Chapter 11

Chapter

Eleven

F ieran circled his aeroplane high over the middle of Drogenvroh Island. Below him, four other aeroplanes circled.

Tethered by a several hundred foot rope, an old weather balloon hovered above a rocky ledge. Farther down, targets had been set up, one pinned to a stack of haybales, another on a steep hillside.

Fieran pressed the talk button for the radio. "Lije, you're cleared to start your run."

"Got it." Lije's voice came crackling through the headset in Fieran's cap.

One of the aeroplanes broke off from the pattern. Lije flew his aeroplane at the balloon, unleashing short bursts of machine gun fire at the hovering balloon once he was in range. After a few bursts at the balloon, Lije dove toward the first target, strafing it, before sweeping up to the final target.

Fieran tipped his aeroplane on its side to better observe. He still couldn't see well but based on the puffs of dirt and the way the balloon had danced, Lije had hit the targets or gotten close enough .

"Well done, Lije." Fieran kept circling with his aeroplane on its side. "Murray, your turn."

After Murray, then Tiny, and finally a flyboy by the name of Grady each went through their practice runs, Fieran had them all go through it again, this time in pairs. Once Fieran was satisfied with their practice, he ran through the course himself, aiming for the targets as he swept past and squeezing off short bursts of gunfire from the machine gun mounted on his aeroplane's nose. One bullet ricocheted off the metal plate on the back of his propeller, but the rest hit around or on the target.

To the south, building storm clouds filled the horizon, dark and looming. Weather reports from Tarenhiel reported that a large storm was sweeping slowly up the coastline, bringing days of high winds and rain. This would be the last chance the squadron had to fly before it would be grounded for at least a few days.

In the sky over Dar Goranth, a crowd of airships hovered, waiting to be directed to a berth to ride out the storm. Winding their way through the field of icebergs guarding the islands, Alliance warships converged on Dar Goranth, seeking shelter before the storm.

Fieran led the way back to the airfield, waiting for the other four pilots to land before he brought his aeroplane in for a landing, bumping along until he rolled to a halt before the hangar.

As he climbed out of his aeroplane, Commander Druindar strode down the last few steps leading to the observation tower, where he could watch the target practice with a pair of field glasses.

Fieran saluted as the commander approached, standing at attention .

Commander Druindar returned his salute. "That practice seemed to go well."

"It did, sir." Fieran remained staring straight ahead.

"It was a good suggestion on the part of Lt. Rothilion." Commander Druindar gave another nod, then strolled off.

Fieran gritted his teeth. The practices hadn't been Lt. Rothilion's idea but Fieran's. Following military protocol, Fieran had to run the idea past Lt. Rothilion, and of course the elf lieutenant had made it sound like it was all his idea when he asked permission from the troll commander to set up the targets and designate an area for practice strafing.

No matter. Fieran didn't need to go to such lengths to kiss up to Commander Druindar. Once the Mongavarians attacked, Fieran and the rest of Flight B would show their worth.

Surely the attack was coming soon. The Mongavarians had been relentlessly bombing the eastern forests of Tarenhiel and the military bases along the eastern edge of Escarland for the past week.

Much of the Alliance fleet of both seagoing warships and airships had retreated to the safe harbor of Dar Goranth to weather the coming storm, the largest gathering of the navy so far. Rumor around Dar Goranth was that Mongavaria would attack on the heels of the storm while the Alliance fleet was still bottled up in the harbor.

Lt. Rothilion was currently leading Flight A on a scouting mission to the south, getting one last look of the area before everyone was grounded.

Of course he had given himself the more important task, along with a snide jab about Flight B not being ready to face the turbulent flying and landing just before the storm.

Probably true, but Lt. Rothilion didn't need to be so snooty about it, making Fieran's idea of target practice sound like a punishment instead of a good idea.

As Fieran strode into the hangar, he found the rest of Flight B hard at work at the task he'd set them while he'd been out running practice runs with four at a time.

All across the hangar, the aeroplanes of Flight B were in various stages of painting, from some which still had the first layer of gray-blue paint to those that were fully dry.

At the nearest aeroplane, Merrik stood on a ladder as he painted the upper wing. Pip stood below the aeroplane, painting the bottom of the fuselage. Gray paint liberally spattered her dark brown curls, her face, and her coveralls.

