Aldrea Alien's Blog, page 37

It’s a Biggin

Yesterday, I gave my printer the fright of its life as, after several hundred pages, I had it fire out In Pain and Blood in its entirety…

 

 

Yeah, it’s about 4cms of A4 paper. Double-sided.

In Pain and Blood – Chapter Eighteen

 

[image error]In chapter seventeen, Dylan and his new companions were able to catch a break after being attacked by some people unfortunate enough to mistake him for a priest. But they cannot stay in one place forever, so it’s onwards…

Remember, you can get these chapters, and all the R-rated ones, straight into your email by signing up here, which will be the case for next month’s chapter.

If you want to read the story in a slightly friendlier format, you can find all non-exclusive chapters on Wattpad and Inkitt.

 

 

Chapter Eighteen

 

The sun hadn’t quite broken the canopy as Dylan made his way through the trees to the pond they’d found yesterday. They’d abandoned the road after the attack, opting to follow the stream until it led here. It was a short distance from camp. Marin’s insistence that they didn’t sleep right next to the body of water puzzled him, but he supposed the hunter knew how to deal with these matters.

Try as he might, he couldn’t sleep. A few days of trekking through the forest and that moment when the bandits chose to attack just kept running through his head. Whenever he closed his eyes, those broken, bleeding bodies sprawled across the clearing haunted him. He needed calm, peace.

With the early-morning sun free from treetops and leaves, it was lighter where the pond lay. Stalks of lavender speckled the grass near the shallow end of the pond. He strolled through them, smiling as the scent from the bruised flowers drifted on the breeze. It was like coming home.

There’d always been lavender around the tower. Patches of the stuff used to spring up in the herb gardens no matter what they did and, in his youth, Tricia would sprinkle the underside of his pillow with dried petals. He’d long since associated the woodsy, floral smell with the wild.

Giving no thought to the motions, he plucked a handful of the sprigs and twined the stalks into a small circle. Weaving flowers was an old elven tradition with courting couples making elaborate garlands for their prospective partner. Nestria had showed him the technique several years ago. She’d then spent the rest of their thirteenth summer sulking when he surpassed her crude attempts.

Donning the crown, his gaze slid between the pond and the way back to camp. Unlike the women, who carried spare garments—courtesy of Marin—his clothes consisted of what he currently wore and, although no one said anything, he rather thought it was past time for them to be a little more on the cleaner side.

It’d been years since he’d last had to do his own laundry—such activity was reserved for the tower servants and any unruly teenaged spellsters—but he remembered how well enough. And whilst he hadn’t access to one of the massive copper basins or lye to deal with any stains, he was more than capable of heating a section of the pond for his use.

Dylan chucked his leather belt to one side and quickly stripped off his robe. If he was to do this, then it was best done before anyone else wandered this way. He studied the fabric. The patch was holding up so far and the stitching on the hem showed no sign of fraying. All things considered, the robe didn’t look too dirty. But how long would it be before he found another opportunity like this?

He picked an area where the incline wasn’t too shallow and knelt at the pond’s edge. Frigid water met his fingers as he dipped his robe. Shuddering, Dylan poured heat through his hands until steam rose from this small section of the pond.

The water lapped at his knees whilst he scrubbed at the robe the best he could, soaking his undertunic. Might as well get it all over with. He shrugged out of the second layer of clothing. He’d see to his smallclothes once they reached Oldmarsh, when he could be certain that no one would happen upon him.

He continued with his task, the water clouding around his hands. Dylan hummed as he worked, a little tune his guardian used to sing him to sleep with. He used to know all the words. Now they were a haze of knights and—had it been stars?—something else he couldn’t quite recall. He’d barely listened to much beyond the melody.

Eventually, both his undertunic and robe were clean. Or at least, as much as they could hope to get outside of a proper laundering. Standing, he squeezed the excess water from the robe before shaking it out and setting his magic to work on drying it. In the hot air surrounding him, the scent of lavender thickened.

He breathed deep, growing giddy on the fumes, and stretched. How he’d missed the scent. He would have to remember to pick a few of the sprigs later to carry with him. It might even help ease the bad dreams.

His ears had grown tired of the old lullaby and, as he spun about with the drying robe twirling along with him, he switched to the drone of a chant taught in the temple, one that the priests would often call upon him to lead during prayer.

The tale woven by the lyrics spoke of a departed lover drifting on the river, denying the Seven Sisters’ judgement as they lingered for their heart. The words started off as a mumble, but soon rose to his limits as he belted out the crescendo. Picking up the sleeves of his robe as if it were a partner, he danced in the middle of the lavender patch with the scent of crushed flowers invading his nostrils. His singing drifted on the air, all alone for once in a very long time.

It wasn’t an entirely happy tale. Years passed in the mortal realm whilst the lover sat in silence. Boats bearing the lovers of other hearts would come and go, but never the dreaded one. And yet, there was a sort of wistful delight in waiting, for as long as they stayed, as long as they needn’t move on, their heart still lived.

But even the longest life must come to an end and in the mortal lands, people battled. There, the lover’s heart faltered and—

Dylan suddenly became aware that his voice wasn’t the only one shaping the song. He spun, finding the hound leaning against a tree.

Tracker smiled. “Oh, do not stop on my account.”

“I…” he squeaked. His gaze dropped to the now-clean robe he clutched to his chest, his face burning furiously. “I didn’t even hear you approach.” He’d been so caught up in just being free to do as he pleased with the morning that he hadn’t considered anyone hearing him.

“That is the point of sneaking, yes? I hope you will forgive me for the intrusion, but I heard you singing from the camp and… Well, you have quite a high pitch. I thought it one of the women at first, which would have been quite strange as they were all still abed.” The man grinned. “Then I considered we had, perchance, happened upon a young maiden.”

And that makes me feel so much better. Dylan eyed his undertunic. It sat in a wet lump near the water.

