Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dear Reader

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  The Order Series

  KASIA BACON

  THE MUTT

  —An Order Series Short Story—

  The Mutt: An Order Series Short Story

  Copyright © 2016 by Kasia Bacon

  All rights reserved Worldwide.

  Copy edited by Shelby Reed

  Cover Art by Marek Frankowski

  www.3dpiconceptart.blogspot.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used, copied, reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the prior written permission of the author except for the purpose of reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described in this book are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblances to actual people or incidents are entirely coincidental.

  For updates about new projects, for excerpts & free stories,

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  http://kasiabacon.wixsite.com/orderseries/newsletter

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for picking up a copy of The Mutt.

  I must confess, this modest fantasy short is, in fact, a by-product. My bit on the side, if you will. Ervyn and Lochan have been occupying my mind—rent free—for a long time. I am working on their novel, The Elven Vice, which will be the first book in The Order series. Before that is completed, however, Ervyn and Lochan demanded that I write a little prelude depicting how they met as recruits in the Queen’s Army.

  I am planning to draft at least one more short in the time ahead. I cannot dispute the fact that young Lochan also deserves his voice to be heard. I expect The Highlander will be coming in early 2017.

  I hope you will enjoy the story and choose to join Ervyn and Lochan in their future endeavours.

  —Kasia Bacon

  For Daga. And against cancer.

  CHAPTER 1

  I WANTED him from the start. From the very first time I laid eyes on him. Everyone kept talking about him in the days prior to his arrival to the camp, curious about this half-breed born to an influential Elven clan, but brought up by humans. A hybrid. A mutt.

  Lochan Féyes.

  I was curious as well. Maternal half-breeds such as him were a rarity. They retained all physical qualities of a pureblood and enjoyed, at least in theory, equal social status. Not that discrimination didn’t occur. The real losers in the biracial game were the paternal ones. Considered downright human and non-citizen, they constituted the lowest caste in society.

  I wasn’t sure what to expect, but he exceeded my expectations. Later I discovered he had a knack for doing just that.

  If I hadn’t known human blood flowed in his veins, I wouldn’t have been able to spot it. The tips of his ears were perhaps less pointy, and his eyes—not as distinctly angular as those of an average Elf.

  Even back then, at seventeen, he proved every bit a killer. He made that obvious during the first training session. He was deadly. Calm. Steady. Cold. Disinterested. So self-assured that he seemed arrogant. I wanted to bring him down a peg. Teach him a lesson. Break him. Taste him. Make him beg me to kiss him.

  I wanted his attention, but he refused to give it to me.

  So I had to find a way to claim it.

  His eyes were blue—so intensely the colour almost appeared offensive. Fuck, it offended me. I was just an unworldly Dark Elf at the time, unaccustomed to irises that weren’t obsidian. The azure hue of his gaze reminded me of the glass crystals that grew in caves in the highlands of the Black Mountain. I used to collect them as a child.

  I wanted those eyes on me.

  He struck me as all attitude and stark contrast, emphasised by the juxtaposition of his glossy black hair and milky, luminous skin. A combination of sharp angles and sinewy planes of hard muscle.

  I craved the feel of his body under my fingers.

  If I had to describe him in one word—apart from infuriating—I’d choose refined. Everything about him, from the aristocratic bone structure to the posh lowland accent, screamed polished. One thing in particular dripped effortless elegance and insisted on notice: the way he fought.

  The first time I watched him fight, I got hard. My heart pounded in my chest, and I chewed on my lip until it bled. I vowed then I would make him mine.

  His technique wasn’t flashy. On the contrary, it looked austere—the moves small and graceful, but also fast, powerful and precise. Even when he sparred against multiple opponents at the same time, it much resembled a choreographed dance routine. He always remained in control of the fight.

  While unmatched at hand-to-hand combat, he later showed real artistry with a blade. He was lethal and alluring. The knives—and he carried several on his person at all times—performed simply as natural extensions of his hands. His knife-disarming and throwing skills became a favourite topic amongst both the other trainees and the hyoshies in charge of our training.

  I spent a few weeks observing him. To start with, I tried to dissuade myself from this weird obsession. I wanted to convince myself that, apart from being a half-breed and thus a novelty, he had to be ordinary. Not worth the entire maelstrom I awarded him in my mind. Nevertheless, he quickly became a compulsion of mine.

  We never spoke. I tried to engage him, but he shot me down by looking straight through me. He walked away every time and, for the time being, I permitted that.

  He kept to himself, though many pursued him—both male and female. After all, our military society admired nothing more than a remarkable warrior. Bets circulated as to whether and when he would take on a lover and who that lover would be. Rumour had it he favoured archers. Although utterly unfounded, it made me feel sanguine. Perhaps it held some truth, judging by the fact he often watched us at archery drills, despite never participating himself.

  I’d already been made the leader of my archery squad, having completed the mandatory two-year service back in Black Mountain. Every Dark Elf had an obligation to serve in regional forces before enlisting in the Queen’s National Army. At the time, there were no doubts in my mind that I’d become the best archer amongst the recruits in the camp. So if he wanted one, it didn’t get better than me.