Fieran strolled up to them, then lifted a particularly paint-smeared section of Pip's hair, which had frizzed out of her messy bun. "What happened to you? You look like you lost a paint fight."

"No." Pip sighed, though it held a trace of a laugh. "I volunteered to paint all the lower parts of the aeroplanes since I didn't have to duck as much, but some of your flyboys aren't so neat when it comes to painting."

Fieran glanced over the hangar. Paint coated the floor all around each of the aeroplanes. "I can see that. At this point, it might be easier just to paint the floor gray rather than try to clean it up. Merrik, you were supposed to be supervising."

"I tried." Merrik's tone was almost grim as he slathered paint on the upper wing. "Messy paint was the least of our worries."

Fieran glanced from Merrik to Pip. That sounded rather ominous.

This time, Pip rolled her eyes, laid her paintbrush across the top of her can, and stepped out from under the aeroplane. "Come on. You need to see Pretty Face's aeroplane. "

Fieran sighed and trailed after Pip. Any trouble involving Pretty Face was bound to be inappropriate in nature. So far, Pretty Face hadn't crossed too many lines too egregiously, and Fieran had hoped that Sathrah's punch in the nose had knocked some sense into him.

Apparently not.

As they meandered between the aeroplanes, Fieran nodded at a few of the other flyboys, who were hard at work on their aeroplanes' paint jobs.

When they reached the back corner, Pretty Face stood on a ladder, putting the finishing touches on an additional painting on the side of his aeroplane.

The not-regulation artwork depicted Pretty Face with a rose clamped between his teeth and lounging in nothing but what appeared to be a towel—or perhaps a loincloth—draped around his middle, his shirtless chest especially well-defined.

He had a talent for painting. Fieran would give him that much.

Fieran resisted the urge to drop his head into his hands. "Pretty Face, extra artwork is not in the regulations."

"Exactly! There's nothing in the regulations that forbid it." Pretty Face put a last flourish to his self-portrait's hair, his tone all too cheerful. "I checked."

Probably because no one had thought to forbid it just yet. The Flying Corps was still too new as a branch of military service.

"It's not exactly appropriate." Fieran nearly pinched the bridge of his nose the way his Uncle Weylind did whenever the elven nobility was being especially aggravating.

From the next aeroplane over, Stickyfingers leaned farther out on his ladder to peer under the upper wing at them. "Just be glad Merrik put his foot down on Pretty Face's original design before he got too far with it. That was truly inappropriate."

"Dare I ask?" Fieran gave in and rubbed at his temples. Between Lt. Rothilion's harassment and trying to wrangle the flyboys of Flight B into shape, he was getting nostalgic for the carefree days of basic training and yelling drill sergeants.

"The first version was a girl with very little clothes on." Stickyfingers sent a glare in Pretty Face's direction. "Totally disrespectful."

"What? I changed it." Pretty Face pressed a hand to his chest. "Besides, this is better. If my aeroplane had a girl on it, the ladies might think I'm taken. This way, I display my own magnificent attributes."

"You're just asking for another punch in the nose. Apparently my cousin didn't knock enough sense into you last time." Fieran sighed. What should he do about it? He could order Pretty Face to paint over it. He could forbid all extra art entirely.

And become exactly the kind of stuffy lieutenant he didn't want to be.

Or he could let it go. At least the art would make Pretty Face's aeroplane easy to identify while they were flying. And of the two artwork options, this was the better—less inappropriate?—of the two.

"Fine, you may keep it." Fieran raised his voice slightly so that more of the surrounding flyboys would be able to hear. "Since you possess such painting skills, Pretty Face, I'd like you to help everyone else with painting art on their aeroplanes so that each flyer is more identifiable in the air."

"Yes!" A few of the others nearby pumped their fists.

Pretty Face's grin dropped, likely as he realized that Fieran was giving him additional work. A more subtle punishment, perhaps, than having him just paint over the art, but a punishment nonetheless.

When he'd enlisted, Fieran had wanted to be in charge. But now…Fieran hated having to discipline his friends. Basic training had been so much easier, when they were all equals and he could just be one of them.

Despite that, he kept his tone firm. "However, there will be no art of scantily clad women, understand? We are not that kind of unit, and here in Kostaria, we have the honor of Escarland to uphold."

A louder cheer this time, though there were a few groans.

Some of the other flyboys shouted over at Pretty Face.

"I want a portrait of my mama, can you do that?"