“So, dear man, you do your own laundry and sing? The women must be lining up to have a piece of you.” The elf stood right next to him, one russet brow raised. “However, I wonder…” He slowly reached up and removed the crown of lavender sprigs from Dylan’s head. “Do you often dance about in your smallclothes?”

The revelation that he was all but naked in the man’s presence hit him. Dylan hastened to don his robe. The rest could wait until later.

Tracker hummed as he examined the woven circlet, his generous mouth flattening. “And you have gone so very silent. I have offended you in some way, yes?” Those honey-coloured eyes flicked up, seemingly examining him. “If so, then it was unintentional. I was not even aware a man could sing so high. It was pleasant to listen to, if a little wobbly and off-key in places. A rather strange choice, though. I had no idea you were so familiar with such a chant.”

Why wouldn’t he be? It wasn’t often sung, granted, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be familiar with it. “As are you.” He’d not been mistaken in the confidence behind the elf’s silken voice.

“Of course.” Tracker shrugged. “I remember the bi-monthly outings to the temple as child quite fondly. Our mistress demanded nothing less of us and it was one of the few times our carers were unable to beat us.”

Dylan froze in the act of retrieving his belt. “They… beat you?”

“Not for some years now. My training was completed quite a while back.”

“And beating you was part of your training?” He peered at the man, trying to determine the truth.

“Naturally. There a number of physical strains placed on pups. Not everyone makes it, of course.” His russet brows gained a perplexed twist. “They did not do this to you back in the tower?”

“No.” There might have been guardians who were harsh on their charges, but Tricia had never even threatened to hit him and he didn’t know of anyone who’d been treated in such a fashion.

“Truly? How bizarre.” He offered back the crown. “It is wonderful weaving you have done, by the way.”

“Thank you.” He fiddled with the circlet, picking at the buds as his face slowly warmed. He’d learnt via Sulin that not every elf was aware of their traditions. Was Tracker one of them? “We should probably return to camp. The others must be awake by now.”

“They were stirring as I came here. Marin is likely preparing breakfast and the others will be packing up the tents.” He circled Dylan, his strides fluid like a cat sizing up his prey. “However, I think… Well, we have been walking for quite some time and there was the fighting. Have you considered bathing?”

He’d given himself a brief wash down in a basin just last night and did so most mornings, but actual full bathing? “No. There’s no bath.”

Tracker laughed. “There is indeed such a convenience.” He indicated the pond with a jerk of his thumb. “And I think I shall indulge fully whilst the women are occupied.” He waved a little pouch, which had a familiar, soap bar bulge in one corner. “You are welcome to join me.”

He eyed the pond. The water was relatively clear and revealed nothing sinister lurking under the surface. “It’ll be cold.” Not that it’d stay that way for long if he wanted, but if the hound thought Dylan was about to heat an entire pond for his use, then the man was very much mistaken.

Tracker shrugged. “It is an incentive to be quick. Consider it my gift to your sleeping companion that you return to her smelling sweeter.” He sniffed the air. “Not that you would notice any change with the rather thick perfume you have made of these poor flowers.” He tipped his head, a playful grin skewing his lips. “Or are you afraid of a little cold water?”

Knowing he was being goaded, he conceded and let his robe fall alongside his still sodden undertunic. Dylan’s boots swiftly joined them before the elf could finish unbuckling his belt.

Dylan slipped into the pond. The coolness bit into his skin. He waded along the gentle incline, shuffling to keep himself from kicking up too much water, until he reached what seemed to be the deepest part of the pond. Unfortunately, that meant the water only came to his knees.

The hound’s laughter, rich and light, drifted across from the shore. “You seem to have forgotten to remove a piece of your attire, my dear man. Or were you planning on bathing in your smallclothes?”

When they’d a chance of being snuck up on by the others? Definitely the latter. Not that it mattered. He could’ve chosen to bathe fully clothed and the fabric would’ve dried quick enough once he turned his magic to them. This way, at least his smallclothes did get a rinse of sorts.

Shrugging, he knelt. His breath was stolen from him in the brief moment his waist slipped beneath the waterline. Turning his magic to gently heat the water made it more bearable. He expanded his focus a little until a comfortable circle of warmth surrounded him.

There wasn’t much he could to cleanse himself without a cloth or soap, but he rubbed at his damp skin anyway, hoping to sluice off whatever might’ve stuck to him on the short walk from camp. Perhaps if he asked, the hound might share usage of the soap he guessed was in that pouch.

A small sigh parted his lips as the water sloshed against his chest. How long had it been since he’d encountered a body of water big enough to kneel in like this and still cover so much of him? Decades. If it wasn’t for the certainty that he’d all the buoyancy of a rock, he would’ve dared to lay back and stretch upon the pond’s surface.

He glanced up to find the hound had shed the top half of his armour. The man still wore a thin undershirt, but it didn’t do much to obscure the way the elf’s muscles shifted beneath the off-white cloth. Dylan found he couldn’t look away from such a view.

Something deep in his gut stirred as the rest of Tracker’s attire—everything from the leather boots and trousers to the man’s smallclothes—was swiftly discarded.

Despite trying not to, Dylan’s gaze swept over the man, his breath rasping through his throat. Like other elven men, the hair on Tracker’s chest and limbs was sparse, but he hadn’t expected the myriad of tattoos marking the hound. They accentuated his bronze skin and rather invited the eye to travel downwards. The man was surprisingly well muscled. Not the trained robustness of Authril nor the leanness of Marin, but a definition that spoke both of suppleness and strength.

He swallowed, his mouth left rather dry by the sight.

The elf strode into the pond, seemingly oblivious to the scrutiny as he sprayed water with every step. “I see you have found the deepest part of the pond.” Tracker sank into the water not that far from where Dylan knelt. His brows lowered as he settled. “It is… warmer here? I know there are hot pools in the southern lands, but—”

“It’s my doing,” Dylan blurted. Closing his eyes, he continued, “I used my magic to heat the water.”

