric scraping his skin and leaving him red for the brief moment his magic took to remedy the mild abrasion. Rather than use his power to dry his hair, he gave it a quick rubdown with the towel. When he finally lifted the cloth from his head, it was to find his lover standing before him clutching a bundle of clothes.
“These look like they will fit.” Tracker pressed the clothes into his arms, the man was already dressed in baggy leggings and an undershirt with sleeves that were far too long. “Find something and put it on. Quickly. We have wasted enough time here already.” His lover went to the door and peeked out the entrance.
Dylan searched through the pile, picking out a mostly-clean tunic and a pair of trousers to haul on. “A bit tight,” he muttered, tugging at the crouch. The trousers dug at his every step, but they were the only ones that he came close to fitting. “I’d feel better if I had my robes back.” And boots. He’d feel immensely better fleeing across the kingdom whilst wearing boots.
Tracker glanced over his shoulder. “You mean your very distinct, I-was-in-the-army robes?” He motioned Dylan to follow him out of the laundry.
“Yes, those.” His smallclothes would also be welcome. At least they didn’t attempt to strangle his balls.
His lover hummed as they made their way through various corridors, seemingly pressing deeper into the castle proper rather heading for a way out. “Well, I would prefer to collect my weapons.” Tracker turned into another hallway. Most of the narrow servant corridors looked the same, but this one seemed familiar. “Come, let us see if they bothered to gather up our things.”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
“Because I do not believe any of this was done with the king’s approval, not if I were to judge by the general’s reaction to the tower attack. If the new hound master acted alone, then our abduction must have also been an undisclosed matter. Add that to the room being part of the castle set aside for high dignitaries where the servants only see to it every so often when no one is visiting… Then there is a chance of our possessions still being there. Providing my fellow hounds have not returned to collect them.”
“But your weapons can’t still be there, right?” The hounds wouldn’t just leave them lying around the castle for anybody to pick up. Would they? Granted several would’ve had their hands full with Tracker’s struggling form, but there’d been more than enough to manage the man and himself.
“Why would they—?” Tracker halted, grabbing Dylan’s arm.
Booted footsteps echoed from the corner up ahead. Each step came with the soft jingle of chainmail. The light of a torch flickered on the far wall.
“In here.” Tracker opened a nearby door and pushed Dylan inside. The room turned out to be an empty bedchamber, lit only by the thin sliver of fading moonlight. Tracker pushed the door shut, painstakingly slow in an effort to curtail any noise. “Hide under the bed and be quiet.” Giving Dylan another shove, he hissed, “Quickly!”
Dylan dove beneath the bed frame, scrunching himself as small as possible. He wriggled a little more until he could clearly see the door, cursing under his breath when Tracker moved and blocked his view.
The door swung open, arcing wide to hit the wall with a thump. Torchlight flooded the room. Tracker spun to face the doorway.
“Hey!” The voice was deep, the accent Demarner. “There is someone in here.”
Squinting, Dylan squirmed a touch to his left and peered around Tracker’s legs just as a second man joined the other in filling the entrance. He slunk closer to the edge of the bed. The torch should’ve ruined their chance of seeing him. If not, then he’d need a clear line of sight to attack.
“What are you doing here, elf?” the first one asked, his eyes narrowing at Tracker whilst the other man surveyed the room. “Looking to do a little looting whilst all the other servants are confined to the main hall?”
“T-they are?” Tracker replied, sounding suitably flustered. He tucked one bare foot behind the other, rubbing at the back of his ankle. “I… Why I had no idea, good sirs.”
“I reckon we should pat him down,” the second guard said, leering. “Strip him and give every orifice a thorough search just to be sure he’s not hiding anything.”
The first guard gave his companion a punch to the shoulder, his gauntleted fist clanging against the man’s armour. “You think we should do that with every elf.”
From his limited viewpoint, Dylan caught Tracker’s hand ball.
The action was also noticed by the second guard. He nudged the other man. “Looks like this one’s going to be a fighter.”
The first guard stroked his jaw. “I do love it when they struggle,” he drawled.
Dylan steeled himself, preparing to unleash a bolt of lightning at the first sign of the men advancing. If Tracker chose to retaliate, then they’d have to ensure the men went down fast and stayed there.
“Good sirs,” Tracker said, leaning back on the bed. The mattress above Dylan’s head sagged slightly. “I have nothing to hide.”
“We’ll be the judge of that,” the second guard said, discarding his sword belt as the first man shut the door and tucked the torch into an empty sconce. “You just be a good little elf and do exactly what we say.”
The weight on the bed lifted as Tracker was pulled back to his feet. The guards pinned him between them. One toyed with the ties of Tracker’s stolen trousers, whilst the other rubbed himself against the elf’s rear.
Tracker tipped his head back against the first guard’s chest and chuckled. “My dear man,” he purred, grinding his backside against the man’s groin. “Why did you not say this was what you were after?” With one arm, he hooked the second guard, drawing him close enough to wrap both legs around the man’s waist. “It has been an age since I had two men in me at once. I can be most accommodating if you are looking to change that.”
Dylan clenched his jaw, fighting to not erupt out from beneath the bed in a blaze of fire and lightning. Tracker might be seeking to keep the guards from searching the room and discovering him, but he sincerely hoped it didn’t come to letting the guards actually go through with their plan.
“We’d prefer you struggled,” the second guard said, his voice thick. He fumbled between them, managing to undo the ties of Tracker’s trousers and shoving a hand down the back, pawing at the elf’s rear.
“I see,” Tracker murmured. He swung his arms behind him, caressing the back of the first guard’s head, digging his fingers into the man’s hair. “Very well.” Tracker jerked his hands. The crack of the first guard’s neck was sickeningly audible.
“What the—?” The second guard dumped Tracker to the floor. “You’re him, aren’t you? The hound they’re after.” He fumbled with his sword belt, fighting to get his sword unsheathed, before apparently thinking better of it and running for the door.
Dylan unleashed the lightning he’d been holding onto since the men first suggested getting physical with his lover. The man stiffened from the shock and Dylan used that reprieve to crawl his way out from under the bed.
The elf had caught up to the second guard by the time Dylan was on his feet. Tracker latched onto the man’s shoulders and rammed the guard into the heavy door, the wood issuing a dull thud as his face hit first.
The guard sagged, leaving a trail of blood on the door. Snarling, Tracker grabbed a fistful of the man’s hair and smashed the guard’s head into the floor. Repeatedly. Blood splattered the stone all around the elf’s feet.