Free Bones of the Empire by Jim Galford Page A

side-stepped spells and a few magically thrown objects dozens if not hundreds of times growing up with a mischievous sister. Most of her magic had revolved around flames, making it something he wanted far from his fur, but this little girl was using a different type of magic. It had weight and substance, as evidenced by the bruises he felt on his arms and hands. Where there was something solid, there was the chance to use it as a weapon against a foe, as he had shown his sister when she made the mistake of throwing a chair at him when they were young. To the day of her death, Ilarra had sported a scar on her collarbone from that tussle.
    Panting and trying to stay on his feet, Raeln dug in as the little girl wove her next spell. He had no intention of going anywhere this time. He would act on his hunch or lose the fight in the process. Odds were that he would not last long without doing something. His strength was fading fast as the pain in his side dwarfed his ability to ignore it. Warmth had spread down his side to his hip, the wound bleeding freely. Another minute or two and he would become dizzy, and that would be the end of the fight.
    The spell went off, blurring the space between the Turessian girl and Raeln, the air thickening with force that would likely take him off his feet or possibly break bones. He reacted to it the way he had been taught, treating it little differently than a swung club, though he had to defend against it as much with his mind as his arms, given that it was virtually invisible.
    Magical force slammed into Raeln’s arms, and he swept it aside, turning it the way he would twist a foe’s arm to divert their momentum. Pain flared across his arms and shoulders with the strain of holding on to the magic, and he cried out as he released his hold on the spell, intending to hurl it into the crowd in the hope that it would create enough of a distraction that he could run. To his surprise, the girl he had been facing went flying and crashed to the ground at the feet of several scowling Turessians. She groaned and tried to get up, but fell onto her back with her lip and nose bloodied.
    Weakened to the point of collapse, Raeln wanted to run while attention was on the girl, but the ring of people never opened. He looked out toward Dalania and Yoska and realized both were gesturing frantically for him to stop. His momentum gone, he dropped to his knees as the girl’s parents carried her away. To Raeln’s surprise, they did not appear even remotely angry with him, though there was a sternness directed toward the unconscious girl he remembered from his own mother’s firm scolding. She was going to be lectured for losing the fight.
    People in the ring gradually scattered, some gathering over near Yiral. Others left the area, taking some of the slaves with them. Soon only a handful of men and women remained near Yiral, and only Yoska and Dalania remained down the hillside. Why they had not run, Raeln could not imagine. They just stood there, with Dalania wringing her hands nervously and Yoska tapping a foot as though he had any right or ability to hurry the Turessians or Raeln along.
    Yiral came over to Raeln and slowly took a knee beside him, wincing as her joint cracked with the effort. “The family heads have spoken about you, and to my surprise, much of it was good, though sadly not all,” she said, lowering her hood despite the chill winds that made even Raeln’s face cold. Her long grey hair flapped around her head as she beamed at him. “A few months ago, they would have gladly argued over which family you could serve. Now, things are different and none want that responsibility. That leaves it up to me to keep watch over you, or you must be returned to the slave-caste.”
    “I will not be called a slave. Kill me if you have to, but don’t ever call me that.”
    Yiral smirked at that and quickly added, “If you were brought into my house as a servant, your life would be pleasant until the