"How about a heart with my girl's name in it?"

"I'd like an eagle!"

Fieran released a slow breath, trying to relax the tension in his shoulders.

Pip nudged him with her elbow, her voice low. "That was handled well."

"Linshi." Her quiet words banished the last of his tension.

Her mouth curved into a smile, the expression tugging at some of the dried paint on her face. "What are you going to have Pretty Face paint on your aeroplane?"

"I don't know." Fieran shrugged, his mind going blank. What would he want painted on his aeroplane? Something heroic? Something sentimental? "I'll let Pretty Face work on everyone else's first."

That would keep him busy for a while, considering the shouted requests kept getting more and more elaborate.

By the time he got up to Fieran's aeroplane, hopefully Fieran would have come up with something good.

A loud clanging rang through the passageway, yanking Fieran from sleep. He was sitting up and reaching for his uniform shirt before he'd fully registered what was going on.

Across the tiny room, barely visible in the darkness, Merrik sat up as well.

Footsteps ran down the corridor before someone pounded on Fieran's door. "An airship has been sighted above Dar Goranth."

"In this weather?" Fieran was on his feet and crossing the room without taking the time to finish buttoning his shirt. He yanked the door open to find Lije standing there. He must have been one of the flyboys on watch, for he was fully dressed and turned out already. Fieran gripped the door. "I'm assuming the storm hit?"

"Just the edge of it, so far. Lots of rain and some gusting wind." Lije shifted from foot to foot.

Along the corridor, Stickyfingers was going from door to door, pounding on each one and shouting to be heard over the ringing warning bell. He must have been the other one on watch.

Merrik appeared beside Fieran, a wince creasing his face every time the alarm clanged. While the Escarlish forts still used the older bugles, Dar Goranth must have installed a newer bell-style alarm to send alerts throughout the base.

Fieran scrambled to button his shirt the rest of the way. "Wake the others and head for the hangar. I don't know if Commander Druindar will order us up in this weather but be prepared."

Lije nodded and hurried off to spread the word.

Fieran returned inside the room, sat on his bed, and quickly stuffed his feet into his thickest wool socks. He tugged on his boots but didn't lace them, though the laces had been tucked inside and were now pressing against his feet. He'd switch to the warmer flight boots up in the hanger if they were ordered into the air.

Merrik threw his boots on as well, then the two of them raced from the room toward the stairs leading to the hangar. The lift would be too slow.

They took the stairs two at a time, reaching the landing for Level 24 just as Lt. Rothilion skidded into the stairwell. Lt. Rothilion merely acknowledged them with a glance before all three of them raced up the final set of stairs.

The hangar was lit with low red lights, a black curtain blocking the light from showing into the night.

Commander Druindar met them at the top of the stairs, somehow already fully put together in his white uniform. "Lt. Rothilion, Lt. Laesornysh, the observation post on Urixidor spotted the shape of an airship flying low and running dark, headed this way. We've checked, and it isn't one of ours."

There was a slight chance it was a private airship blown seriously off-course. But if that were the case, it would be frantically signaling and trying to get help, not running dark.

A Mongavarian scout, then, trying to use the storm for cover, dangerous as the high winds were to an airship.

Commander Druindar glanced between the two of them. "I'd like you to pick thirty of your best pilots from both Flights and take them up to confront the airship. The others will be kept here in reserve."

In case there were high casualties due to the airship or the weather. No sense risking the entire squadron.

"And Lt. Laesornysh, I'd like you to avoid using your magic." Commander Druindar's gaze landed squarely on him.

"Sir?" Fieran flexed his fingers, not wanting to protest, but also itching at the restriction. His magic was his best weapon against airships. Without his magic, he was just another pilot with a gun.

"Right now, we don't know if the Mongavarians know you're currently stationed here." Commander Druindar's tone remained unwaveringly final. "Once you use your magic against one of their airships, they will know, and I'd rather save that surprise for the main battle, rather than waste it on what is likely a scout."

That made far too much sense, even if Fieran didn't like it. "I understand, sir."

"Good." Commander Druindar waved them off as the rest of the squadron, both elves and humans, poured into the hangar. "Now get up there and either chase off or take down this intruder before they get too good of a look at our defenses."

Not to mention the fleet of docked airships and warships currently sheltering in the harbor. A fleet that comprised the bulk of the Alliance's air and sea navies.

