Chapter 2

Chapter

Two

F ieran waited with his squadron of flyboys and mechanics as the airship settled into place alongside one of the docking stones jutting from the cliff. The various human airmen threw lines to the troll ground crew, who tied the ropes to the large stone bollards.

After a bit more rigmarole of docking, the gangplank was extended, connecting the airship to the stone.

Finally, a gray-skinned, white-haired troll in a white naval uniform with a commander's insignia marched up the gangplank. He was tall and well-built as most trolls were with arms bulging with enough muscles that he looked like he could bend metal with his bare hands. After a glance around, he faced Fieran and the others. "Are you the Escarlish pilots?"

"Yes." Fieran strode forward and saluted the troll. "First Lieutenant Fieran Laesornysh reporting in."

The troll blinked at Fieran's name, something flashing through his blue eyes. No surprise that he'd recognize the Laesornysh name. Hopefully Fieran's dacha hadn't killed someone this troll knew, back in the wars between the elves and the trolls.

"You and your men, follow me." The troll spun on his heel.

Fieran set out after him, and his column fell into step as well. They strode down the metal gangplank, then along the stone pier. At the end of the pier, the troll commander gripped the handle of a stone door and yanked it open as easily as one might a gauzy curtain.

He didn't hold it open for them, and Fieran rushed forward to grab it before it swung closed. As Fieran stepped inside, he held the door long enough for Merrik to take it from him, who then passed it to the next man in line.

Inside the mountain, glowing stones set into the rock walls of the passageway lit the way, casting a white glow. The troll commander waited at the end of the passageway where it branched into a large hallway as the rest of them piled inside.

As soon as they were all inside, the troll glanced both ways, then led the way across the intersection with the main hallway to a staircase that spiraled around a pair of lifts. He marched up the stairs without looking back to see if Fieran and the others were following.

They climbed for several levels before the stairs opened into a large cavern at what must be the top of the cliffs. Stone pillars set at intervals held up the slightly domed ceiling while the very far end of the room gaped open, giving a view of sunlight shining on the green of the airstrip.

Inside the expansive stone space, aeroplanes lined up between the stone pillars, though there seemed only a handful of flyers compared to what this space could hold. Different carts and stations held tools for the mechanics.

In the center of the cavern, a female troll warrior in a white naval uniform stood waiting, her hands clasped behind her back. Her white hair was half-pulled back, though the parts that had been left free were wound with leather and a few stone decorations in the traditional fashion of troll warriors.

About thirty elves—mostly male but with a few females—in the darker, evergreen Tarenhieli army uniform assembled before her. All of them were second lieutenants except for the first lieutenant standing in front of them.

The elf first lieutenant had long honey-blond hair darker than Dacha's silver-blond. He carried himself with his slim nose tipped slightly high in the air.

As he swung his gaze to Fieran, his nose flared, his eyes narrowed, and his pouty mouth curled in obvious disdain.

Fieran didn't like him.

Something sparked in the elf's eyes. At least the dislike was mutual.

Worse, there was something familiar about this elf lieutenant. Fieran was pretty sure he was some kind of elf nobility, though Fieran couldn't place him. He didn't attend many of the elven social events, as elven nobility tended toward snobbery.

Fieran halted his column, and they assembled in military formation. They then proceeded with a salute fest as all the lower ranked officers saluted all the higher ranked ones of all the various armies assembled there.

At last, the female troll warrior stepped forward, the insignia of a captain glinting on her shoulders. "I'm Captain Gradrah of the Kostarian Navy, in charge of all flight operations here at Dar Goranth."

Fieran straightened his shoulders. Captain in the navy was much higher ranked than captain in the army.

For the past seventy years, the Kostarian and Tarenhieli armies and navies had re-structured so that their ranks matched that of Escarland, making it easier for the three armies to deploy together or even have units assigned under each other. The elven warriors had already begun adding ranks such as generals back in the wars with the trolls, and the trolls had eventually adapted their shield bands into a military structure matching Escarland's, though vestiges of the shield bands still remained in Kostaria's military.

Captain Gradrah swept a hard gaze over Fieran's assembled flyboys and the elven pilots. "TFC and EFC pilots, you have both been placed under my command by your respective militaries, and I have been authorized to combine you into one squadron, the Alliance Flying Corps Squadron D. Lt. Rothilion, you and your elves will be Flight A. Lt. Laesornysh, you and your men will be Flight B."

Rothilion. Now Fieran remembered him. Saranthyr Rothilion. He was a nephew of an elf who had been briefly engaged to Fieran's aunt Melantha back in the day. The ending of that betrothal hadn't been a pleasant one, and that particular elven noble family hadn't gotten along with Fieran's family and extended family ever since.

As if completely oblivious to the tension crackling between Fieran and Lt. Rothilion, Captain Gradrah continued, "Lt. Rothilion, as you gained your rank two weeks before Lt. Laesornysh, you will be acting commander of the entire squadron."

This was bad. So very bad. Fieran gritted his teeth, keeping his eyes forward and resisting the urge to glare at Lt. Rothilion. He had joined the Escarlish Army specifically so he wouldn't have to answer to elven commanders.