  I caught him looking at me once. That dawn, I practised shooting without aiming—the instinctive style my clan excelled at. My chest tightened as his eyes lanced through me. I all but dropped my bow when I read appreciation in his gaze, right before he turned away. It made me foolish to pin all my hopes on one look, no doubt. But then again, my family motto proclaimed, “Aim big, miss small.”

  After a few months, his aloof and haughty demeanour had me torn between fascinated and vexed. I went from wanting to punch him to needing to fuck him. Frankly, it was draining, and it put me in one hell of a persistent bad mood.

  Then came the day when my frustration reached its zenith.

  CHAPTER 2

  EARLY spring graced us with the first warm morning at last. Cián, the hyoshie who conducted the hand-to-hand training, was a mean fucker. Taller and bulkier than any Elf I’d ever seen, he had worked us mercilessly since breakfast. I started hating him the moment he insisted that a gruelling, two-hour run through the forest with weighted backpacks constituted a light warm-up. He wouldn’t relent until a couple of new recruits puked and another passed out.

  Back at the training ground, we partnered up to practise some blocking and attacking patterns. The hyoshie walked amongst us, observing the drills, sour-faced. All of a sudden, he roared, “No, no, no! You fucking morons. You need to remain in constant motion. I’ll show you how it’s done. You.” He pointed at Féyes. “Come spar with me.”

  We gathered in a circle around them. Meanwhile, Cián took off his shirt and gestured for Féyes to do the same. They both assumed their fighting stances. The hyoshie looked at us through narrowed eyes. “Pay close attention to what muscles are at work here. Get it into your thick, useless skulls.” He jabbed his enormous finger in the forehead of the red-haired Elf standing closest to him for emphasis. It just about sent the trainee backwards on his ass.

  To describe the hyoshie's physique as impressive would’ve been an understatement. He loomed over Féyes, his body wider everywhere—a mass of bulging muscles and veins.

  I, however, only had eyes for the half-breed.

  Sweet gods.

  His lithesome form was striking. The sharply defined lines that started by each hipbone and disappeared diagonally below the waist of his low-slung trousers gave me a dry mouth. Two black tattoos stood out against his pale skin, complementing his sculpted body: a small hawk above his right pectoral and an intricate double band around his upper arm. Despite the exquisite design and artful execution, I had no doubt it signified an official branding of a sort.

  The moves Cián and Féyes demonstrated involved feet, knees, elbows and open hand strikes. It was a complex combination based on holding and locking techniques. After marking the motions slowly for our benefit, they repeated it several times, gradually increasing the speed.

  The hyoshie arched an eyebrow at Féyes. “Shall we?”

  Féyes didn’t reply, nor did he change his facial expression. He just twisted his palm upward and crooked his fingers at Cián, the ‘come on, then’ gesture clear.

  I bit my lip, trying not to lau gh at the cocky bastard.

  “Uh-oh. The mutt’s going to get his jaw broken, I reckon,” someone whispered behind me with glee. If I hadn’t been so busy watching, I would've planted a fist in the idiot’s face.

  It didn’t take long before the soft murmur of bets being placed reached my ears. I rolled my eyes; gambling had always been the Elven national pastime.

  The dance concluded within a dozen moves.

  The exchange came about too fast for me to register in detail. If I were to guess, I’d say the combination of a crescent kick, a straight knee and a body shot that knocked the hyoshie off-balance and took him down. Cián grunted in pain as he landed on the ground, confused.

  The gaping silence was only broken by Cián’s rumbling laughter.

  He stood shaking his head, incredulous. Smiling, he came up to Féyes and clapped his back a couple of times. “You little fuck, you sure know how to move.” Then he snarled at us still standing around and gawking, “Get on with it! You know what to do.”

  After that, he glued himself to Féyes’ side.

  I didn’t like the hyoshie standing so close to Féyes. Nor did I appreciate the unnecessary touches to his arms and the private conversation that followed—even if the hyoshie did most, if not all, of the talking. There could be no mistaking the interest I recognised in Cián’s eyes.

  The muscles in my jaw twinged as a fit of temper swept through me. Something ice-cold and slippery coiled in the pit of my stomach.

  The training partner I’d been ignoring gave me a funny look. As the harsh sound of teeth-gnashing escaped me, she mouthed, “What’s wrong with you?”

  In the end, my inactivity caught the hyoshie’s attention. “Did you want something, Morryés?” His eyebrows lowered when he saw me glaring their way. “Get a move on before I help you.”

  I just glowered at him. Damn right I wanted something—to shove my boot deep up Cián’s ass. And I wanted him to step away from Féyes like fucking yesterday.

  Féyes blanked me, not even turning his head in my direction.

  I seethed.

  My partner pulled my sleeve. “Are we doing this or not?” she asked. “Any time today will do.”

  Furious and unfocused, I made an easy target for her attacks. She got me twice in the left shin. It hurt like a motherfucker. I sighed with relief when the hyoshie was called away and the session got cut short. The break couldn’t come soon enough.

