by Aldrea Alien
“Probably?” The only one who knew precisely what Tracker had been aware of was the hound himself.
“That is why last night has merely left you tired, yes? Considerate?” Soft, self-deprecating laughter whispered through his lips. “Quite the joke you make. You are fine only due to your magic, not through any effort on my part to be gentle. I know I got a little carried away, but I thought—” He hung his head, his lips pursed bitterly. “Clearly, I thought wrong if you felt the need to heal yourself.”
Dylan recalled the relief in the hound’s voice last night when he told Tracker the man hadn’t hurt him. As much as he wanted to put all thoughts of what they’d done out of his head, a part of him couldn’t let the elf think he had lied.
He wet his lips. “Truthfully? I don’t have control over this.” He indicated his newly-healed forearm. “It just happens. Even for minor things, like my ear.” Dylan tucked his hair behind the ear, making sure Tracker got a good look at where the sword had nicked it. “My innate healing ability was triggered because it felt…” He let the words fade.
Tracker glanced up. “I believe you called it strange?”
“Uncomfortable,” he amended. “As I’m sure it must’ve been for you the first time.” Especially if the hound had been truthful about not being able to walk properly afterwards. “But it—My magic reacts to everything as if it’s lethal. You didn’t hurt me.”
Relief crinkled the man’s eyes and gusted out his mouth. “I am glad to hear that.” He laid a hand on Dylan’s knee. “If I may ask? This ability to heal yourself is always accessible to you?”
He went to nod, then recalled his time travelling to the main army encampment. “As long as I’m not leashed.”
One side of the hound’s mouth twisted sourly. “Until then, I guess that makes you pretty much invincible.”
Dylan wryly smiled as he rolled his sleeve back down the clearly uninjured arm. How he wished that were so.
“However, I wonder…” The man’s fingers lifted to caress Dylan’s throat. “If it is so powerful, then why do you have a scar here?”
“I don’t know. I think it was trying to heal when I was still technically leashed and the collar interfered.” He wasn’t an alchemist. All he had were speculations and scraps of remembered conversations with Sulin. “The metal’s not exactly the easiest to work with.”
“Still, do you think that could be what saved your life when the collar broke?”
Dylan felt along his neck, his fingertips quickly finding the too-smooth patch at his throat. The sympathetic healing magic had never left any scarring before. At least, not on himself. “I don’t know,” he repeated. By rights, the broken collar should’ve blown his head clean off.
The hound settled back beside him. “Exactly how far does this healing of yours go? Can you say… regrow a severed limb?”
He shook his head. “Not for myself or another. We’re people, not lizards.”
“Oh?” The man chuckled. “I do not know about that. I once met this rather lithe young woman who had the marvellous ability to climb walls with only the scantest of footholds. Rather exuberant, too.” Leaning back on an arm, he tapped thoughtfully at his lips. “Although, I seem to recall her wife was less pleased about that.”
Dylan wordlessly hopped to his feet to collect the hound’s sword. The last thing he wanted to hear was the man’s sexual exploits.
Tracker sat up, those russet brows lifting to their height. “All better, I see. Are you able to attempt more sparring? The light will fade soon, but if you wish to continue for a time…”
“I do.” He hefted the sword. There was a strange comfort in holding the blade closer. “Although, could we perhaps go slower? Maybe teach me how to stab?”
“Well, I am not one for liking to do things slow.” Tracker bounced the dagger on his palm. “But if that is your wish… However, one does not typically do much stabbing with that type of sword.”
Dylan looked at the sword in his hand. True, it didn’t look much like the one Authril used and the curved blade rather reminded him of the alchemist daggers. “You don’t?”
Tracker frowned. “Well, no. It is a scimitar.” He took hold of the sword and swung it around. It moved like a deadly extension of the elf’s arm. “It is designed to slash an opponent to pieces. You can stab with it, but only in certain situations.” He sheathed the weapon. “Perhaps it would be best to teach you with our dear warrior’s sword? You are more likely to come across them on the field if the army will not let you have your own. For now…” He handed Dylan the long, knife-like dagger he’d been using to block each of Dylan’s moves, whilst unsheathing another such blade. “Let us work on your footwork a little more. But perhaps… away from the trees, yes?”
