Chapter 12

Chapter

Twelve

L t. Rothilion's voice crackled over the radio. "Return to base. Everyone, return to Dar Goranth."

Could the pilots hear the order?

Fieran fought his aeroplane to fly closer to a few of the pinpricks of light, joining Lt. Rothilion in shouting the order into the radio. "Everyone, return to base."

When he let go of the talk button, he might have heard a few acknowledgments. Hard to tell over the pounding of the storm and the crackling radio.

He let his aeroplane continue on its course for another few minutes, shouting into the radio for the others to return to base.

Where was Dar Goranth? The sky? The ground? As the rain tumbled and the wind churned, a chill swept through him, his heart beating harder and sharper in his chest. A fuzzy sense of disorientation muddled his senses as he cast about.

There. Twin dots of light far below. The lighthouses marking the passage between Brenzuk and Urixidor Islands. That meant he was flying south, and he needed to turn around to return to Dar Goranth himself.

He held down the talk button. "Merrik, I'm going to make a turn to the right and return to Dar Goranth. I don't see anyone else out here."

He didn't see the airship either. Not that he could even see his own aeroplane's nose in this sleet.

"Understood."

Fieran dove into the right-hand turn, gaining extra speed to fight the force of the wind. As he straightened out going north, the wind was now coming out of his rear quarter, driving his aeroplane before it. It was all he could do to fight the control stick to keep the wind from tumbling his craft tail over nose.

He glanced over his shoulder long enough to ascertain that Merrik had survived the turn as well.

With the wind propelling them, they crossed over the southern point of Drogenvroh Island and approached Dar Goranth within a few minutes.

The dark shapes of other aeroplanes danced through the sleet, more voices once again crackling through the radio. One after another, the flyers made a run for the ground, not even waiting for the airfield to be fully cleared before they came in for their landing.

Fieran tried to count the aeroplanes, but he didn't know how many had already landed before he'd arrived. The only thing to distinguish the black shapes of the aeroplanes from each other was the dark outline of the gun on the upper wing of the elven aeroplanes.

"Fieran, your wing!" Merrik's voice yanked Fieran's gaze from the other aeroplanes. He peered left, then right.

The tip of his right front upper wing flapped, no longer attached to the support to the lower wing. The wind snatched the loose piece, peeling back a whole section of canvas on the upper wing.

On instinct, Fieran released a slash of his magic, slicing through the canvas before more of it could be yanked away. The piece of his wing soared past his head, then out of sight as the wind whipped it away.

At this point, it didn't matter if he used his magic. That mystery airship wasn't close enough to see, and right now, Fieran just needed to survive.

With most of his upper right wing gone, the lower wing on that side was straining, his aeroplane tilting in that direction with the unbalanced lift.

"We need to land. Now." Merrik's voice cut sharply over the headset.

"We should wait…" Fieran didn't want to cut in front of the others. He should stay up here until the last of his men had landed.

"No. We land. Now." Merrik's tone left no room for argument. "If you lose any more of that wing, you will crash. Now, land."

He couldn't really argue with that. Already, some of the other wing supports were moving in a way that they weren't designed to move. If more cracked, the rest of the right wings would rip off entirely, and he'd go down.

Fieran dropped lower and took the next place lining up for a landing, Merrik far too close behind him, considering the likelihood that this landing wasn't going to be smooth.

Already, the airfield was littered with crashed or stuck aeroplanes that the ground crews hadn't had a chance to move out of the way.

Fieran tried to line up on a spot that was still clear, but the squall made his aeroplane nigh impossible to control. As the gale shoved him over Dar Goranth harbor onto the cliffs above, he was slammed down to earth to the left of the designated airfield.

His wheels skidded on the slick grass a moment before his right wing clipped a boulder and disintegrated the rest of the way. With the greater weight of the intact left wing, his aeroplane tipped sideways, and he came to a grinding halt against the hillside.

For a moment, Fieran just sat there, water streaming down his face, his breath making wet, silvery puffs before his mouth. Water pooled in his lap and sloshed in the cockpit by his feet. His heart still hammering in his chest, he couldn't seem to make himself move, not even to peel his fingers off the control stick.

That might have been the first time he'd ever been truly terrified while flying. He'd never considered he could be killed, not even in the Battle over Bridgetown.

But that just now…that had been worse. So much worse.

Another aeroplane flashed past before jouncing to a stop fifty yards away, also to the left of the airfield.

Merrik, completing a much better landing than Fieran had.

Something about the sight of his friend also safely on the ground finally jolted energy back into his limbs.

