Chapter 13

Chapter

Thirteen

F ieran paced along the passageway of their assigned rooms, trying to pretend he was merely stretching his legs and not so filled with restless energy that it took all his willpower to keep his magic from dancing around his fingertips.

This deep in the cliffs of Dar Goranth, he couldn't hear the wind howling or feel the sleet pounding the earth. But last he'd checked, the storm still raged outside, a full two days after it had begun.

He might have braved the storm anyway, if there was anything he could do to save his men.

Two of the missing elves had come trudging into the hangar during the night, soaked through and near hypothermic from the cold. They had landed farther inland on Drogenvroh Island and hiked back to Dar Goranth when they couldn't seem to get a message through on their radios due to the storm.

At dawn—or what counted as dawn during the storm—a telephone call had come from Brenzuk Island that a pair of the missing human pilots had managed to land on that island and were now sheltering in the lighthouse with the keeper and his family.

That still left one elf and two humans unaccounted for. With each hour that passed, the likelihood that they were dead increased.

Losing men in his unit had been hard enough during basic training and the Battle over Bridgetown. But to lose men under his command? That ached in a way he couldn't describe and just couldn't face at the moment.

Nor could he or their unit truly mourn just yet. Going down to the mess, raising a glass to their fallen comrades, would mean accepting that they were fallen. Right now, there was still a chance—a slim, nearly impossible chance—that they were still alive somewhere, riding out the storm.

He might have joined those watching the radio for any attempt to make contact or see if Pip and the mechanics needed any help repairing the damaged aeroplanes, but he'd already spent hours up there, getting underfoot.

His utter inability to do anything roiled through him until he might just combust if he didn't do something soon.

The glimpses Fieran got through the various open doorways into the rooms showed that everyone else seemed infected by a similar restless energy. The more dedicated of his men were polishing boots, cleaning sidearms, or remaking their cots to the peak of military perfection.

Stickyfingers had taught Lije how to pick locks, and now the two of them sat across from each other as they locked and relocked the same two padlocks over and over again. Tiny and Murray were absently rolling balls of ice back and forth across their room. Pretty Face had somehow gotten his hands on a bottle of cologne and, after spending an inordinate amount of time in the shower, had duded himself up as if about to go on a date with a pretty girl and then proceeded to re-read the stack of letters he'd received from various girls pining for him in Escarland.

Fieran halted at the end of the corridor, eyeing the stairs that wound twenty-three stories downward.

Merrik planted his feet next to him and crossed his arms. "You have that look in your eye. The one that says you are about to get us all into trouble."

"But we are going to have so much fun doing it." Fieran spun away from the stairs to face Merrik. "Do you want to lodge an official protest to protect yourself in case this goes badly?"

Merrik sighed but promptly shook his head. "No. Whatever trouble you get us in, we will go down together."

"That's the spirit, especially since a quick way down is what I have in mind." Fieran raised his voice. "All right, everyone. Anyone who wants to have a little fun grab your mattress and gather at the stairs."

As Fieran hurried to their room, the noise of boots hitting the floor, voices passing his words along, and the scramble of mattresses being hauled off bunks filled the corridor.

Fieran yanked the sheets and blankets off his mattress, dumping all of it onto the floor. The mattress was comprised of a tough, waxed canvas and the internal padding was barely softer than the stone frame it rested on. Perfect for what Fieran had in mind.

Merrik copied his actions, then the two of them toted their mattresses out of their room and into the passageway. Already, many of the others were also stepping from their rooms, carrying their own mattresses. Even those who had been working so hard on their perfectly taut blankets and sheets had cheerfully ripped off all their hard work.

"What are we doing?" The end of Sticky's mattress trailed on the ground. Short as he was, the mattress was more unwieldy for him.

"Penguin sliding down the stairs." Fieran grinned, clamping down on his magic to keep his restless excitement from breaking free. He'd wanted to try this from the moment he'd seen all those stairs.

"Yes!" Several of the men pumped their fists.

Fieran raised his hand. "Now we need to keep this somewhat quiet. We can't go waking up everyone on the other floors as we go by. So as much as you might want to, you can't whoop or holler on the way down."

The others nodded. Then Fieran led the way to the top of the stairs. Well, it wasn't fully the top, but he wasn't going to lead them up to Level 24 and risk Lt. Rothilion catching them. He'd ban this for sure.

"Okay, who wants to go first?" The words had barely passed Fieran's lips before someone was shoving his way forward.