They circled each other, feinting and lunging whenever there looked to be an opening. Their steps were slower, more mindful of their footing. The light was beginning to fade by the time their wandering had steered them back into the middle of the clearing.
Here, the ground was devoid of all but grass. Confident he wouldn’t trip on a hidden root, Dylan pressed the hound harder. Much to his surprise, Tracker gave ground.
After what had to be the eleventh time he’d effortlessly parried the man’s attack, Dylan came to the conclusion that he was being toyed with. “Stop going easy on me,” he growled.
Tracker scoffed. “You are the last person who should be complaining of how easy I am.”
Tossing the dagger aside, Dylan lunged for the hound. His foot slid into a hollow as he landed, pitching him further forwards. He tumbled to the ground, bringing the elf down with him.
“Sorry,” Dylan mumbled, struggling to find his footing so he could relieve the man of his weight. Not that Tracker seemed overly concerned. “I didn’t mean to—”
The caress of the man’s thumb down his chin silenced him.
Tracker smirked. “Now who is being easy?” he breathed. The hound cupped the back of Dylan’s neck, coaxing him closer.
Their mouths met then separated only to join again. Each brush came softly, unhurried by need. Almost shy and inquisitive. Honest. Dylan didn’t recall parting his lips, but the elf’s tongue slid into his mouth all the same, exploring in that same gentle and languid pace.
Slowly, he became aware of how Tracker’s hips lifted with every breath, lightly rubbing against him. Even with the elf’s hand clamped onto one of Dylan’s buttocks, gently squeezing with each thrust, the movements seemed more reflex than raw desire. The man wanted Dylan, no doubt there, but Tracker also appeared content to lay here for now.
Dylan moaned into the elf’s mouth. He pulled back, relinquishing the man’s lips with far more reluctance than he ever thought he could feel. There was definitely no chance of forgetting about last night now. “Track…” The name rasped across his tongue. “I— We can’t.” The women weren’t far away. Either one of the trio could happen upon them.
Tracker lingered, his mouth still parted and his eyes half lidded, their honey-coloured depths dark with lust. He licked his lips and smirked. “Says the man on top.”
Dylan drew further up on his arms, utterly speechless. Like it or not, the hound had him there. If someone stumbled upon them, he’d be hard-pressed to convince anyone that the elf had any control over the situation.
“We could disappear into the foliage for a time?” Tracker suggested, the soft roll of his accent purring through the words.
“And do what? Rut in the bushes?” Dylan sat back, trying to ignore the way his stomach fluttered at the thought.
The hound shrugged. “It is hardly the worst place I have done it in.”
“No.” Dylan scrambled to his feet. “You’re right about last night. It was a distraction. You helped me forget for a time that we were surrounded by the dead—and I’m grateful for that, truly—but it was…” What had it been? A mistake? No, he wouldn’t go that far. “…ill-considered. It won’t be repeated.”
Again, the elf shrugged. “If that is your desire.
” He stood, with far more grace than Dylan had done, and gathered up his weapons. “We should probably return to the others before the light goes.” With a briskness Dylan didn’t expect, the man strode off in the direction of their camp, leaving Dylan with the choice of catching up or risking getting lost.
An easy jog had him back at the hound’s side swiftly enough. “Really?” After everything he’d done to convince the man he wasn’t interested and having Tracker still persist, all it took was a few words?
“Of course.” Tracker slowed, shooting him an amused glance. “What? Do you think I am going to push the issue? It is no fun if you do not enjoy it.”
Dylan frowned, not entirely certain of the truth behind those last words. He hadn’t exactly been an unwilling participant through last night. Not again. He’d far more pressing matters at hand to focus on than the hound.
