Chapter 14

Chapter

Fourteen

T he next morning, Fieran stood at attention once again, grimy and gritty.

Commander Druindar paced before them, sweeping an eye over their sandcastles. "I see your sandcastles survived the night. But now it's time to stop playing and get back to work."

With a few orders, Commander Druindar had them dump all the sand off their mattresses and sweep it into a pile in the center of the room while all the mattresses were stacked to one side. Once they were finished, they lined up at attention once again with Merrik and Fieran standing in the middle of the row.

"You men…" Commander Druindar swept his hand to indicate Merrik and the half of the Flight to the left. "Return the mattresses and helmets and set your rooms to military standards. You may not use the lifts. Only the stairs."

Fieran internally winced on Merrik's behalf. He and the others would have to traverse twenty-two flights of stairs carrying the mattresses, and they'd have to do it twice since only half the Flight had been assigned to that job .

"The rest of you…" Commander Druindar indicated Fieran and the men standing on the right. "You will return all of the sand outside using only this one spoon."

The commander held out the basic metal spoon used in the mess hall. He set it on the floor at the front of the room.

Fieran gave another mental wince as he surveyed the massive pile of sand without turning his head. That was going to take forever.

"Each group will have one hour to complete your task." Commander Druindar's tone remained hard, no hint whatsoever of the glee he'd shown the night before. "Whichever group finishes first before the hour is up will get breakfast and the other will not. If neither of you finish before the hour, neither group will receive breakfast."

Fieran flicked a glance from the mattresses to the five-foot-tall mound of sand. Sure, they would move as quickly as they could in the hope of getting breakfast, but he might as well face it now. There was no possible way any of them were eating that morning.

With that, Commander Druindar dismissed them to their tasks.

Fieran lunged for the spoon even as Merrik raced toward the mattresses. Ignoring the orders Merrik was giving to his half of the men, Fieran gestured to the men assigned to him. "Form a line. We'll pass the spoon back and forth. Every fifteen minutes we will rotate those stationed inside and those outside."

Perhaps sooner, if the men outside seemed to grow too chilled too quickly. While fifteen minutes might only seem like three or four rotations, it would be many more than that, given that this would take much longer than an hour to clean up.

Tiny and Stickyfingers, who had ended up with Fieran, flung the doors open. While the outdoors appeared a marginally brighter gray than it had the night before, the gusting wind and driving rain hadn't let up.

Fieran handed the spoon to Murray, the first man in line, before he headed outside to take a place at the end of the line in the downpour, standing next to the spot that had become a puddle-filled pit thanks to all the sand and gravel they'd shoveled out of it the night before. He had to rapidly blink to see through the deluge.

Within a few moments, the spoon appeared, oh-so-carefully passed from hand to hand to avoid spilling even a grain of the sand resting on it. As the spoon reached the downpour outside, the flyboys bent over and used one hand to shield the spoonful.

Fieran took the spoon from Tiny next to him, then dumped the spoonful into the puddle beside him. The teaspoon of sand barely made a plop amid all the ripples and splashes of the rain.

He handed the spoon back to Tiny, and it was passed back the way it had come.

Forget breakfast. They'd be lucky if they finished before lunch. His men hadn't mutinied over the humiliation the night before, but if his reckless idea cost them two meals, they just might.

With the uncanny knack of officers, Commander Druindar reappeared just as Fieran and his flyboys swept the last of the sand onto the spoon, using their fingers to capture the last few grains.

"Lt. Laesornysh, a word." Commander Druindar spun on his heel and marched toward his office set to one side of the parade ground.

Fieran paused just long enough to tell the others, "Dump that spoonful outside, then go get cleaned up. Well done."

The others nodded, solemnly escorting Stickyfingers—the one with the steadiest hands—outside to dispose of the last of the sand.

Fieran trudged after Commander Druindar, his heart already lodged somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

As he stepped inside the office, Commander Druindar barked, "Close the door behind you."

This really wasn't going to be good if the door needed to be closed.

Fieran closed the door, then took his place at attention before the commander's large desk formed of what appeared to be a single slab of stone molded into a table shape.

For a long moment, Commander Druindar sat in his large, leather-padded chair and regarded Fieran with cold, dark brown eyes set in his hard, gray-skinned face. While he wore a modern military uniform with a sidearm at his hip, a traditional Kostarian sword—heavy-bladed and honed—hung on a rack on the wall next to a broad shield behind Commander Druindar's chair.

Finally, the commander leaned forward. "Given the glowing report I received from your previous commander and who your father is—not to mention your relation to my King Rharreth, my Queen Melantha, and the Generals Julien and Vriska Ardon—I expected better of you, Lt. Laesornysh."

It took every scrap of steel Fieran still possessed not to openly flinch at that. Commander Druindar certainly knew how to hit Fieran where it hurt .