Fieran shakily disconnected the lap belt, yanked out the headset wire, and levered himself out of the cockpit. He stumbled to the ground, then jogged toward Merrik's aeroplane.

Merrik scrambled out of his aeroplane, slipping on the waterlogged grass as he ran toward Fieran. Merrik's hair—grown past his ears—was plastered to his neck beneath his cap. But Fieran didn't see any injuries or hesitation in the way Merrik moved.

Merrik must have done a similar assessment of Fieran for injuries because as one, they turned and sprinted toward the hangar. They had to halt and wait beside a crashed elven aeroplane as another two aeroplanes landed—both from Flight B, though Fieran couldn't make out the nose art—before they could make the final dash for the hangar.

The shock of stumbling from the whipping wind and freezing rain into the dry hangar nearly sent Fieran to his knees. His waterlogged goggles instantly fogged.

Hands were there, peeling off his soaked flight jacket and easing his goggles and cap from his head. He shivered violently, aware of just how sodden and chilled he was now that he was out of the storm.

Then Pip was before him, steering him farther into the hangar as someone else draped a blanket over his shoulders.

"I didn't bring your aeroplane back in one piece." His words came out strange between his numb, wind-chapped lips. "The right wing broke."

"I don't care about that." Pip all but shoved him to a seat next to the wall. "I'm just glad you're back safe."

Stickyfingers approached, his eyes wide, his jaw set in a line Fieran had never seen on him before. He held out a steaming mug. "Coffee to warm you up."

Fieran took it with shaking fingers, wrapping both hands around the mug, the heat searing to the point of nearly painful. "Linshi. I mean, thanks."

Merrik sagged against the wall next to Fieran, and Stickyfingers handed him a mug as well, though the color was far lighter than the dark brew in Fieran's mug. Rather thoughtful of Stickyfingers to remember that Merrik preferred tea over coffee.

Fieran leaned forward, peering down the line of sodden pilots. Aylia was there, her hair straggling over her shoulders. Tiny curled over his stomach, his gray pallor tinged a bit green. The buffeting winds must have made him airsick, something he usually didn't get while flying.

Fieran counted six of his men sitting there, including Merrik, Pretty Face, Tiny, and Murray. Even as he counted, two more raced inside. They must have been piloting the aeroplanes that had landed just after Merrik and Fieran.

The members of Flight B who hadn't gone up converged on them, helping them out of their sodden flight jackets and giving them blankets just as they had Fieran.

Fieran glanced down the line again, his stomach sinking. "Sticky, where's Lije?"

Lije and Pretty Face had been paired together. Unless they had gotten separated in the storm, they should have landed together. But while Pretty Face was slumped next to Tiny, Lije was nowhere in sight.

Stickyfingers halted as he was reaching for another mug on the rolling cart. "He's in sick bay. Just a few broken bones, nothing too serious. He was able to get out of the aeroplane himself after he crashed. Two of the elven pilots are also down there for injuries they received on landing."

Fieran released a breath. Lije was alive. That was the main thing right now.

He gave himself another few moments to soak in the warmth of the coffee in the mug. A puddle grew beneath him and Merrik as they dripped rivulets of rainwater onto the floor.

As another rather sodden pair of elven pilots stumbled inside, Fieran forced himself to his feet. He tottered down the line of pilots, taking the time to check if they were all right regardless of whether they were humans of Flight B or elves from Flight A.

As he reached Tiny, Tiny lifted his head, his cheeks still a little green. "I'm sorry, Fieran. I thought I had the airship. I was so close. But then it began to sleet, and there was just so much ice in the air that I couldn't…I wasn't strong enough…I just…"

"It's all right, Tiny. There was nothing more you could have done." Fieran couldn't hide the weariness in his voice.

There was nothing any of them could have done, even if Fieran had used his magic. There was just no fighting a storm like this.

"Lt. Laesornysh."

At Commander Druindar's voice, Fieran spun and saluted, bracing himself. If Commander Druindar was angry that they'd come back early without so much as engaging the presumed enemy airship, then Lt. Rothilion was sure to place the blame on Fieran for pushing for the return to base.

But Commander Druindar's returning salute had a weary lack of crispness to it, his blue eyes pained. "I am…glad you have returned safely."

"Thank you, Commander." It was likely the closest the commander would ever come to admitting that perhaps they never should have gone up in this weather.

But those were the kinds of decisions a leader had to make. Either keep his pilots safely on the ground and risk an airship spying on the base or send his pilots into a storm that had only gotten more violent by the moment.