There was the gentle slosh of water and hound’s presence suddenly seemed closer. “And that is also the reason for you sudden ill look, yes?” Tracker chuckled. “My dear man, I am not planning on reprimanding you for not wanting to bathe in cold water. I… simply had no idea that such a thing was possible.” The man’s warm hand closed around Dylan’s forearm. “How far can you make it reach?”

“Not very,” he mumbled, risking a peek.

Tracker knelt almost close enough for the hair on Dylan’s arms to brush the hound’s skin. Those honey-coloured eyes were bright with curiosity and something else Dylan rather preferred not to linger too much on. “If that is so, then would you mind terribly if I stayed close to you?”

He opened his mouth, his tongue freezing in place. Averting his eyes to the opposite side of the pond helped everything but his steadily warming face. “I…”

The man sat back, relinquishing his hold. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

Dylan worried at the inside of his bottom lip. The place where the hound had touched him still tingled and his stomach bubbled, but the latter could easily be last night’s meal not sitting well with him. “Have you ever dealt with a spellster before?”

Tracker glanced up from where he’d been scrubbing a small piece of cloth over a bar of soap. “A number of times, yes.” One russet brow lifted. “Why do you ask? Do I not put out an air of… experience?” The final word left Tracker’s lips in a breathy tone that tingled across Dylan’s shoulders. There was a certain quirk in the twisting of the hound’s mouth that told him the reaction had been noticed.

Dylan shuffled across the pond floor a little ways, trying to put some distance between them without being too obvious. He moistened his suddenly dry lips. “It’s not that. I—”

Tracker laughed. “Ah, your head is no doubt swimming with tales of the evil hounds, yes?” The fine lines around the elf’s eyes deepened. “They use our presence like a mother uses the bogeyman.” There was a matter-of-fact tone to his voice. One that suggested he’d heard directly from the source at some point.

Dylan swept his gaze over the man. “And where would you hear such tales? Not from the tower, surely.” He was certain word would’ve gotten about if Tracker had ever stepped foot inside the tower walls. Even without being a hound, the man would’ve drawn the attention of quite a number of tower inhabitants and he was pretty certain he would’ve remembered that face if they’d meet before.

“No.” The hound scrubbed at his neck. “I have been inside many times, but the guardians are… reluctant to let us linger for long.” He continued on to his arms, heedless to the suds running down his chest in thin pearlescent lines.

Dylan followed their trail to the water’s surface, his breath tight. He watched, not quite focused, as the man bathed and the air begun to smell of citrus and a pungent spice that seemed familiar, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He breathed deep until it filled his nose. Cinnamon. The taste of it was in the back of his throat, setting his mouth to watering. Bad enough that the man wasn’t exactly unpleasant to look at, did he have to smell so accursedly edible as well?

The man’s soft chuckle had Dylan refocusing his attention, surprised to find he’d been staring at the man the whole time. “Do we perhaps see something we like?”

Snapping his gaze back up to the man’s face, he shook his head. “Not at all.” It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a naked elf, man or woman, and the man had absolutely nothing that could interest him. And yet, there was something about the hound that made it difficult to look away. “But you’ve still got a bit of blood in your hair.”

Surprised, the hound pulled the long braid over his shoulder. He gave a disgusted grunt and released the thong keeping his hair together. The tight braiding unravelled, his hair springing into corkscrew-like curls as if it possessed a life of its own.

Dylan covertly watched the hound as Tracker washed his hair, unable to keep his gaze from travelling down the man’s body. It had to be the tattoos that kept catching his eye. The elf’s right bicep was banded by a faded interlacing weave of elven design, whereas his left bore the Demarn tribal design of a snake weaving through a splay of what looked to be a leaf-like motif, both the snake’s head and the pattern extending across the man’s shoulder to his chest.

An array of dots and lines scrolled down the man’s right side, following the musculature, tempting his gaze into trailing them to the end. Scars criss-crossed a number of the tattoos, marring some of them beyond recognition. Others reminded him of fire, like the delicate, almost sketchy, bloom of what looked to be a bird at the man’s left hip, its head pridefully arched up the man’s side framed by flaming wings. Dylan’s gaze travelled down to the bird’s long tail feathers, which were splayed wide to curl around the hound’s thigh.

“Keep looking at me like that and a man could get ideas.”

He jerked his gaze back up to find the hound was smirking at him. Warmth slowly blossomed in his cheeks. “Sorry, I—” His mind worked frantically for an excuse. “I wasn’t—” He halted his tongue before the outright lie could finish. “I just… haven’t seen hair that long before.” That was true. Not on a man, anyway. Certainly not of such a texture. “Doesn’t it get bothersome?”

“Oddly enough, I find day to day more manageable with it at this length.”

“Really? I’ve a friend back at the tower who claims otherwise.” Sulin’s hair had been of a decent length when he first arrived at the tower. Not as long as the hound’s and denser, more tightly curled. The first thing the young man had done was chop it back to an inch thick. He’d kept it that way ever since. “But then, he’s an alchemist.”

“Ah.” The elf wrung out his hair. “I suppose growing it to such lengths is impractical when things keep going boom around you.”

“What do you know about alchemists?” Few hounds came to the tower without either a leashed one or a young spellster present. Fewer still would’ve been allowed to venture into the underground rooms where the alchemists worked and trained.

“I know they work with that infi-whatever metal.”

“You mean infitialis?” he asked, drawing out the syllables.

Tracker grimaced. “Yes. That one.”

“It means negative in the ancient Domian language.” That’s where they started using collars to bind each other. Then, their land was consumed by the growing Udynea Empire, who kept the metal’s name as well as its use. He’d heard several tales from Launtil and the other escaped slaves on how the emperor reputedly had half-a-dozen highly-trained alchemists at his command just in case the nobility needed keeping in check. He wasn’t certain how much of it was true, but it certainly sounded like something their emperor would have. “Most alchemists here refer to it as dog metal.”