“Keep your arms steady,” Marin said. Although she was trying to remain calm, the note of her patience starting to wear thin was most certainly growing stronger.
“I’m not doing it on purpose,” he muttered.
They stood in the middle of the same clearing Tracker had attempted to train him in yesterday. The bow trembled in his hands, the arrow tap-tapping a hurried staccato rhythm. Each slight draw of the bowstring threatened to have the entire weapon fly out of his fingertips.
A swift consensus at the camp last night had settled on the notion of Tracker teaching him to fight with any sort of bladed weapon to be a pointless one. Dylan couldn’t safely handle a sword like the one Authril carried, whilst Tracker’s daggers left him with too little space between the enemy and himself. The hound’s scimitar was light enough to wield, but he’d never be allowed to keep one on his person once he was returned to the army. A brief talk with Authril only confirmed what the man had said on the lack of such weapons to be found on a Demarn battlefield.
That left him with convincing Marin to show him how to use her bow; a task that had been as simple as asking. It seemed like such an easy weapon. Nock an arrow, then pull back the bowstring and release. Simple movements and the range would give him an advantage towards fleeing if necessary.
After an hour of attempting to shoot a single arrow more than a few feet, he was starting to regret this line of thinking. Where his ability with the sword had improved with even the short bout, the same couldn’t be said for the bow.
No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t pull the bowstring back as far as he’d seen Marin do. Not without his arms shaking. When he’d first asked the hunter to teach him, he hadn’t realised the strength needed to draw a simple piece of sinew far enough for the arrow to travel any distance. She and the other archers he’d witness always made it look so easy.
The bowstring was not quite at the length of his arm now. Uncertain he could pull any further, he released the arrow, grunting as the bowstring snapped across his forearm. His sleeves did help lessen the blow, but not by much.
The arrow flew off centre, cartwheeling as it hit the ground.
Dylan lowered the bow and turned to his tutor. “I’m getting worse at this, aren’t I?”
Marin hummed. “Well, that depends if your aim is to kill your enemy or annoy them. Even then, I think you’d be better served by running up and stabbing them in the eye.”
He winced. Yes, even without the arrow’s acrobatics, where the point had hit was far short of their agreed mark. But it was getting closer. “That bad, huh?”
“Watch me again.” She took the bow from him. “You need to draw back.” The bow creaked as she showed him the action for what had to be the umpteenth time. “Keep your arms firm so the bow doesn’t snap back in your face and…”
The arrow whizzed through the air, slamming into the tree they’d picked as a target. It already bore two arrows, both products of Marin’s talent.
“I don’t think I’ve the strength. I just can’t seem to pull it back as far.” He’d heard legend of spellsters increasing their strength via bolstering their muscles with magic, but no one in the tower seemed sure how to go about it. It sounded altogether precarious and doing so might even run the risk of tearing those very muscles or rupturing something, but he’d spent years trying to piece together all the old stories in the hope of glimpsing a starting point.
Sadly, he’d only come away with a vast knowledge of how the world viewed spellsters. As dangerous animals that had to be corralled or leashed.
Frowning down at her bow, she jerked her head in the direction of camp. “We should probably return to the others. Hopefully, someone has made breakfast.”
Dylan’s stomach rumbled at the mention of food. He strode across the clearing at the hunter’s side, stooping every so often to retrieve an arrow. They’d left camp before it was fully light to begin practicing.
“You know,” Marin grunted as she hauled the arrows from the tree. “Maybe you could convince Track to buy you a bow more suited to your abilities. He seems to like buying you things.”
Heat blossomed deep in his cheeks. Of the items the man had purchased on their way out of Oldmarsh, only one had been exclusively for Dylan. “A cloak is a necessity,” he mumbled. Whilst he hated to think the addition of protective clothing doubled as an apology for the unasked-for kiss, a part of him did have a niggling doubt that it might be just that. “A bow isn’t.”
And yet, he couldn’t help but wonder. Would the hound procure a weapon for him if he asked?