One could only know which option was the wrong one when deaths happened and the recriminations came afterwards.

Or, perhaps, there were no right options, only less bad ones.

Pip stood on the ladder, the steel of her wrench cold in her already icy fingers.

Fieran's aeroplane was a sorry sight, dripping rainwater onto the hangar floor. What was left of his right wing dangled in tatters while the left wing had sustained damage during the landing.

All around the hangar, the mangled aeroplanes the ground crew had managed to retrieve from the storm crouched in piles of tangled wires, tattered canvas, and sagging wings.

So many of the beautiful, brand-new aeroplanes reduced to this.

Worse, Lije was in sick bay recovering from broken bones. Several flyboys and elven pilots were still missing. And there was nothing any of them could have done. There was no fighting a storm like this.

Pip blinked back tears as she fumbled to loosen the bolts holding what remained of the lower wing to the fuselage. Her fingers shook so much she couldn't seem to get a good grip on the bolt to work it loose.

"Here. I got the wing."

Pip jumped at the sound of the voice, and she scrambled to wipe her sleeve over her face.

One of the human mechanics stood below, gripping what remained of the wing to hold it steady while she loosened the wing from the aeroplane.

Not Fieran coming to help. She shouldn't be disappointed at that. He paced near the mouth of the hangar, his steps sharp, the slouch to his shoulders almost tortured. He wouldn't be reaching out to comfort her any time soon.

Perhaps she should be over there, comforting him. But her own emotions were too raw. Right now, she just wanted to throw herself into the work .

Clearing her throat, she glanced down at the mechanic bracing the wing for her. "Thanks."

It was the first time one of the other mechanics had reached out to her like this. She wouldn't dismiss that, even if she wished it was Fieran helping her.

With the other mechanic's help, she loosened the rest of the bolts and the ruins of the wing fell from the aeroplane.

She climbed down from the ladder to better assess if there was any other damage to be fixed or if all this aeroplane needed was new wings bolted on.

At least a shipment of replacement aeroplane parts arrived from Escarland before the storm hit.

"What are your orders, Pip?" The other mechanic didn't salute her, but he was looking at her with something almost like respect.

"We need to get these aeroplanes back into shape as soon as possible. With an attack coming, we can't have half the squadron grounded." Pip swept a glance over the wrecked aeroplanes. "Let's prioritize the aeroplanes that only need new parts bolted on. Those can be fixed the quickest. We'll then worry about the ones with more extensive structural damage."

Focusing on the work steadied her. As long as she stayed busy with the mechanical side of things, she wasn't thinking about the missing flyboys.

Fieran paced back and forth, too restless to sit still. Of the pilots of Flight B who had gone up into the storm, only Merrik remained in the hangar. Fieran had sent the others to hot showers, hot food, and warm beds.

A pilot each from Flight A and B, ones who hadn't flown in the storm, kept station by the radio, monitoring it for distress calls from any of the seven missing pilots: three from Flight A and four from Flight B.

Lt. Rothilion, too, was pacing, though he marched several yards away from Fieran.

To one side of the hangar, Pip and the other mechanics were more silent than usual as they worked on the damaged aeroplanes.

Merrik stepped in front of Fieran, halting his pacing. "Go check on those in sick bay. I will stay here to wait for word."

Fieran hesitated for a moment longer before he nodded. Neither he nor Lt. Rothilion had checked on the wounded pilots yet. While there was nothing more he could do for the missing men, he could do this for those who had made it back.

He took the lift this time, wearily leaning against the wall as he used the hand crank to lower the metal cage down the shaft. At Level 3, he halted the lift, opened the cage door, and stepped into the large central space beside the lift and winding stairs. Across the space Sick Bay was painted on the gray rock wall next to closed, metal double doors.

Crossing the entry space, Fieran pushed one open and halted just inside, letting the door swing closed behind him as he took in the long hallway, the various doors and rooms.

A male troll looked up from where he sat behind a desk beside the doors. "May I help you?"

"I'm Lt. Laesornysh. I'm here to see the injured pilots."

"They're all in the ward at the very end of the hall." The troll pointed in that direction.

"Linshi." Fieran strode the length of the hallway, then entered through another set of double doors.

Inside this room, a large hospital ward stretched in either direction. Beds lined each wall. A few seemed occupied with various trolls who had received injuries from one thing or another on the base. The two elven healers stationed here moved between their beds, a hint of green magic glowing around their fingers.

To the right, Lije, the two human pilots who had been rescued after they had crashed in the harbor, and the three elves who had been injured upon landing lay in beds next to each other.