“Cute,” the hound murmured as he resumed bathing.

Dylan sat there, unable to think of a good reason to leave even though he was essentially done with the water. He supposed he could wash his hair, but that seemed pointless without the soap currently in the man’s possession.

“So, tell me…” Tracker said. “What is the current tower thought on hounds nowadays? Do they still believe we drink your blood to enhance our abilities?”

“Some might believe such tales. I don’t.”

“Ah, a sharp one, are we?” The man turned and Dylan discovered that the tattoos also extended there, curving over his buttocks and down his thighs. “Of course, the tales are somewhat less gory than they used to be. I remember one from when they first sent me out on the hunt. There was this young elven spellster… she was terrified I would sacrifice her under a full moon, because that is apparently what we did.”

“I…” Dylan tilted his head. There were hints of other marks up the man’s back, obscured by the sodden curls. “I’ve not heard that one.”

He just caught the glint of the man’s gaze looking his way before returning to bathing. “Oh, yes. And your entrails are supposed to make a decent diviner’s aid. Never discovered what we were meant to be divining for that would constitute such a messy business.”

Dylan hummed, his thoughts drifting elsewhere as his gaze idly tracked the lines travelling down the man’s side. His fingers rather itched to touch them. He balled his hands. “Ancient Domian used to practice haruspicy.” He didn’t recall the tower library holding any records of the Domian priests using either human or dwarf. Although, it was possible they didn’t class slaves or the leashed as people.

“But people are willing to believe anything, yes?” The elf slid closer. “Such as how much someone is unlikely to notice them staring.”

His heart all but leapt out of his mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He couldn’t have been staring that much, surely. A few glances here and there.

“Do we not?” Tracker grinned. “Come now, my dear spellster. We have the same equipment. There is no need for you to hide yourself behind these.” The man’s long fingers slid down Dylan’s side, hooking into the waist of his smallclothes and tightening every muscle in his body. “Or to be so modest.”

“I’m not being modest.” He wasn’t quite sure why he’d chosen to keep his smallclothes on in the first place, especially since the appearance of either of the three women was unlikely, but he wasn’t about to remove them with the man so close. And insistent.

“Then how about you take them off?” Tracker purred, his breath skittering along Dylan’s ear. “We could help each other get clean, yes?”

He swallowed, his mouth having gone completely dry. “Actually, I…” His smallclothes suddenly felt that little bit too tight. He was certain it had nothing to do with the water and everything to do with the other slightly warm hand creeping up his thigh.

Dylan stood in a rush of water, keeping himself that little bit hunched over. “I’m fine!” he blurted, hedging towards the surrounding brush. “Done. Clean. I’ll just go and wait with the others whilst you finish up.”

Tracker raised a brow at him and he could’ve sworn the man was smirking. “If you feel you must depart so quickly.” The hound’s gaze returned to his armour. “But camp is the other way.”

He stared at the man, then their surroundings. The crop of wild lavender he’d previously walked through graced the far side of the pond. Of course it is. Skirting the pond’s edge, he gathered up his clothes and rushed for the nearest bush.

When he felt confident that the elf wasn’t following, Dylan flattened himself again a tree trunk. His heart pounded almost hard enough to make him believe he was about to pass out. He clutched his sodden undertunic to his chest. Had he really stirred at something as simple as the man’s touch? It wasn’t as if he’d never had a man show interest in him before and, yes, a part of him enjoyed the attention. But he couldn’t recall ever… reacting… quite like that.

He brushed back his hair. It’s not what you think. It couldn’t be. If the hound had been a woman, then it definitely would’ve been what he thought. But this? He didn’t get those sorts of feelings for men and he most certainly didn’t respond.

Then what, by the gods, what had just happened?

 

 

I was humming the tune to this all through the first half of this chapter. And, oddly enough, came away from it craving soft serve…

And So the Cutting Begins

[image error]I’m slowly starting to get back into the swing of things. And, part of that, is realising just how much needs to be altered in Dark One’s Bride after the last change Clara insisted upon. It means that scenes, complete chapters I wrote some years back, no longer fit into the storyline.

I haven’t cut so much from a story since… Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever cut this much from a story.

Much of the pieces slated for removal are scenes that’ve been niggling at me for some time, so I’m not entirely sad to see them go, and there’ll be a variant of one scene, but I’m 99.9% certain this is the right way to take the story, so those cut scenes will be going into the big ol’ “bits n pieces” file for later. Even a large chunk of my sketchy blurb no longer fits.

Who knows, I might snip some bits from those scenes for use in Dark One’s Wife. Already got so many ideas bubbling there. Definitely going to mean a bit more tweaking for all those finished chapters in DOB.

It’s Going to be One of “Those Years”

On Monday, Simba, a cat we’d had for close to twelve years had to be put down. We sort of knew it was coming, but he’d pretty much claimed my daughter as his human and she’s taking it especially hard as he came into our lives when I was only three months pregnant. For those not in the know, he was found as a kitten in a box dumped on the side of the road, along with his mother and brother (both of which are still hale and hearty). He’d always been a tough little bugger, forcing me to risk sliding down a steep bank just to catch him, but there are some fights you just can’t win…

 

[image error]Goodbye, dear Simba.

 

 

Suffice to say, writing is not something that’s been on my mind lately.

Still finding new ways to surprise me

[image error]Dammit, woman!

I’m feeling quite a bit better since my last post. Not 100%, but I can think clearly enough to type most of the time. So it’s back to Dark One’s Bride I go, where it takes a semi-unexpected turn.

See, in DOM, certain circumstances have Clara taking in the street urchin, Tommy, and making him her page. I thought it was because she knew him.

No, it turns out that she’s some major maternal feelings bottled up. Or she’s a soft spot for orphans. Now I’ve been handed several new characters to add into the story, more names, a new chapter and a few more things to weave in.