"I do!" Holleran took a small running leap forward, then bellyflopped onto his mattress on the stairs. His momentum sent the mattress shooting downwards, and he gripped it as he tha-tha-thumped down the flight of stairs. At the landing for Level 22, the stairs made a sharp turn. Going too fast to either stop or turn, Holleran whammed headfirst into the stone wall.

Fieran leaned over the railing at the top. Maybe this hadn't been the best idea after all. "Are you all right?"

Holleran lifted his head. Blood trickled down his face from split skin on his forehead. "I'm fine. I've got a hard head." He swiped at the blood, as if he found it more annoying than painful.

Change of plans. "Everyone, grab your helmets."

"I'll grab yours, Holleran," the man's roommate called down the stairs before he joined the stampede back to the rooms.

Fieran picked his way between the piles of mattresses left at the top of the stairs. "Still not going to lodge a protest?"

"Giving it serious consideration." Yet Merrik joined him with just as much alacrity as they fetched their metal, Escarlish helmets from their kits and buckled them into place.

Once everyone was helmeted, a line quickly formed. Holleran, now also safely helmeted and a bandage from a med kit wrapped around his forehead to staunch the bleeding, adjusted his mattress and whooshed down the next flight of stairs. The faint tonk of a metal helmet hitting stone echoed up from below.

"Still fine!" Holleran called back to them.

Fieran found himself shuffled to somewhere in the middle of the line, after Stickyfingers and Pretty Face but before Merrik, Tiny, and Lije. He would have dropped back to let others go first as a proper leader should, but he was just too eager for his turn.

As soon as one person cleared the landing below, the next person took a running start and shoved off. Each time, their helmets clanked into the stone wall at the bottom, but the helmets served their purpose and prevented another injury.

Within minutes, Stickyfingers dove onto his mattress, grinning nearly as broadly as he had when hugging his machine gun. He was still grinning when he clanged into the wall at the bottom.

Once he cleared the landing below, Pretty Face shoved off, the speed and juddering mattress knocking his mustache out of its sleeked style.

Finally. Fieran's turn. He gripped his mattress, ran a few steps forward, and flopped both himself and the mattress onto the stairs. His breath whooshed out of him as the mattress connected with the stone steps. The hard, canvas-covered mattress bumped downward with exhilarating speed, each stair a breath-stealing shudder. It was all Fieran could do to bite back his shout of elation and clamp down on his magic.

He crashed headfirst into the wall at the bottom with a painful jolt. But the helmet did its job. He quickly turned the mattress, checked that Pretty Face had already cleared the landing below, then pushed off the wall with his feet to send him and his mattress sliding downward again with a rapid thump-thump-thump .

Now this was exactly what he'd needed. The whoosh, the thrill, the reckless abandon. A moment to forget the weight resting on his shoulders.

At each turn in the stairway, he thunked into the wall, adjusted his mattress, then thump-slid down the next set of stairs.

By the time he was on the last set of stairs headed toward Level 1, he was nearly dizzy with the constant turns and motions, his head drumming from the hits against the stone walls.

How suspicious would Aunt Melantha be if Fieran and his whole Flight trooped into sick bay with headaches?

His mattress shot into the parade ground space on Level 1. He had only a heartbeat to notice those who had gone before, all standing at attention with their backs to him, their mattresses scattered and abandoned, before he and his mattress slid right into the back of Pretty Face's legs.

Pretty Face fell backwards, landing on Fieran with a weight that drove the breath from Fieran's lungs. Pretty Face's elbow dug into Fieran's back, his boots clunked against Fieran's helmet, and Pretty Face's helmet knocked painfully against Fieran's ankle.

Fieran's mattress slammed into Pretty Face's mattress, which shot into the next mattress over. That mattress collided with Stickyfingers, and he went down, landing on the mattress instead of the stone floor. More mattresses pinballed across the parade ground, knocking still more men over.

Fieran's mattress skidded to a stop with the sound of canvas grinding on gravel.

Pretty Face rolled off, scrambling to his feet and facing forward again.

Following his lead, Fieran hopped to his feet. As he did so, his gaze landed on where Commander Druindar was standing at the front of the room, his arms crossed, a scowl twisting his face. Behind him, Captain Gradrah leaned against the wall, her arms folded as if she were taking in the entertainment. What appeared to be a gathering of the ship captains, their white uniforms sporting lots of gold braid, stood in one of the rooms to the one side, peering out and openly smirking.