Marin shrugged and, with her quiver full once more, shouldered her bow. “Suit yourself. If I were in your boots, I’d be milking that cow for all he’s worth.” She wrinkled her nose. “Figuratively.”
“W-what makes you think I’d have a better chance? You and I have quite a bit in common in regards to who we find attractive.” His tongue stumbled over the words. Nevertheless, he persisted with them.
She gave a small huff that almost sounded like restrained amusement. “I don’t know. He’s not all that bad to look at.”
“I thought you only slept with women?”
She stuck out her tongue as if having tasted something bitter. “I said look at not play with. He’s like one of those spotted cats I’ve heard roam Obuzan’s jungles.” The hunter laughed as Dylan shot her a puzzled look. “Pretty, but I wouldn’t want to find him in my bed.”
“Nor I,” he mumbled.
Marin arched a brow at him. “Really? Does he know that? Because the way he looks at you…” She whistled long and low. “I’m sure they outlawed those sorts of glances. If they haven’t, they should consider it with him.”
“And how does he look at me?” He hadn’t noticed any change in the man’s demeanour, nor his expression. But if Marin had spotted a difference, then what of the others? What if they connected it to the tower and realised that Tracker and himself had been intimate? Even if he managed to forget the part where Tracker was a man, a hound lying with a spellster was rather worse than a mercenary doing so.
Marin gave a brief, considering hum. “Well, it seems to have changed, but it used to remind me of the feral cats around my hut. The way they’d toy with the birds if they weren’t all that hungry, let them think they could get away. Then another would come along who was starving and they—” She snapped her fingers, making him jump. “That’s what it was, he’d look at you like you were something to be devoured and he hadn’t eaten in days.”
“But it’s no longer like that?” An odd flutter of relief bubbled in his stomach. Despite the man’s attempts yesterday to lure Dylan into further intimacy, it seemed the hound had already gotten what he wanted.
She shook her head. “Not since we first entered the tower. He’s…”
Dylan hunched his shoulders. “What?” he whispered, almost afraid to know the answer.
“Different now, I guess. Softer.” She shrugged, hoisting her bow higher up her shoulder. “I don’t know. It’s only been a few days since we left your home. Maybe he pities you and is trying to cut you a little slack.”
“I don’t need anyon
e’s pity.”
She slapped him on the back, jolting him forward a few lurching steps. “That’s the spirit. Hey, maybe we’ll come across the bastards who did it and give them a little taste of steel. Right between the eyes, I think.” Marin draped her arm over his shoulder companionably once he’d righted himself. “Did they ever tell you stories when you were younger?”
“Of course.” When he lived in the collective dorms, one of the guardians would indulge them with a tale every night. “Although, I doubt they were anything like what you grew up hearing.” Frowning, he peered at the woman. She listened intently to the others as they shared their pasts, but hardly ever spoke about herself beyond generalities. “Where did you grow up, anyway?”
Marin’s good-natured smile fell and her gaze drifted to the forest ahead. Muttering under her breath, she said, “It was a hamlet south of Toptower and a little north of the Udynean border.” She kicked a pinecone into the brush. “You won’t find it on most maps.”
Before or after the Udyneans attacked? Dylan bit his tongue. He faintly recalled snippets of conversation between the guardians when he was watching one of the first bouts he’d been old enough to attend. Udynea’s border hadn’t always been where it stood now. Even without the empire trumping them so deftly, Udynea ate away at the border like ants stripping an apple. Villages too small to hold their own became so much rubble. He could well imagine this hamlet of Marin’s had been one such place.
“These stories you learnt there,” he said to fill the silence and take her mind off whatever thoughts that had darkened her brown eyes. “What did they entail?”
“You know.” She pushed aside a thin, low-hanging branch in their path with perhaps a little more force than necessary given how alarmingly it creaked. “When the heroes of old gallivanted off on quests to avenge their people, they’d always manage to find help in the next village.”