Heck, I’m not even sure where she wants to go with them, but I’ve a sneaky suspicion that it’ll also bleed into the final book.

Even though I’m sitting here grumbling about all this extra work and how this flu means I’m definitely not going to finish DOB by the end of the month, it still feels right, so… we’re off!

I hate winter

[image error]If any season could be singled out as my least favourite, it would be winter. Not just because it’s cold and wet, but due to the blasted sickly bugs that always pay a visit via my partner or daughter. Both of which love to share.

This year, my daughter lovely brought home the flu and decided to share it with the entire household. So sweet of her.

Needless to say, my writing on Dark One’s Bride has stalled for the moment. I’ve spent most of my time holed up in bed binge-watching Star Trek: Voyager and coughing my lungs up.

The good news? I’m about halfway through season three now. Oh, and I could sit in front of the computer long enough to type this.

In Pain and Blood – Chapter Seventeen

[image error]

In chapter sixteen, Dylan and his new companions were attacked by some people unfortunate enough to mistake him for a priest. Death ensued and now the group must find a place to camp…

Remember, you can get these chapters, and all the R-rated ones, straight into your email by signing up here, which will be the case for next month’s chapter.

If you want to read the story in a slightly friendlier format, you can find all non-exclusive chapters on Wattpad and Inkitt.

 

Chapter Seventeen

 

They reached the stream without a hint of being followed. It seemed the bandit had been telling the truth, that had been all of them. Not that it stopped anyone from being twitchy. Even the hound would occasionally halt, demanding silence as he listened to the forest, before moving on.

The stream was a small thing, barely a few feet wide, but more than enough for Dylan to wash his hands. He scrubbed them beneath the frigid water until his skin was pink and raw. The others settled around him, doing the same thing. The water turned murky and pink with their efforts. Dylan moved further upstream before rinsing out his mouth, shuddering as the chill water hit his teeth.

Authril carefully unbuckled her breastplate and examined the side. The damage hadn’t looked bad to him, but she wrinkled her nose at the blood-smeared metal. Mumbling, she removed the padding. That had also been soaked through.

Dylan’s gaze swung to Marin. He could’ve sworn the woman had been limping, although she didn’t seem to be in a great deal of pain.

The hound, having finished sluicing the blood off his face, bounced to his feet. “Come, my dear man. We should allow our dear companions to bathe in private.”

Dylan frowned at the man before returning to scrutinise Marin. Surely if the hunter was seriously injured, she would’ve told him. Like Katarina, the other woman showed little fear of his abilities. The hunter seemed more curious than anything.

Silently waved off by the women, Dylan shouldered his pack and followed the hound into the brush. They walked through the forest in silence, looking for a suitable spot big enough for three tents. He stumbled along the uneven ground, reduced to lifting the skirts of his robe in order to keep up with the man. Some of the leaves in the undergrowth had a certain chill dampness to them that they seemed willing to share with his bare legs.

They didn’t have to search for long before coming across a clearing surrounded by trees that his time studying dwarven architecture told him were conifers. A pair of such thick-trunked trees stood in the middle of the clearing, bits of branches and small bushes dotting the grass around them.

Dylan wasted no time in clearing a spot nearby to set up the tent he shared with Authril. Finding the right branches wasn’t quite as a difficult task as it had first been, now that he knew what to look for. His struggles to assemble the required framework had also dwindled to little more than the fumbling of still shaking fingers.

Out the corner of his eye, he spied the hound busy with a similar task. Tracker had brought the tent the other two women slept in and, having already set up his own tent, was currently pitching theirs. They worked in silence, with Dylan pausing every so often to keep an eye on the man.

Dylan’s gaze dropped to the man’s attire. Whilst the leather born signs of scrapes and cuts not quite deep enough to part the armour, its dark colour could also easily hide an injury. That Tracker showed no sign of being hurt was hardly reassuring.

Finally, the man straightened from his task of hammering in the last of the pegs and brushed the dirt off his trousers. “Is there a reason you stare at me so intently?”

A faint bloom of heat brushed his cheeks. He didn’t think he’d been staring that hard. “Are you hurt?”

The man grinned, a brief chuckle slipping through his teeth. “No. Those bandits were amateurs who have little understanding of how to keep a sword sharp. Not that being hit with a steel club is much better, but your concern is unwarranted. I am uninjured.” The man slung his pack into his tent. “You probably want a little time alone to gather your strength or whatever it is you need to do, yes? I am going to collect some wood. I have a feeling our dear companions will need to dry off a few items of clothing when they return.”

Dylan shuffled from one foot to the other. Being alone was perhaps the last thing he wanted, but he wasn’t about to tell the hound that. He drew the man’s cloak around himself before the realisation that he still wore it came to mind. “I suppose you’ll want this back, then?” he mumbled, unfastening the clasp.

“No.” Tracker held up his hand. “It is looking to be a cool night, best if you keep it for now. Just do not wander off.”

“I’m not stupid,” Dylan mumbled to himself. He wasn’t quite sure where they were in relation to the road and, if he left their camp, there was the likelihood of never finding a way out of the forest.

“That is good to hear,” the man replied, causing a fresh rush of heat to hit Dylan’s face. He could’ve sworn he’d been too quiet for the man to hear him.

He settled near his tent and waited in silence as the man disappeared into the undergrowth. The forest had seemed altogether hushed as they walked through it, but now that he was still and alone, small sounds reached him. Birds for the most part, alongside the hum of insects. Low and peaceful.

Gentle rustling through the brush preceded something a little bigger than a bird nearing the camp. The wild boar attack swiftly came to mind, quietly pulling Dylan to his feet. He let a barrier form, tucking its focus in the back of his mind, as he prepared to defend himself. Hopefully, it was merely the hound or one of the women. If not, then one quick blast of lightning should be enough to stun whatever was out there and give him time to escape.