Fieran's stomach plummeted into his toes. They were in so much trouble.

The thumping sound of another mattress whooshing down rang from the stairway. Standing at attention, Fieran couldn't turn around to look or jump out of the way. All he could do was semi-brace himself as much as he could.

Canvas scraped against stone. Something slammed into the back of Fieran's legs, taking his feet out from under him. He toppled backwards, landing on Merrik with an oof.

Fieran's mattress knocked into the next one over, setting off the chain reaction of sliding mattresses and falling men yet again .

As soon as the mattress stopped sliding, Fieran rolled off, trying to subtly scramble a few feet away from the sliding zone before he stood and came to attention once again.

Beside him, Merrik leapt to his feet and straightened to attention.

Was that the twitch of a smile to Captain Gradrah's mouth? Probably wishful thinking. Perhaps it was a barely suppressed scowl. Commander Druindar, certainly, was making no effort to hide his increasingly wrathful glower.

The whooshing sound came again from the stairs. Fieran mentally braced himself.

Merrik went down, landing on Tiny.

Something—a mattress, presumably—slammed into the back of Fieran's ankles hard enough to knock him over. He fell backwards, landing on an empty mattress this time instead of on Merrik.

Pretty Face, Stickyfingers, and several others toppled like bowling pins as mattresses skittered and ricocheted across the floor. The parade ground was quickly becoming clogged with mattresses.

Fieran had barely gotten back to his feet, facing the cluster of captains and the commander, when scraping came from behind him. He caught a glimpse of Lije's straw-blond hair and lanky form before he slammed into the back of Tiny's legs. Tiny tumbled and landed on Lije with a grunt that was echoed by Lije's muffled groan.

Fieran only had time to spare an internal wince on Lije's behalf before he was once again taken out by a mattress.

How many more men were still coming down? He tried to mentally count those standing around him as he scrambled back to his feet and came to attention yet again. There were at least fifteen men standing around him. Perhaps seventeen or eighteen. That meant they still had nearly half of Flight B to go.

Another flyboy and mattress skidded into the room. More pinballing mattresses and toppling men. The captains gathered in the room behind Captain Gradrah seemed to be taking bets on which flyboy would hurtle the farthest with each new mattress that came zooming down from above.

Fieran would have gritted his teeth, but he'd probably crack a tooth the next time he was bowled over by a mattress.

By the time the last flyboy and mattress skidded to a halt, the mattresses clogged the parade ground so much that Fieran struggled to find a place to stand to come to attention yet again. Beside him, Merrik stood precariously balanced on a mattress that was half-shoved onto another mattress.

Commander Druindar had been forced to retreat to the wall beside Captain Gradrah to avoid being knocked over in the chaos. Now the two of them were talking quietly. Perhaps discussing just how to punish Fieran and his flyboys for this.

At least it would be highly unlikely for them to formally reprimand Fieran and his men. While they had been placed under Commander Druindar while stationed here at Dar Goranth, they were still, technically, part of Escarland's chain of command. Commander Druindar and Captain Gradrah would have to send a formal reprimand up Escarland's chain of command, something they wouldn't do unless they were absolutely certain they could both prove and defend their actions if any of the Escarlish commanders disagreed with them on the severity of the punishment.

Grady, the final flyboy to descend the stairs and not the brightest bulb among Fieran's flyboys, picked up his mattress and began hauling it back toward the stairs rather than standing at attention as he ought in the presence of his commanding officers.

Fieran opened his mouth to call Grady back before he got all of them into even more trouble, but Commander Druindar beat him to it.

"Where do you think you're going, Lieutenant?" Commander Druindar glared at Grady.

Grady, still grinning, kept hauling his mattress toward the stairs. "I'm going to go again, sir. That was fun."

"Fun." Commander Druindar's dark tone would have quailed the most hardened troll warrior. "You think you're here to have fun."

Grady's grin faded with just the hint of dawning comprehension.

Fieran braced himself for whatever Commander Druindar said next. He was getting a gleam in his eye that was probably similar to the look Fieran had worn when getting them into this mess. Commander Druindar might not have been able to formally reprimand them without getting the Escarlish military involved, but there were plenty of other ways he could punish them by making their lives miserable.

"Well, then, gentlemen, let's have a little fun, shall we?" The edge in Commander Druindar's voice held all the glee of their drill sergeants back at basic who had come up with an especially creative punishment. He faced Grady once again. "You like building sand castles, don't you, Lieutenant?"