As Fieran and Lt. Rothilion headed for where their men and women had assembled in rows, gathered into Flights A and B, Fieran lowered his voice so only Lt. Rothilion could hear. "Don't just pick your pilots from Flight A. Commander Druindar said to pick the best of both Flights."

Lt. Rothilion sucked in a breath, as if he were about to retort that, naturally, Flight A had all of the best pilots since they were all full elves. Instead, his nose lifted slightly. "It would be unwise to risk all of my Flight for a paltry scout. Your Flight is more disposable than mine. Pick fifteen of your men, and I will pick fifteen of mine. "

And there it was. Even while complying with the order, Lt. Rothilion still managed to be insulting.

There was no time to dwell on it. Every moment, the airship was getting blown closer to Dar Goranth, and it would take time to get the flyers in the air.

Fieran faced his flyboys, Merrik halting next to him. "Only fifteen of us will be going up. The rest will stay back in reserve in case this turns out to be a larger battle than a single airship. When I call your name, grab your gear and head for your aeroplane."

Now to decide who would go up and who would stay.

"Lije, Pretty Face, Tiny, Murray." Fieran rattled off ten more names, leaving Stickyfingers behind. While he was a decent pilot, he wasn't yet up for a flight like this, and his navigational skills were still abysmal. If he got blown out over the ocean in the storm, he'd never find his way back. "And Merrik."

Because of course he wouldn't go up without Merrik.

"The rest of you, help the ground crews get the aeroplanes onto the airfield." Fieran gestured at the rest of the hangar, where Pip, the mechanics, and the ground crews were scrambling to push the various aeroplanes toward the hanger door.

With his orders given, Fieran raced for the lockers in the back, joining the others in throwing on his leather coat, the leather boots, his cap, and his goggles. It was going to be a wet one tonight, and even these warm layers were likely going to be soaked before the night was out.

Within a few minutes, Fieran reached his aeroplane as the first of Lt. Rothilion's pilots turned on their aeroplanes. Some of the ground crew drew back the black curtain as the lights near the front of the hangar were switched off. Instead of having the ground crew push the aeroplanes all the way outside, the pilots maneuvered them out under power, disappearing into the driving rain.

Pip met him by the wings of his aeroplane, her hands clasped in front of her, then tucked in the pockets of her overalls, then pulling out a wrench and fiddling with it.

"I know. Bring your aeroplane back in one piece." Fieran kept a grin on his face rather than match her grim look.

"Not even a scratch. We just got them painted." Pip's light words didn't match her tone, and her smile didn't reach her dark eyes.

"Got it." Fieran gave her one last grin before he grabbed the wing support, stuck his toes into the footstep on the side, and bounded into his aeroplane.

As he plugged the end of his headset cord into the side of the aeroplane, voices bombarded his ears.

"…turbulent…"

"…cannot see…"

"…reported sighted to the southwest." That last was Lt. Rothilion's voice, muffled by the resounding roar of many aeroplane engines winding up inside of the hangar.

Most of the elven pilots of Flight A were spooled up and already leaving the hangar one by one. Several must be climbing into the sky already.

"Flight B, listen up." Fieran tried to tune out the chatter that didn't apply to him as he switched his aeroplane's engine on to start it spinning up. "Stick in your pairs. You are each other's right hand man."

"Don't you mean right wing man?" Pretty Face somehow managed to get a laugh to carry over the radio.

Pretty Face had a measure of wit, when he wasn't using it for inappropriate comments.

"Yes, wingman. Stay with your wingman, wingelf, wingtroll, or whatever the case might be." Fieran liked the term. He'd have to keep using it. "As Commander Druindar believes this airship is a scout, he has asked that I refrain from using my magic so that I don't give away that I'm stationed here just yet."

A chorus of disbelief and dismay filled the airwaves, nearly drowning out Lt. Rothilion attempting to give orders to his pilots already in the air.

"Since I won't be able to shield us as I did in the Battle over Bridgetown, Tiny, Murray, I'd like the two of you to take the lead." Fieran settled his goggles into place over his eyes. "Troll and human magic won't be out of place here at Dar Goranth."

A man from the ground crew standing by the door of the hangar motioned for the next aeroplane to leave. As others of the ground crew removed the wheel chocks, Lt. Rothilion let his aeroplane roll forward into the lashing rain.