Tracker emerged from the bushes carrying a great armful of twigs and logs. He paused on the edge of the clearing, one russet brow cocked, before striding into the middle of the triangle the formation of their tents made. “Take it easy, dear man,” he said, dumping his burden on the ground near the other bits of wood they’d piled up from the clearing’s bounty. “The worse you are likely to find out here is a stag and, seeing that it is not rutting season, they are harmless. Mostly.”

He didn’t quite like the way the man tacked on that last word as if it was nothing to be concerned about. But if stags were anything like boar, then they weren’t harmless at all. “Tracker,” he said as the hound knelt by the pile of wood. “Do—”

Chuckling, the elf glanced up from his task of building a fire. “Please, we are travelling together. Track is sufficient.”

“Do you think your fellow hound left the camp before the Udyneans attacked?” Bad enough he’d return to the tower with news of the others being taken, but to know a hound died amongst them would likely place the suspicion on him, even if Authril and Katarina gave their words that he hadn’t been near the attack.

“I cannot say for certain, but Fetch is a resourceful woman. If she was there when they attacked, I have no doubts that you would have known about her presence. It is far more likely that she was gone after your first night there, she is not at all fond of lingering within the army.”

Sighing, he ran his fingers through his hair and sank back to the ground to wait for the women to appear. Such a small thing, knowing one life had been spared the fate of so many. Odd how the knowledge made his chest seem less tight.

His brows scrunched together in thought. Perhaps if the hound knew where to find her, then she could vouch for him if the overseers doubted his identity. They’d have plenty of questions as it was. Questions he’d no answers to. He didn’t need more to complicate matters.

“Come now, a pretty face like yours should not be frowning so much.”

So certain that the man had been too preoccupied to notice anything else, Dylan jerked his head up at the sound of Tracker’s voice to find the hound still busily building the base for a fire. The elf seemed wholly intent on his task.

Nevertheless, he was certain of what he’d heard. “Don’t do that.” He’d watched the elf kill a person in cold blood, he was not about to allow the man to make any attempts at flirting.

The man looked up in a perfect picture of wide-eyed innocence. “And what is so objectionable about lighting a fire?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” It wasn’t the first time he’d heard such words from another man. Whilst he would put a stop to any pushier advances by carefully explaining that he wasn’t interested, mere words were usually ignored. “I’m in no mood to hear your empty sweet-talk.”

“Ah.” Tracker stood, brushing the dirt from his hands. “I did not seek to flatter you, but if that is how you feel, then I will desist. However, if would you permit me to speak on a more serious note?” The man waited until Dylan nodded before he continued. “I feel I have not given you the best impression of myself. That we began on the wrong foot as it were. I would like to start again. Providing you are agreeable to the notion. Perhaps then you would not seem so nervous around me.”

“That’s…” He shook his head. “I’m not nervous.”

“Careful, then? I understand completely that you would seek to curb certain parts of your nature in my presence. I cannot imagine how they must speak of hounds in your tower.” He smiled warmly, although the slight sympathetic waver at the edges suggested he knew exactly what spellsters were told about them. “But you need not be so concerned with reining in your talents.”

“Spellsters aren’t supposed to be unleashed beyond the tower much less do magic without sanction.” They tolerated it back home, but only because the logistics of giving every spellster permission for any given task would be a nightmare. That was supposedly why they didn’t leash everyone.

The elf nodded. “That is true, but your situation is somewhat… unique, yes? You are no runaway nor an untrained youth. As such, I see no reason to hold you under the strict edict placed on them. If it makes you feel any better, I give you permission to use your magic as you see fit.”

“Providing I don’t use it to harm you or the others.”

Tracker tilted his head. The sharpness behind those honey-coloured eyes all but bored their way into Dylan’s skull. “I did not think that needed to be said. You do not strike me as the type to indulge in random acts of violence.”

“Really? You barely know me.”

The man gave a short, gasping laugh. “You are right, of course.” A few swift strides was all it took before the elf settled himself next to Dylan. “Why, I do not believe you have even told me your name.”

“Why would you need to know it?” Fetcher hadn’t asked. He supposed she saw him as just another weapon being transported to the army. Probably helped her keep detached from the abuse they suffered at their warden’s hands.

“Such suspicion. I would like to know for no reason other than we will be travelling together.” A small smile lifted one side of the man’s mouth. “But if you wish to keep an air of mystery around you, my dear spellster, I welcome a challenge.”

“Wouldn’t be much of one for long.” Any of the women could speak it in the man’s presence and then whatever mystery the hound thought surrounded his name would be gone. “It’s Dylan.”

“And if I may pry, Dylan?” His name escaped the elf’s lips in a purr that tingled along his skin and pooled in his gut. “Were you not trained to fight?”

“Of course.” His guardian sent him for testing alongside all the other pre-pubescent children who showed the magical strength required of those who could serve the army. “Although, it’s been some time since I’ve stepped into the training arena before they leashed me.” Several years. And much of those years had been spent in the tower’s library, translating scraps of text for the dwarves.

“Perhaps that is it, then. It is just… Well, you seem proficient enough in handling your magic.” He indicated the unlit fire with a jerk of his chin. “I am sure lighting that would serve as no great task for you.”

Dylan wordlessly waved his hand and the branches burst into flame.

“See? I cannot begin to comprehend what it is like to force kindling alight with a mere thought, but that looked effortless.” He turned his full attention back to Dylan. In the firelight, his eyes took on an orange glint. “Yet you are quite reluctant to actually cause any harm unless provoked.”

“I would’ve thought you’d see that as a good thing.”

Tracker laughed. “Do not misunderstand, I appreciate that you have the apparent restraint to not set everything alight. I was certain you would attempt such an attack when we met. However, it could become troublesome if we are ambushed again. And, seeing that is my duty to ensure you arrive at the tower in good health, I need to know whether you will assist me in such a goal.”