Grady grinned once again. "Oh, yes, sir."

If Fieran hadn't been Grady's commanding officer where physical violence to those in his command was frowned upon, he would have given Grady a smack upside the back of the head once this was all over .

"Good, good." Commander Druindar pointed toward the double doors leading out into the storm. "Take off your helmets, go outside, and fill your helmets. All the way to the top now. You can't skimp on your sandcastles. Move."

Fieran spun on his heel and raced toward the doors with the others, tugging off his helmet as he went.

As soon as two of the flyboys hefted the stone doors open, a sheet of rain gusted inside, instantly drenching those nearest the door. A flash of lightning gave a brief glimpse of the several inches of water running over the road and sluicing off the cliffside above their heads.

This was going to be cold. And wet. And miserable.

Only right that Fieran lead the way. After all, he was the one who led them into this mess.

He dashed into the storm, and it was like stepping into the cold gush of a ginormous faucet. Rainwater dumped on him from the cliffs above while the icy rain sliced through his clothing to chill his skin.

Beside the main road that ran through the Dar Goranth base, the rain had turned the gravelly sand into a gloopy mess.

Fieran located a spot that was slightly higher and hadn't yet become a puddle. He scooped a helmetful of the sand, using his hand to shove in more sand until his helmet was filled all the way to the top.

The others crowded around him, also frantically shoveling sand and gravel into their helmets.

Despite the downpour, Fieran waited for all of his men to rush outside and fill their helmets before he returned with the last of them, carrying his helmet in front of him.

Once inside, he joined the line of his men assembling on the slightly cleared spot before their mattresses. Each of them held a helmet filled with sand and dripped water into growing puddles on the stone floor.

Commander Druindar strode in front of their line, his hands clasped behind his back. "Now it's time to build your sandcastles. Line up your mattresses, then dump your sandcastle onto your mattress. Don't let it fall apart. It needs to be a good sandcastle."

At that order, Fieran and his men scrambled to disentangle the mattresses and straighten them into neat lines, all while holding their helmets and not letting so much as a single pebble of gravel spill onto the floor.

Once they'd lined up the mattresses, Fieran knelt on a mattress, suppressed a grimace, and turned his helmet over to form a sandcastle, just as he used to do with a bucket when making castles by the shores of the lake at the elven summer palace of Lethorel.

The sand and gravel made a slurping, sucking sound as it glopped onto the mattress. With so much water content, it flattened in a gloopy mess rather than staying in the shape of the helmet, rivulets of sandy water running across his mattress.

Fieran patted the sides of the pile, mud coating his hands, until he corralled the castle back into shape.

Commander Druindar and Captain Gradrah strode between the mattresses, commenting on the sandcastles and making "suggestions" for improvements, such as Move that rock there for a gate. Every good castle needs a strong gate . Or Use that leaf for a pendant. Every good castle must fly the proper flag .

When they reached Fieran's castle, Commander Druindar and Captain Gradrah spent an exceptionally long minute inspecting it before Commander Druindar pointed to a collection of pebbles that had rolled off. "Don't neglect the battlements. "

Fieran hastily picked up the pebbles, flattened the top of his sandcastle, and delicately placed the pebbles in a ring around the top as if they were the crenelations on the top of a tower.

Seemingly satisfied, the two troll warriors moved on to Merrik, who ended up having to dig a moat and add a low earthen embankment around his castle.

Once they'd gone through all the sandcastles, Commander Druindar and Captain Gradrah brought out the ship captains to vote on the best sandcastle out of the bunch. The collection of ship captains—mostly trolls, but with a few humans from the Escarlish ships in the harbor—walked between the castles and debated the merits of each one with the seriousness of inspecting actual military fortifications.

Fieran's face burned. Commander Druindar was succeeding with the humiliation part. The whole base was going to hear about this by morning.

The ship captains voted Lije's sandcastle as the best. Lije had gotten a scoop with some larger rocks that he'd artfully balanced to form towers on the corners. For the "honor" of winning, Lije was sent back out into the rain to find a flat rock to act as his winner's medal.

Once Lije returned, Commander Druindar turned to Grady once again. "Is this enough fun for you, Lieutenant?"

"I think so, sir." Grady's brown hair was plastered to his forehead while sand smeared his clothes.

Fieran bit back his groan. Not the right answer.

That gleam returned to Commander Druindar's eyes. "You think so? Hmm. That means you might still be in need of more fun."

