Bones of the Empire by Jim Galford

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.”
    Shaking his head, Estin sat back on his haunches. “Give me some time to rest. I might be able to use a little magic, but you’ll probably have to drag me along after. If I can heal at least the infection, you’ll be fine in a day or two.”
    “No time. What can we do without magic?” Estin met her eyes until Feanne smirked and nodded. “Wait for me to die. I understand. Rest and see what you can do, my love. We may have a little while before they find us again.”
    Crawling up alongside her, Estin flopped against the same stone she was using to prop herself upright. He laughed softly as he flexed his arm, evaluating how weak it had gotten. “We’re getting too old for this. Promise me this is the last war we fight.”
    Feanne laughed too before sucking in a sharp breath as her pain clearly grew worse. “I promise. We win this war and I won’t make you fight another. We will hide away and do whatever it is people do when they aren’t being hunted by furless and maniacal undead, bent on becoming living gods.”
    After a minute of them both smiling weakly and struggling to relax, Estin asked, “Why didn’t you change? You could have held three of them without too much effort.”
    “How many of you would have died in the process? I do not have enough control over it to keep the five of you safe in such a closed space. What point is there in killing our enemies if I murder my mate or my friends along the way? A small confined space is the worst possible place I can think of invoking that kind of power, Estin. Besides, once I was wounded, I was too weak to change. It would have killed me. I have nearly always needed some warning before changing, at least since the Miharon has been gone.”
    They fell silent then, neither looking at the other. They both rested until well after dawn, when birds began singing loudly among the trees and snow fell lightly around them. It was peaceful—something Estin could not remember feeling in a long time. Intending to rest only for a moment, he closed his eyes and jerked awake some time later, the sun low in the sky.
    Looking over at Feanne, he found she was also asleep, her muzzle hanging on her chest between her breasts as she breathed slowly. Her hands had fallen away from the blood-soaked bandages, and much of her winter clothing was covered with blood. Even the snow around her was a crimson-black.
    Estin rolled onto his knees and checked Feanne, finding her breathing was weak but her wound had mostly stopped bleeding. She was in