Dylan folded his arms. “I’ve no intentions of letting myself get killed, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“And glad I am to hear it. Travelling alongside someone with a death wish tends to complicate matters.” The way the man spoke, it sounded like experience. Not all those who’d fled the tower would’ve returned quietly.

His gaze dropped to the array of weaponry the man sported as well as his sword. Daggers, three of them, and several throwing knives peeked out from the back of his belt. His guardian had been very explicit on what happened to those who tried to escape a hound’s clutches. “Have you ever—?”

“There you two are!” Marin bellowed.

Dylan twisted where he sat in time to witness all three women entering their campsite. Relief unravelled the knot he didn’t realise he’d been harbouring in his stomach until now. A part of him had been anxious in whether the trio would be able to find them, leaving him alone with the hound.

Marin held up her arm. A rabbit swung from her hand. “Found dinner. Or breakfast, take your pick.” She threw the carcass before the fire and jerked a thumb at Katarina. “Damn near tripped over the silly thing.”

He eyed both the hunter and the hedgewitch. Unlike Authril, there didn’t seem to be any obvious injuries. He could’ve sworn Marin had been limping earlier. Hard to tell now the woman was still. She didn’t look to favour either leg. “Are either of you hurt?”

Katarina brushed back a lock of brown hair from her forehead, tucking it back into the braid at her temple. Most of the loops had loosened during the fight, making a mess of both bun and braids. “We’ve a few scrapes and bruises between us.”

“I’d be more than willing to—”

The dwarf held up her hand. “There’s no need to use your healing talents. I know it takes more out of spellsters than they care to admit.”

“Speak for yourself,” Marin said to him as she plonked herself next to him. One leg of her trousers twisted in a manner he didn’t recall it being capable of prior to entering Toptower. She pulled back the soft leather, revealing a long gash down her calf. “It’s stopped bleeding, but—”

Dylan wordlessly placed his hand on her bare shin. The cut wasn’t too deep, which had helped in the clotting process and aided him now in swiftly boosting the woman’s natural healing.

The hunter wrinkled her nose, her lips warping into a grimace as she tried to remain still. “Kind of tingles, doesn’t it? Like needles all over your leg.” She stretched her leg before the fire once he withdrew his magic, brushing off the congealed blood and examining the peachy-pink scar beneath. “Almost like it never happened, huh?”

Dylan shrugged. “I could heal it further, if you want.” Typically, once the wound had reached the point of a scar, there wasn’t much left to do. Pushing the healing process that little bit more would allow the new skin to darken, but it would be a superficial matter by then.

“It’s fine, thank you.” Crossing her legs beneath her, she crinkled her eyes at him. “It’s good to see you’re looking less green, too.”

“Sword fighting’s a little more… gruesome than I imagined,” he admitted, ducking his head to whisper the words.

“That’s why I use a bow. Less bits flying everywhere, especially in the face. Get an arrow through someone’s head or a straight shot to the heart and—” She flopped back onto the leaf-ridden ground. “They’re not getting up. Kind of like your magic.”

“I guess.” Arrows were still quite messy and, although Marin seemed to have quite a bit more skill than the other archers he’d witnessed, they were less efficient than his magic at killing cleanly.

“Hey,” the hunter sat up and nudged his knee with an elbow. “You can help me solve a little debate us women were having earlier.”

His curiosity tweaked, he raised a brow in query at her.

“You can light whatever you want on fire, right?”

Dylan laughed. It was going to be one of those sort of debates, was it? He’d been wondering how long it would take before someone started enquiring as to the extent of his abilities. “That is… somewhat true. There are limits. Using your fire example, if it’s not something that’ll burn under a normal flame, then I can’t set it alight.”

“How does it all work? Like fire. How do you actually make things burn?”

He grinned. “Well, it…” Chuckling to himself, he ran his fingers through his hair. It’d been so longer since his tutors had to teach him the finer points of the skill. “It seems I’ve forgotten the nuances. But it’s not so much as conjuring fire as it involves manipulating the temperature in the air around the object you want to burn.”

“And you forgot how you’re doing that? How could you forget?”

“Do you remember how people taught you to walk? Or speak?” He’d been an early bloomer, like most of those signalled out for military training. “Spellsters—the ones born in the tower, at least—are able to use magic at a very young age. Our first attempt is often a shield when we’re just babies, it hinges on our survival defence.”

“You could do magic as a baby?”

He nodded. “Only a shield, though, and only for a short time.” Pulses generally came next, weak ones that expended more effort than a toddler could give. “I lit my first flame when I was four years old. Fire is often the first conscious use of magic.” Dylan flicked his wrist as a small fireball formed in his cupped palm. “It’s easy. Brief.” He blew on fireball, extinguishing it. “I can manipulate it like you would do your breath. Concentrating too hard on it makes things more difficult, so you learn to trust your instinct.”

“But if I asked, you could set fire to…” The woman twisted her head every which way, taking in their surroundings. “That?” She pointed to the leafless skeleton of a nearby bush hovering just on the edge of the encroaching shadows of night. “Just—” She clicked her fingers and spread her hands wide. “Whoosh!”

“I’d be more inclined to ask you why you wanted me to set the dead bush on fire, but yes, I could do it like that.” He mimicked her actions.

“Except you will not,” Tracker said. “Stop encouraging the woman.”

Marin stuck her tongue out at the hound. “Why don’t you use fire when we’re fighting? It’s always lightning or…” She waved her hands in a pushing motion.

“Safety, mostly.” The guardians were always very clear on them remaining mindful of their surroundings. Of being sure where an ally was in relation to an enemy. Basic training and he’d forgotten that in the very first fight where lives were taken. “Lightning goes to ground and stops when I want. Any pulses through the air last only as long as there’s energy to drive them.”

He plucked a twig from the pile. With the snap of his fingers, he conjured a single flame to dance on the tip of his thumb, which he then transferred to the twig. “Once magical fire meets fuel, then it’s merely fire and just as unpredictable.”