As Fieran expected. Apparently Grady hadn't learned his lesson well enough back in basic training.

"Every castle exists to protect a kingdom from an enemy." Commander Druindar swept a glower over all of them. "You'd better build your enemy sandcastle."

With that, they were all sent back into the storm to fill their helmets yet again. After fetching another helmet's worth of sand, they all built a second sandcastle on their mattresses. At least this time Captain Gradrah and Commander Druindar didn't make such a production out of it, and there was no voting by the ship captains on these castles.

Instead, Commander Druindar's glower deepened as Fieran and his flyboys finished their sandcastles and stood. "In case you have forgotten, we are at war with the Empire of Mongavaria. We might even find ourselves under attack once this storm lifts. As it seems you need a reminder, your castles will come under attack."

With that, Commander Druindar and Captain Gradrah walked between the mattresses. One by one, they had each of the flyboys shake his mattress back and forth so that the castles "attacked" each other, the rocks and gravel breaking apart and sliding all over the place and onto the floor.

At the end of a seemingly random, indeterminate amount of time, the troll warriors called a halt, then assessed the amount of sand left of each castle to declare a "winner" of either the Alliance castle or the Mongavarian castle. How they could possibly tell which sand belonged to which castle, Fieran had no idea. They were probably just making it up at random.

Those who had the Alliance declared the winner were told to rebuild a single, large castle with all the sand on their mattress and the surrounding ground. The unlucky ones had Mongavaria declared the winner. They had to go back outside, fetch two more helmets' worth of sand, and conduct the battle again until Commander Druindar and Captain Gradrah were satisfied that the Alliance was the winner.

When it was Fieran's turn, he had to conduct the sandcastle battle three times—going out into the rain an additional four times for all the extra castles—before the troll officers declared the Alliance the winner. When he piled all the sand and gravel on the end of his mattress, it formed a sandcastle mountain nearly two feet tall and as wide as his mattress. Parts of it kept sliding off onto the floor.

At last, Commander Druindar declared the battles over, and all the sandcastles had been rebuilt into large, victorious Alliance strongholds.

Commander Druindar faced Grady. "Have you had enough fun now, Lieutenant?"

Fieran held his breath, willing harder than he'd ever willed in his life that Grady would come up with the right answer.

There were no grins this time as Grady, even more begrimed and bedraggled, replied, "Yes, sir. I've had enough fun now."

"Good." Commander Druindar's tone had a sharp edge. "Then you'll all sleep here tonight, guarding your sandcastles. I want to see them intact when I inspect them tomorrow morning."

With that, Commander Druindar, Captain Gradrah, and the ship captains went their separate ways, finally leaving Fieran and his flyboys alone on the Level 1 parade ground.

Fieran let his shoulders slump as he faced his men. They were a sorry-looking lot. Smeared with sand. Clothes still dripping. Hair plastered to their heads. Instead of lifting their spirits, all he'd succeeded in doing was getting them into trouble. "I'm sorry. That didn't go according to plan."

"It was fun while it lasted." Grady cheerfully plopped onto his mattress, almost absently fixing the part of his sandcastle that had collapsed with the movement, before he curled onto his side, heedless of the sand smeared over his entire mattress.

Fieran waited for someone to pipe up that it hadn't been worth it. Yet, strangely, no one did.

Instead, the rest of them followed Grady's example and lay on their mattresses in various curled and contorted positions to avoid knocking over their sandcastles.

With a rather pointed I told you so but I did not try too hard to stop you either look at Fieran, Merrik crossed the room and switched off the magically powered lights, plunging the room into darkness, lit only by the warm glow of lights in the stairwell, which were never shut off.

As Merrik headed back toward them, Sticky's voice broke the silence. "You know, I think the commander was just as bored as we were."

"You think?" Pretty Face snorted. "What gave that away? The sandcastles? The overblown sandcastle competition? The sandcastle wars? The utter glee they all took at the whole thing?"

"So glad we could provide their entertainment." Fieran lowered himself onto his mattress with his head just below his sandcastle and his legs below his knees hanging off the end. Tall as he was, there was no way he would fit on the mattress unless he curled into a tight, uncomfortable ball.

Not that he was comfortable as it was. His clothes were still soaked through, sticking cold and clammy against his skin. The canvas of the mattress, while more or less waterproof, had soaked up some of the water from the sand, making its surface both damp and gritty. He didn't have a pillow or any blankets.

This was going to be one long, cold, uncomfortable night.