Bones of the Empire (10 page)

Icy blasts of wind slammed into Raeln with the force of a wall crashing into his chest and legs. He struggled on another step or two, but fell as the weight of the winds dragged him down, pressing him facedown on the stone. He was only a few feet from where Dalania lay curled into a ball, clutching her steaming arm. Raeln could see a bloody pattern of Turessian runewords, but he could not get to her. He felt like an utter failure, trying desperately to reach Dalania.

Raeln gasped, trying to pull breath into his lungs, but the magical winds made even breathing difficult. He managed to slide along the smooth stone another few inches by digging in his claws and pulling, grinding his skin until he bled through his shredded clothing. Before he could make another push forward, polished black leather boots stepped between him and Dalania. A small group of the slaves ran past him to help Dalania to her feet.

“I’m going to release you, beast,” the Turessian preserver said, taking a knee in front of Raeln. The man appeared sincerely worried, but not for himself and not at all angry. “I will explain this only once. If you strike me, I will execute the friend that you prize above working together with your fellow slaves. Obey me and relent, and you will be the only one punished. This is the most basic rule of living in these lands. Do you understand me?”

The crushing weight of the winds faded a second later. Raeln rolled onto his hands and knees, rising slowly to growl at the man in front of him, ready to strike. Looking past the preserver, he saw Dalania and started to get his mind around what the man had told him. They would kill her for his disobedience. He could easily kill this man, but it would cost Dalania her life. It was insidious and crippling, knowing his actions would be reflected on others he cared about. He began to really understand why the slaves aided their masters here.

Lowering his head and letting his tension fade, Raeln settled back onto his knees in front of the Turessian.

“Yiral did say you were smarter than most of your kind,” the preserver said, raising the brand as it flared with heat again. “Do we need to hold you down, or are you stubborn enough to remain still on your own?”

“I will not fight.”

An elven slave moved to Raeln’s side and pulled his shirt sleeve up, exposing his upper arm for the Turessian holding the brand. A moment later, the hot crackle of burning-hot metal touching fur filled Raeln’s nose with its acrid scent as agony tore through his arm. He kept his eyes down and refused to cry out, clenching his jaw until the pain faded and the brand was taken away, leaving the lingering scent of burned fur.

“Your other friend will be dealt with shortly. First, to the matter of trying to attack me,” the preserver went on, throwing the brand aside. The iron rod clattered on the stone slab, where a wiry man picked it up and held it as though waiting for the preserver to ask for it back. “You learned your lesson about what happens the next time you rebel. You still must be punished for this time. No one else will be punished for this incident because of your willingness to learn from your mistake.”

Raeln looked up at the man, trying to control his anger through the throbbing of his shoulder and the sight of Dalania trembling among the slaves at the edge of the stone slab where he knelt. “What is my punishment?”

“Ten lashes,” the man said, frowning as though he were saddened by the statement.

“I’ve had far worse,” Raeln countered, staying on his knees but straightening as much as he could.

The human shook his head. “Unlikely.”

Crackling energy flowed out from the Turessian’s glove to form a long whip of sparking lightning. “You would be wise to take off your shirt and any other garments above the waist. Blood in clothing severely limits its warmth and we cannot provide new clothing every time you disobey. That is your choice, though. I would still find respect for you if you chose to hide your body from others.”

Stripping to the waist, Raeln closed his eyes and focused on the incredible cold of the region, letting the wind soothe his body. The first crack of the magical whip nearly threw him onto his stomach, the force behind it surprising him. He kept his eyes closed and his back straight, ready for the next impact.

He could endure anything so long as he knew he would not make matters worse for the others.

“Bedfellows”

Why do we dream when our dreams torture us? I have fought my dreams for much of my life, and when times were worst, I clung to better dreams for solace and a gentle nudge in the right direction when my waking mind resisted me. Those dreams got me through loss and emptiness, and helped me find peace when the world fell apart around me. Without the dreams that haunted me, I would never have found the love of my life, and I certainly would not have managed to live through the loss of my son.

Now my dreams are filled with fear that separation will be my last living memory. Even worse still, I fear my children share those dreams and those dreams will become the nightmares of loss that haunted me growing up. I dread their own hatred of me for leaving them behind.

My dreams also taunt me for my own weakness. I once was strong enough to defend my family against anything or escape those things I could not fight. Now I am powerless. During my waking hours, I do what I can to push on. During sleep, I know my limitations—I can no longer protect Feanne from the dangers that chase us. I am like a child among fearsome warriors.