  In the blink of an eye, the exhausted recruits scattered, not lingering to find out if another hyoshie would be taking over.

  I surveyed the deserted training ground.

  Féyes stood there, getting dressed. He intended to leave without sparing me a single glance.

  I’d had enough. I couldn’t allow it. I needed to strike a chord with him. Whether he wanted to or not, he had to acknowledge me at last.

  “Féyes,” I shouted.

  Nothing happened.

  “Hey, mutt!” I winced inside as I called him that. No term sounded more derogatory to a half-breed.

  He did turn around then. So quickly it seemed a blur. The words barely stopped vibrating in my throat before he had his hand wrapped tightly around it.

  He didn’t look amused. The vivid blue eyes, narrowed to slits, glinted in his pale face.

  I found him stunning in his fury. And fucking terrifying.

  Hatred and contempt filled his gaze. But if it took that for him to look at me, I was prepared to settle for it.

  I remained still in his hold.

  He gave my trachea a harder squeeze. “Say that again, cave boy?”

  Gods. His voice. Low, smooth and raspy all at once. Like silk and pieces of broken glass.

  Busy struggling for air, I didn’t answer. Not that he expected a reply.

  He stood close enough for me to smell him. The scent of moss and rain had an exotic note mixed in it—the hardly perceptible trace of a human. I wanted to weave my fingers into his hair so badly they twitched.

  "I could kill you now, Highlander," he said, staring intently into my eyes. I couldn’t look away, even if he hadn’t had me immobilised in his iron grasp.

  I swallowed under his palm.

  Just a little, he lessened the pressure.

  Quickly, I filled my lungs full of air. “You could,” I agreed with ease because it was true. One push of his thumb and my windpipe would collapse. My strained voice sounded hoarse, and my brogue thicker than usual. I knew I only had one chance at this. “But why would you want to, when we could do this instead?”

  My eyes swept downwards, drawn to his full lips. I’d already fixated on the little dent in the centre of the bottom one.

  His brows rose in shock.

  As the firm grip he’d had on my neck became looser still, I sprang into action.

  Descending on him, I crushed my mouth to his and latched on—cruel and bruising. I’d grown angry. With him for making me want and ache, then denying me for so long. With myself for falling for him at the first touch.

  I felt pathetic and ridiculous, as though he’d bewitched me. Something the Dark Elves from my clan were particularly vulnerable to, as my father once warned me. Like a disease or addiction.

  I plunged my tongue inside, meeting his. It was pierced. The graze of the cool stud almost made me spill on the spot.

  I stroked the roof of his mouth and he groaned. I nearly came undone when the feral sound vibrated through me from the top of my head to the soles of my feet.

  Unsure of how or when it happened, I ended up cradling his skull in both hands, rough and desperate. Me. Gripping him.

  And he let me.

  He was mine. Even if he only knew it on a subconscious level.

  Something in my bloodstream recognised that I laid claim to him through that kiss.

  He allowed me to guide and control it, responding to each stimulus without any sign of resistance. The hard ridges of his body melted into me, fluid and pliant, and I felt both drunk on, and grounded by, his submission. It dawned on me that he needed it that way.

  When our lips parted, his eyes were glassy and heavy-lidded.

  I panted and shook with the effort to restrain myself from fucking him in the mud there and then. Instead, I told him he how beautiful he was and that he belonged to me. The puzzled look on his face alerted me that, without even realising it, I’d reverted to a mountain dialect he didn’t fully understand.

  “So,” he said, once our breathing had steadied, giving me a long, guarded look, “is that how Highlanders make friends?”

  ~*~

  WE DIDN’T speak for a few days after that. Sure, I saw him around. We even exchanged nods and glances at mealtimes and training sessions, which marked progress.

  I didn’t crowd him. He needed time to digest the situation and decide what, if anything, he would do about it. I let it brew for the time being. I wanted him to come to me this time. Not that I shied away from occasional eye contact, but I stopped encouraging it or leering at him. I still watched him when I thought he wouldn’t notice. At night, I gave my imagination free rein, aided by the use of my left hand.

  And I waited.

  CHAPTER 3

  ON FREEDAY, all training ceased well before early supper.

  I made short work of my braised venison stew and bread dumplings. Afterwards, I lingered outside the dining tent, sprawled on one of the wooden benches. The other archers from my squad tended to give me a wide berth these days, sensing that for whatever reason, I was wound up tighter than my bow-string.

  The only one who ignored my moodiness was my cousin Verhan. I tolerated his company without much hardship, despite the fact that his mouth rarely closed and he lived on gossip. Most Dark Elves were related by blood or marriage, so putting up with one’s distant family came with the territory. That evening I’d arranged with him to assist me in practising long-range shooting at dusk. I still struggled with distance and accuracy at limited visibility. As I waited for him to show up, I contemplated giving my kit a once-over.

  Soaking in the weak, late rays of the sun on a full stomach almost made me drift off. My eyes snapped open when a strong smell of cloves and cinnamon wafted up my nose.

  Féyes stood in front of me, holding two mugs filled with spiced mead. With an impassive face, he passed one to me and arched an eyebrow.

 

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