The hunter eyed the burning twig. “But you could put it out whenever you wanted.”

Dylan enclosed in the flame in a small dense shield, holding it there until smoke filled the bubble. “Yes.” He threw the twig into the fire. “But if I was to get knocked out like I did the first time I fought…” Even magically created fire couldn’t tell friend from foe. He’d just been lucky the person he attacked back at the main camp when he’d been blinded by pain had been an enemy.

Tracker settled on the opposite side of the campfire. “You allowed an enemy close enough to you to let them knock you out? Are you certain they sent you to the army to fight and not, I do not know, play physician?”

Before Dylan could open his mouth, Authril said, “There are no healers in the army, only weapons.”

Dylan rubbed at his cheek, the one the lieutenant had struck on his first day there. It had stopped stinging by the second day and the bruising had vanished once the collar broke, but he could still feel it, still taste the bitter tang of his blood.

You’re a weapon. The man’s words echoed in his mind. Nothing but a sword with a big mouth.

Tracker shook his head. “I distinctly recall seeing him mend your side, my dear woman. Clearly, the lack of healers in the army ranks cannot be true.”

“I wasn’t brought to the army to heal people,” Dylan whispered. “I’m meant to be a sword, not a scalpel.” If he’d been a little more invested in playing that role then maybe he might’ve been able to…

He sighed. It was best not to wander down that path again lest he not find his way back a second time.

Feeling watched, he lifted his gaze to find Tracker staring at him, a peculiar expression drawing the man’s face tight. Pity? It was there only for an instant. He could’ve sworn he’d seen right, although he couldn’t imagine why a hound would pity him.

All at once, the man leapt to his feet and retrieved one of the longer branches from the fire. “Since you are all here. I think I shall finish removing this blood before it permanently adheres to my skin.” He eyed Dylan, tipping his head to one side. “Normally, I am not meant to leave a spellster’s side once they are found, but I can trust you to not attempt vanishing into the undergrowth once I am out of sight, yes?”

“Unique circumstances, right?” His gaze turned to the darkness encroaching on the forest. Already, much of the area beneath the canopies was in shadow. Yet, even in the daytime, a man could get lost. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” The safest way to reach the tower was at the hound’s side. He’d be a fool to leave it and invite more trouble.

 

I’ve nothing on my playlist for this chapter.

Weekend Writing Warriors – #8sunday

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This week, my dear Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday Folk. I’m going to skip a little ahead in Dark One’s Bride to the next chapter.

In this piece, Clara has been greeted by the lady of the castle and, after shooing the other noblewomen, has ushered her off into a room for talk and tea…

 

Thalia tottered back into her line of sight, a cup and saucer gracefully balanced in each hand. “Here we are. I do hope the tea is to your liking.”

Clara seized the proffered saucer, the cup shaking treacherously in her grasp. She clutched the handle and took a sip of the warm liquid. Overpowering sweetness hit her tongue. Honey. Her eye twitched as she fought down the urge to shudder and, somehow, managed a smile.

To Clara’s utmost relief, the woman didn’t seem to notice.

Don’t forget to check out the other excerpts.

 

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In other news, Dark One’s Mistress managed to get itself into the semifinals in the Golden Quill Award Contest! There’s a reader’s choice going on, too.

When in Doubt, Send in the Assassins!

[image error]Don’t look at me like that. I’m getting there!

I first wrote a large chunk of Dark One’s Bride way back in November of 2013, not long after Dark One’s Mistress was originally published. Back then, it was the second of a duology. And, technically, complete.

But it felt rushed, especially the second half which became Dark One’s Wife. Whilst struggling on with a self-edit, I lost all enthusiasm for it. Even after levering my mental crowbar into the plot and cracking it into two books. Yes, there’s now more time to flesh out people, voice fears and…

Well, for some time, I’ve wondered what direction to take it. After the emotion-filled ride In Pain and Blood gave me, Dark One’s Bride seemed so… boring. In part, that is likely because of a little voice that pipes up insisting that I’m done with this story, I’ve written and rewritten so many times that it feels like I’ve completed several times over. Except it’s not.

The other part was due to there being very little conflict. Clara and Lucias aren’t clashing with each other here and, apart from a brief misunderstanding that is quickly resolved and one bout of nerves, there wasn’t much in way of little going on with the enemies side until the last few chapters.

It’s only recently that I found the answer I’ve been trying to unearth for some time. In the first book, the enemy’s aim was to take out the Dark Lord. Five months and the enemy would focus on Clara before trying to take out Lucias again. It’s led to some major rearranging of the plot, but I finally have forward movement!

 

Which is probably just as well as I’ve a certain spellster prince that’s very eager for me to be done so I can tell him story.

Weekend Writing Warriors – #8sunday

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Still with Dark One’s Bride, my dear Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday Folk. I’ve managed to reach chapter three since last week. The slow going has, in part, been due to an injury last weekend involving a pony’s head and my index finger. It’s not broken (despite his most foolish of efforts, I’m sure), but I can forget long periods of typing.

 

This piece picks up directly after last week’s with Clara being a little apprehensive of leaving the carriage…

No matter how much she longed to see everything, there was a certain code of conduct she would have to adhere to. At least, according to the books she’d unearthed in the Citadel’s dusty library.

Without thought, her hand slid to the sheathed dagger nestled in the folds of her gown. Her fingers had barely secured themselves around the hilt by the time she became aware of the action. Silly girl, she chided, carefully relinquishing her hold. There was no danger here.

Still, her stomach fluttered as she sidled closer to the exit. This wasn’t like the inns of the tiny villages and hamlets they’d stopped at on their way here. Lucias was adamant that all of the kingdom’s nobility would be here for their wedding, for who wouldn’t want to witness the first time a Great Lord had married in centuries?

Don’t forget to check out the other excerpts.