Whatever tales Lt. Rothilion had been spinning to Commander Druindar, this would just confirm them.

"We are at war, Lt. Laesornysh." Commander Druindar might as well have been flaying Fieran with knives for the sharpness to his tone and gaze. "I trust you will not forget it again, and there will be no more similar shenanigans."

"No, sir, there will not." Fieran was too tired and hungry to squirm.

"I will not be writing up an official report of this incident. Nor will I give you and your men an official reprimand." Commander Druindar's voice held little mercy, despite the reprieve. "But this will be your only warning, Lieutenant. Cross the line again, and I will not hesitate to write a thorough and scathing reprimand, no matter the difficulties I might face for it."

"I understand, sir." Fieran nodded, swallowing.

He waited, but Commander Druindar didn't dismiss him. Instead, the commander's gaze dropped briefly, as if gathering himself for the next thing he wished to discuss with Fieran.

When the commander lifted his gaze again, the hard anger had disappeared into something more like regret.

"I received word this morning from the mainland." Commander Druindar made the slightest motion toward the communications room where the telephones connected to the mainland via the underwater cables were located. "Wreckage has washed up on the Kostarian shoreline. Pieces of an Escarlish aeroplane. Perhaps two aeroplanes."

Another blow, and this time Fieran couldn't help his flinch.

His missing men were dead, then. Their bodies would never be found, unless they, too, happened to wash up on the Kostarian shore .

"The missing elven pilot?" Fieran's voice rasped out far more hoarse than he intended.

"Still no word. But it is assumed that he, too, is dead."

Three dead. And for what? A Mongavarian scout airship that had gotten away.

It brought up the memory of Capt. Arfeld after the Battle over Bridgetown. At the time, Fieran had been too focused on the promotion and the praise to do more than subconsciously note the other paperwork on the desk.

But he remembered it now. The stacks of letters addressed to the families of the pilots who had died.

That was Fieran's job now. Lt. Rothilion and Commander Druindar were the ranking officers and the official telegram informing the families of the loss would go through them to the proper military channels.

But Fieran was the only one who was also Escarlish. Those men had been lost under his command and his watch, even if the orders that had sent them into the sky that night had been Commander Druindar's. A more personal letter of condolence should come from Fieran.

"Thank you for informing me, sir." Fieran wasn't sure what else to say.

"You are dismissed."

Fieran hurried from the room. As none of the lifts were on this floor at the moment, he trudged up the numerous flights of stairs, ignoring the stares—and worse, the whispered words and laughter—of those he passed.

Once he was on his floor, he found the rooms set to rights and most of his men rotating through the showers. Some had curled up on their newly made beds for a quick nap before lunch.

At last, it was his turn for a shower, and the three minutes of hot water was the most luxurious thing he'd ever experienced. He dressed in a clean uniform and dumped his grimy fatigues into the bag for wash day.

Merrik fell into step with him as he headed for the stairs again, even though Merrik's muscles must have been aching as much or even more than Fieran's after scrambling to right the rooms. Neither of them said anything as they plodded downward.

As they entered the mess hall, Fieran kept his head high, not meeting anyone's gaze.

Lt. Rothilion sat with his cronies at the table nearest the door. One of them leaned away from the table, calling out, "Done building sandcastles?"

The others snickered.

Lt. Rothilion gave a haughty sniff, his voice plenty loud enough, as if he wanted to be sure Fieran heard. "What else could one expect from the half-breed son of a—" He ended that sentence with the crude and derogatory term for Dacha's illegitimate birth.

Fieran halted, something inside him boiling, his gaze filling with blue. He was done. So done.

"Fieran, do not—" Merrik grabbed his arm to prevent him from doing whatever he was going to do. Even Fieran wasn't quite sure what that would be.

Shrugging off Merrik's grip, Fieran stalked toward Lt. Rothilion's table. Letting just a hint of his magic rage inside him, he swept out a hand. His magic flashed out, in an instant consuming every scrap of food on the elves' plates, including the bite of food one was bringing to his mouth and the piece of fruit Lt. Rothilion had pinched between his fingers.

Lt. Rothilion lunged to his feet, swearing in elvish. "What the…are you crazy, Laesornysh? You could have hurt someone. "

"But I didn't." Despite his anger, Fieran had kept his power under control. Nothing had been harmed besides the food.

And if the lash of his magic had stung a few fingers, that was all it had done. It hadn't left so much as a mark on the skin.

Fieran planted his palms on the table, glaring at Lt. Rothilion. "Insult me all you want. Right now, I deserve it. Call me a half-breed; I don't care. That's what I am, and I'm proud of it. But don't you dare say that about my dacha again, or I'll do far more than sting your fingers."

Lt. Rothilion glared right back. "I should report you for this."