How can I protect my children a thousand miles away when I cannot even protect my mate at my side? I can’t. I know this and I must let go. I must accept that my children are gone, as I’ve accepted that Atall is dead. Only then can I move on and attempt to save both Feanne and myself.

I must abandon what I most need and love if I am to protect it.

Estin woke to a steady rocking sensation. He opened his eyes to see snow passing by and the long legs of the horse he was draped over only inches from his face. Turning his head, he could see stars and clouds overhead. He attempted to sit up, but a strong hand with claws came down near his spine, stopping him. Looking to his left, he could see Feanne’s leg hanging down, her paw not quite reaching the stirrups and the pads of her foot covered with dried mud and what he guessed to be blood.

“Stay still,” warned Feanne, easing the pressure on his back. “I managed to stop the bleeding and stem any infection, but the wound could break open at any time. I had you sleep to give you time to heal and for the pain of removing the arrow to fade.”

“You used magic to keep me unconscious?”

“No, I fed you shadow weed…forced it down your throat is probably more accurate. It makes one drowsy, but once you’re already unconscious, it keeps you that way. In your case, about a four days longer.”

“You drugged me? What is wrong with you, Feanne?”

Estin did not need to look up to know Feanne was grinning at that. She had threatened to sneak various herbs into his food for years…one of many reasons he tended to prepare the meals for her and the kits. This was the first time he knew of her actually carrying through on it, though.

“Where are we?” he asked, trying to sit up. His left shoulder felt swollen, and he could not move that arm at all, forcing him to use his legs and tail to swing himself into a seated position behind Feanne on the horse. “We should have met with the others by now.”

“I never saw them escape the tunnels. Liris and one of her fellow Turessians chased us until about two hours ago. I had wondered if they would follow us no matter where we went. For some reason, they broke off.”

“And where did we go, Feanne? Is this their horse?”

She inclined her head to examine the sky and then answered, “Mostly south. There are some hills ahead. When we arrive, I intend to rest until morning. We can decide our course from there. And, yes, I stole Liris’s horse and scared off the rest. I thought it might keep her from following the others, though they found at least one horse, given that I could see one in the distance as recently as sunset.”

Estin said nothing, knowing that arguing at this point would serve no purpose. Instead, he picked at the wadded cloth on his shoulder, peeling it away from the wound. Beneath, he found a large puffed-up section of raw flesh, where the bolt’s barbs had torn the skin when it was pulled free. He wondered how he could have managed to sleep through that, even with Feanne’s herbs.

“No magic?” he asked, noticing the uneven thread she had used to sew shut the wound before packing it with herbs and the cloth.

“Too dangerous,” Feanne said, keeping her eyes on the path ahead. “We both were wounded. My magic can either accelerate natural healing or transfer wounds from one to another. The former would have killed you, as the wound would not have closed properly on its own. The latter would have given you my wounds and killed you within minutes.”

Estin put an arm around Feanne’s side to balance himself as he leaned forward, trying to get an eye on her injuries. The burns on her thigh appeared partially healed, though the furless patch surrounded by scorched clothing made it easy to see where they had been, the exposed skin raw and blistered. Where he had seen two crossbow bolts in her torso earlier, she now had wadded cloth like the one on his shoulder.

“How bad?” he asked.

“I’m able to recover faster than you are,” Feanne reminded him. “My leg will be fine in a day or two.”

“That’s not an answer. Faster doesn’t mean you can’t be hurt or killed.”

Feanne glanced sideways at him, her eyes narrowing, warning him that she was in no mood for that argument. She glared for a moment, but then looked away and sighed. “The wound in my stomach is infected. My arm is unusable. I cannot fight. When we stop, I’ll see if I can get the infection under control. It will take time that we did not have until recently. If I cannot heal on my own, I will die slowly.”

“And if you don’t get the infection down, how long before I have to carry you?”

“Another day. Maybe less. It largely depends on how badly torn things are on the inside. Be thankful that we did not have to crawl through a sewer this time. I would likely already be dead.”

Estin sat back, watching the subtle changes in scenery for some time. The near-constant ache in his jaw prompted him to touch his face, finding dried blood spread across the whole side of his nose and muzzle. “Why did you hit me?”

“I’ve hit you before, Estin.”

“This wasn’t sparring.”

“I’ve hit you in anger before. I have never claimed that I was as civil as the females in Altis. You need to learn to take a blow.”

“I know how you are in a real fight. There would’ve been claws.”

Apparently resigned to the idea that he would keep pushing, Feanne finally replied, “Raeln made me promise. He thought you would try to sacrifice yourself, when that was his intention as well. He was in charge and it was his choice. I obeyed an order.”

“Did he actually tell you to punch me?”