The fifteen pilots chosen from Flight A had taken far too long to take off. Fieran pressed the talk button, hoping his pilots would be up for this next order. "We'll be taking off in pairs."

They had practiced this, but that had been in fair weather in the daylight. Not in darkness and driving rain.

Another motion from the ground crew, and both Tiny and Murray waved to the ground crew to take away the wheel chocks. Once freed, they maneuvered their aeroplanes one after the other outside.

Lije and Pretty Face went next, then the other pairs before it was Fieran and Merrik's turn.

As Fieran's aeroplane rolled from the hangar, the rain was a slap, stealing his breath with the wash of cold dousing every inch of exposed skin. Rain ran down his goggles in such a torrent that the world was reduced to a watery, dark blur .

Fieran scrubbed at his goggles as he turned the aeroplane to position it near the end of the airfield, slightly forward and to the left so that Merrik had room for his aeroplane behind and to the right.

At the far end of the airfield, the previous two aeroplanes rose into the sky, banking into the wind as they clawed their way into the tumultuous storm.

High above, a shimmer of white icy magic traced across the sky, briefly highlighting the flyers already climbing into the sky. Tiny's voice came over the radio. "I think I sense something to the south."

"Headed to intercept." Lt. Rothilion's reply came sharp and quick.

"On our way." Fieran pushed his aeroplane to full power as it rumbled forward over the ground, jouncing and bouncing over the tiny hillocks of grass even as crosswinds buffeted the wings, threatening to tumble his aeroplane onto its side before he even had the chance to get into the air.

He fought both the control stick and rudder to keep control even as the aeroplane rushed forward.

Almost before he was ready, a gust picked his aeroplane up, tossing him into the sky. Before it could slam him back to the ground, potentially damaging the wheel struts, he worked the ailerons. For a moment, his aeroplane hung, caught between sky and land as if unsure which force would win.

Then the solidness returned beneath his wings, and his flyer climbed into the sky, fighting for every inch rather than being the graceful craft it normally was.

When he risked a glance over his shoulder, Merrik's aeroplane was a dark shape in the flashes of lightning, following in Fieran's wake into the sky.

Crackling static filled the radio, punctuated by garbled voices. The storm was interfering with their radios, and the distance wasn't helping.

Fieran pointed the nose of his aeroplane toward the faint sense of Tiny's magic whispering across the sky. The higher he got, the harder the rain pounded against the wings and drove into his face until he felt like he was drowning in the sky every time he choked in a breath.

This was insane. They were all going to get themselves killed trying to intercept this airship.

What did the mystery airship even hope to gain, trying to scout Dar Goranth in this weather? In these winds and with this rain, the airship must be struggling as much as—or more than—their aeroplanes were.

The tiny pinpricks from the elven lights mounted inside the cockpits of their aeroplanes were the only things marking the location of the various squadron members, and even those couldn't be seen more than a hundred yards away.

Fieran tried to count the lights as his aeroplane struggled into the sky, but the water streaming down his goggles and the roiling waves of rain made it impossible to count more than a handful at a time.

With a slash of something almost like pain, bits of sleet and ice sliced through the air along with the rain. From Tiny's magic? Or was the storm turning even worse?

"Tiny, do you still sense the airship?" Fieran shouted into the radio. Was he close enough for Tiny to even hear him?

"…lost…can't see…"

Was that Tiny or someone else? Fieran couldn't make out enough of the voice through the static.

"Lt. Rothilion." Fieran fought the buffeting winds, his aeroplane skidding sideways, then slamming downward before yet another gust nearly rolled him. The canvas on the wings strained at the pummeling forces. "Lt. Rothilion, can you hear me?"

A long, crackling pause. Then, barely discernible above the static, "Yes, Laesornysh."

"We need to go back. We can't fly in this, and we'll lose thirty of our best pilots if we keep trying." If they hadn't lost some already. Besides Merrik valiantly keeping his aeroplane stationed behind Fieran's, Fieran had no idea where the rest of his men were.

A longer pause. More sleet arrowed downward. A hint of ice shimmered on Fieran's wings.

Hang their orders. That airship wasn't getting much information in this storm, and for all they knew, it had been taken down already by the sleet and relentless, now freezing rain.

"Rothilion, we will all die out here. We need to land." The control stick was nearly ripped from Fieran's hands at an even more violent gust.

This might not be something even Fieran could survive, if Lt. Rothilion didn't give the order to land.