"Go ahead. Report me." Fieran was too tired, too hungry, and too done to care. "You'll also have to report what you said, and I'll appeal and protest this all the way up the chain of command. Once that report lands on the desks of your commander-in-chief and mine, who do you think King Weylind and King Averett will side with? The lieutenant who insulted the brother of whom they are famously protective or their nephew?"

Lt. Rothilion's jaw worked as he held Fieran's glare for another moment before he finally dropped his gaze. "You will regret this, Laesornysh."

Merrik grabbed Fieran's arm again, and this time he succeeded in yanking Fieran away. As he all but dragged Fieran across the mess hall, he muttered so that only Fieran could hear, "He is not worth any more trouble this morning."

That was probably true. And he had his flyboys to consider. He couldn't shame them any more than they were already humiliated this morning.

Fieran collected his tray of food without paying much attention, plopping down in a seat at their usual table without taking in who else was there.

Next to him, Pip's eyes were wide, dark circles smudging her face as if she'd had as rough a night as he had. She briefly rested a hand on his arm before dropping her fingers back to her lap, as if she wasn't sure how to go about offering comfort.

Across the way, Aylia leaned forward, her voice lowering even if her eyes danced. "Good job on giving Lt. Rothilion a good smack. He deserves it. But I do have one bone to pick with you."

"What?" Fieran wasn't sure if he could take another scathing dressing down this morning.

"Next time you get up to something recklessly fun, make sure you invite me." Aylia's face twisted into an exaggerated pout. "I cannot believe you did something like penguin sliding down the stairs without me."

Fieran gestured farther down the table at where Tiny, Stickyfingers, Pretty Face, and Lije were wearily scarfing down their food. "Are you sure you want in next time? My shenanigans tend to be a lot of fun right at first, then end in unmitigated disaster and the possibility of a formal reprimand."

"You said it, not me," Merrik murmured under his breath.

"So? I am still missing the reason why I should not join in the fun." Aylia grinned before she took another bite of her pulled beef sandwich.

"Do not encourage him." Merrik picked up his own sandwich.

After the rebuke he'd gotten that morning, Fieran agreed with Merrik on this one. No more shenanigans. He needed to be a model lieutenant from now on .

Just maybe a different model from whatever model lieutenant Lt. Rothilion was. One that came with less schmoozing and more heroic epicness.

A group of trolls strode in. They glanced toward Tiny, then bent their heads together as they said something in a low tone before chuckling.

Tiny hunched farther on the bench, pushing his food around his plate.

Fieran winced. Apparently, he wasn't the only one getting hassled. He should have realized that Tiny—half-breed troll raised in Escarland that he was—would also find himself a target.

"I heard you had a rough night." The large, muscled figure of Fieran's cousin Rokyd slid onto the bench on the other side of Merrik, followed a moment later by Lucien sitting across the way next to Aylia.

Fieran blinked at them for several seconds, his mind still trying to process. "Rokyd? Lucien?"

"We finally got shore leave. Everyone is getting a little cooped up in the ships after three days of riding out this storm." Rokyd picked up his fork. "The KAS Dominion is tied to one of the piers, but I haven't seen Sathrah yet. Hopefully she'll be one of those chosen to attend the fighting bouts tonight. You know how she loves those."

"Fighting bouts?" Fieran glanced from Rokyd to the others at the table. He'd missed something. "Aren't the fighting bouts not for another few days?"

Once a month, the trolls held their traditional fighting bouts here at Dar Goranth. Fieran and his flyboys had missed the last set of fighting bouts since they'd been held the day before they arrived.

Years ago, the fighting bouts were a way for the warriors to test their mettle and earn honor by defeating others in single combat. In the years since Uncle Rharreth and Aunt Melantha became king and queen, the fighting bouts had been toned down to be less dangerous and more entertainment than a vital peg on the social structure. Yet the trolls hadn't dispensed with them entirely.

"Yes, but between the likelihood of an attack once the storm breaks and how stir-crazy everyone is becoming, it seems the base commanders decided to move it up a few days." Rokyd shrugged, then waved his fork in Fieran's direction. "Yours wasn't the only ruckus last night."

Lucien gave a snort. "Seamen from the KS Indefatigable stole their captain's skivvies and flew them from the masthead. And seamen from the ES Norholdt jumped ship and swam to the ES Frielan to exchange copies of their moving picture reels. They came close to drowning."

"The situation is getting dire." Rokyd spoke around a bite of his beef. "The commanders needed to do something to restore order, otherwise the entire base would be in shambles by the time the storm lifts."

At least Fieran hadn't been the only one causing trouble.

He let the conversation about the fighting bouts drift around him, watching as the talk perked up the rest of his men.

He'd have to tell them about the wreckage, and they'd take a moment to mourn before the storm lifted and the Mongavarians likely attacked.

But not just yet.