“No, he told me to make sure you left when told to. I was losing too much blood to argue. Had I debated it, the Turessians would have caught us before we got away. Hitting you was the right answer, as my mother always told me. Any male that argues too much deserves to choke on his own fangs, she once said.”

“You’re making that up.”

Feanne smirked and said nothing, making Estin question his belief that her mother, Asrahn, would or would not have said that. The more he thought on it, the more he wondered if she did actually tell that to Feanne. In the end, he decided she probably had. It sounded an awful lot like some of the lessons she had used to teach Estin magic.

They rode on in silence for much of the night, gradually making their way to the hills Feanne had indicated. Even with several brief stops for water and grass for the horse, the animal was slowing, and Estin began to wonder if it would actually make it to the nearest of the hills. If Feanne had been pushing the animal for four days as she said, even with her magic helping it, the poor beast had to be ready to collapse.

“We walk from here,” Feanne announced, bringing the horse to a stop a short distance from the hills.

Estin climbed down. Feanne tried to do the same but lost her balance, falling hard into the snow. He rushed to her, but she pushed away his attempt to help her, getting up under her own power.

With one arm cradled to her stomach, Feanne turned to the horse and slapped its rump with her other hand, sending the animal running off in a direction other than where they had been headed.

“Feanne, let me look,” he insisted, but she snarled and pushed him back. “I might be able to help.”

“Not until we stop. You can poke and prod my wounds once we arrive, but until then, I will keep going. Try to keep up,” Feanne told him, limping toward the hills. As she passed him, Estin caught the strong scents of dried blood and infection.

Knowing he was in no condition to fight, Estin followed, trying to ignore the chill snow between his toes and the falling snowflakes that quickly hid their trail.

They walked on until, as they entered the hills with their cover of pines, the first light of dawn crept over the horizon. Feanne led the way into the trees, guiding them to a sheltered location where it would be extremely difficult for anyone to find them without knowing where to look. She stopped there, studying the area briefly before practically collapsing in the thin layer of snow that had managed to settle under the trees.

“Now,” she said softly, closing her eyes and wincing as she slid her legs straight and reclined against the stones behind her. “Now you can mother me. Anyone who finds us now is welcome to kill us so long as I don’t have to hike any farther.”

Taking a knee in front of her, Estin reached for her bandages, but used the wrong arm. Hot pain all across his shoulder warned him not to do that again, and he quickly switched to the other, thankful Feanne’s eyes were closed so she did not see his weakness. Picking away the bandage near her collarbone, he found a mostly healed wound that continued to ooze blood. Overall, it appeared to be mending properly, and there were no indications of infection or broken bones, though the bolt had likely scraped her collarbone badly. Had it been anyone else, he would have guessed she had been healing for about two weeks.

“I’m not trying to ‘mother’ you,” he muttered as he examined the wound and the stitches she had used. Feanne was anything but elegant with her tending to injuries, but it had been effective, halting the blood loss almost completely. The contrast of having been raised in a human city where people worried about scars had always amused Estin, as wildlings—Feanne even more so—could have cared less about lasting markings. Old marks on their flesh were a badge of honor and a warning to the next creature that attacked them. “What does that even mean, anyway?”

Feanne flinched as he pressed the cloth back to her shoulder. “My mother was a stubborn and talented healer. You were her apprentice. It was meant to be a compliment. What did it mean to you?”

Smiling at the memories of Asrahn and her aggressive methods for healing the wounded, he shoved Feanne back against the stones to hold her down when she tried to stop him from shifting to the other wound. She clearly did not want him touching it, but his forcefulness made her laugh weakly. Grimly, he noted that forcefulness was probably what she meant by ‘mothering.’ To Feanne, that word likely meant pinning her down by the throat.

Around the bandage, fresh blood continued to seep. When Estin lifted the edge, the slow trickle accelerated immediately around the puffed flesh and Feanne’s makeshift stitches. The flesh there was black and sickly, heavily infected. Quick recovery might be a talent of Feanne’s, but this was far beyond mundane healing of any kind. Had it been anywhere else on her body, Estin would have resorted to burning it out. Halfway between her ribs and hip, that was not an option, especially as deep as the infection appeared to be already. He hurriedly covered the wound with the cloth again, hoping to keep her from losing more blood than necessary.

“How bad?” She clenched her jaw as she adjusted her position so she could relax while pressing on the two rags. The change in demeanor from when they were safe versus when she felt like they were at war was dramatic and had always surprised him. One moment she was an affectionate partner, and the next she was a calm soldier, ready to kill as needed. “Patch me up before they find us, Estin. There is no time to wait.”