Beside the bed of the nearest elf, an elf woman with long, straight black hair that sported various braids woven with leather in the troll style rested her hand on the elf's arm, green magic glowing around her fingers. Behind her, a hulking young male troll shifted from foot to foot, his shoulders hunched as if he was trying to appear smaller. His face, hands, and waist still had the pudgy adolescent look of someone who still had more growing to do.

Fieran hurried down the aisle between the beds. "Aunt Melantha? Sontar? What are you doing here?"

Aunt Melantha glanced up from her work, her dark eyes warming slightly as her mouth curved in a hint of a greeting. "Healing your downed pilots, it would seem."

"Something I greatly appreciate." Fieran halted beside Aunt Melantha, refraining from giving her a hug as she was still finishing her healing. "I hadn't realized you were here. When did you arrive?"

"Only a few hours ago on the last ship to make the harbor as the storm hit." She dropped her gaze to her patient again.

Sontar gave a slight shudder, mumbling something Fieran couldn't make out. Something about a rough ride.

One would never guess that Rhohen and Sontar were brothers. Rhohen was all pouty emotions and icy magic, looking more elf than troll. While Sontar had inherited the troll build, he was shy and gentle in the extreme. Whereas Rhohen's magic was a combination of troll ice magic mixed with the magic of the ancient kings, Sontar had inherited the rare troll trait of having two different types of magic. He was showing signs both of his mother's healing magic and his father's ice magic, something that could make him a great healer, if he could develop a strong enough stomach for it.

Aunt Melantha's magic vanished, and she gave a slight smile to the elf on the bed. "Rest your shoulder tonight as it finishes healing. The tear in the ligament will be repaired by the morning."

"Linshi, Maresheni." The elf gave her a respectful nod, using the elven title for queen.

Aunt Melantha turned to Fieran, though she waited to speak until the three of them had walked away from the elf's bedside. "Your pilots will be fine. We have mended a few broken bones and staved off pneumonia and hypothermia for those two who spent more time in the water than they should have." She gestured toward the two pilots who had been fished from the harbor.

"Linshi." Fieran glanced from her to Sontar and back. "I didn't expect to see you here. Not with…" He dropped his voice. "Not with an attack coming."

He couldn't see his Uncle Rharreth being happy about sending his wife and younger son into harm's way. Even though they had staggered their visits to Dar Goranth to ensure that the entire troll royal family wasn't at the place of a likely attack all at once.

"The very reason we are here." Aunt Melantha's tone held a grim note, even as her mouth pressed into a line, highlighting the almost sharp angles of her face. "I needed to ascertain that the healers here at Dar Goranth are prepared for such an attack. The plan was for us to leave well before an attack, but it seems we will be here at least through this storm."

Hopefully the supposition that the Mongavarians would attack once the storm lifted was more rumor than based on actual intelligence. Low on the command structure as Fieran was, he wasn't the person being told what information Escarland's Intelligence Office was sending to the troll military leadership.

As much as Fieran would have liked to continue talking to his aunt and cousin, he edged a step away. "I'd better let you continue your work."

Aunt Melantha nodded. As Fieran walked away, she led Sontar in the opposite direction, heading for the other two elf healers.

Fieran spoke with each of the other pilots until he reached Lije's bed. "How are you feeling?"

Lije was sitting up, his arm in a sling. "Just a broken arm and collarbone. Your aunt said the bones would be all healed by morning. Hard to believe that, but it hurts a whole lot less than when I broke my leg falling out of a tree as a kid. We didn't have any elven healers in Frogg's Hollow."

Fieran nodded. He'd always been rather spoiled, growing up. All his bumps, scrapes, and broken bones were promptly healed by an elf healer. One was never all that far away from wherever Fieran's family happened to be staying. "I'm glad the healing magic is working quickly."

"So they're a few more of your relatives." Lije gestured with his good hand, shaking his head. "And here I thought I had a bunch of cousins. I think you might have me beat."

"I don't have that many." Fieran sighed, though with more fondness than exasperation. "My family just happens to be rather noticeable."

Being related to every king in the Alliance would do that .

Lije's gap-toothed smile vanished. "Did all of the squadron return?"

Fieran hesitated, then shook his head. "No. We're still missing four pilots from Flight B and three from Flight A."

Seven men were missing somewhere out in that squall. No one was quite prepared to give them up for lost just yet, but there was nothing they could do but wait. There would be no search parties until the weather lifted.

If those men were still alive, they would just have to hang on until they could be found.