Looked like he was going to have to do just that anyway. Worse, it wasn't just any elf commander, but one with a snobby attitude just dripping off him .

At least Captain Gradrah hadn't promoted the other lieutenant, just made him acting commander. So he and Fieran were still the same rank, and Fieran didn't have to salute him. That was some consolation.

"Yes, ma'am." Lt. Rothilion took the news of his new command with a nod.

"I trust that there will be no issues with combining your units." Captain Gradrah glanced from Lt. Rothilion to Fieran and back. Perhaps she wasn't so oblivious to their instant dislike of each other.

"No, ma'am," Lt. Rothilion stated in that gratingly smooth tenor of his.

"Not at all, ma'am." Fieran would have to make sure of it. He could be professional. As long as Lt. Rothilion was the same.

"Your immediate commander will be Commander Druindar." Captain Gradrah gestured to the troll commander who had led them from the airship. "Commander?"

Holding a clipboard he must have grabbed, Commander Druindar joined Captain Gradrah at the front, sweeping his gaze over Fieran's men, his gaze lingering on Fieran and Merrik. "Lt. Laesornysh, do any of your men suffer the elven weakness for stone and troll magic?"

Across the way, Lt. Rothilion's elves shifted, as if uncomfortable at this conversation. Elves not only hated being underground, but being surrounded by a lot of stone could give some elves physical symptoms, like headaches. Enough stone and troll magic could make it difficult for an elf, especially younger elves, to use their magic.

It was how the trolls had kept Fieran's dacha imprisoned twice during the wars between the trolls and the elves.

Fieran glanced over his shoulder at Pip. She gave a slight shake of her head. He hadn't thought she was affected by stone, based on the stories she'd told about visiting her dwarven grandparents, but he'd wanted to be sure before he spoke.

Facing the troll commander again, Fieran shook his head. "No, sir."

Neither he nor Merrik, the only other half-elves in the squadron, experienced any side effects from stone.

Much to Dacha's relief.

"Very well. If any of you should develop symptoms caused by all the stone, do not hesitate to report to sick bay, where healing stones will be issued to you." Commander Druindar flicked a glance at Lt. Rothilion's elves.

A few of the elves had shifted, some reaching as if to touch something tucked beneath their shirts. They must have already been issued healing stones, which counteracted the symptoms of the elven weakness.

How long had Lt. Rothilion and the elven pilots been here? Perhaps they'd come straight here after their training had finished two weeks ago. The Escarlish and Tarenhieli training programs were staggered so that a group of new pilots would be graduating every month. But Fieran's group had been sent on their way two weeks early.

Commander Druindar consulted his clipboard. "Lt. Laesornysh, you and your men will be housed on Level 23 in sections A-D with the male mechanics for both Flights in Section E. Your female mechanic will bunk on Level 24 in section E with the female elven pilots and mechanics. Lt. Rothilion's male pilots have been assigned sections A-D of Level 24."

Lt. Rothilion's mouth pressed into a thin line that had that disdainful curl again. It seemed he didn't enjoy his underground accommodations, even with the healing stones negating the physical discomfort .

Though from what Fieran had seen from the airship as they were coming in, Dar Goranth didn't have much for accommodations that weren't underground. In the event of a bombing attack like the one on Fort Linder and Bridgetown, living underground would be preferable.

"Level 1 is comprised of the command rooms, communications, and the parade ground. The mess halls and kitchens are Level 2. Sick bay is Level 3. The commissary is Level 4. Levels 5-8 are officer quarters while Levels 9-20 are quarters for enlisted men and women and other assorted personnel. Levels 21-22 are storage. The training arena deeper inside the island can be accessed via several passageways connecting to Levels 1-3. The schedule for the arena is posted on the wall of the parade ground, and you must check with one of the base's clerks to request a slot on the schedule."

Fieran made a mental note of that as much as he could. It would take some exploring to learn his way around, though it sounded like he would mostly need to know how to get from his rooms to this hangar bay—Level 25 according to the large number painted on the wall by the stairs behind Captain Gradrah—and down to Level 2 for food.

While using what was likely a spacious training arena for practicing his magic would have been nice, signing up for a time on what was likely a packed schedule—knowing how trolls liked their fighting bouts—would be a hassle. Far easier to just find a secluded spot on the island somewhere.

"As you can see, we currently don't have enough aeroplanes for the full squadron." Commander Druindar's heavy gaze landed on Fieran. "Lt. Laesornysh, the Escarlish Army assures me that they will be shipping your aeroplanes shortly, and they should arrive in the next few weeks."

Wait. What? There weren't even aeroplanes here for them? Fieran's stomach plummeted. So much for getting back in an aeroplane anytime soon.

He probably should have expected this. After all, aeroplanes would need pilots to deliver them.

Which begged the question of how the army was shipping them. Perhaps parked on the deck of a barge?

Grounded. After everything Fieran had done to get into a flyer, he was once again trapped on the earth. Or under it, in this case.

Lt. Rothilion gave another nod, an even more self-satisfied curve to his mouth. "Flight A will be more than capable of handling the patrols, as we have for the past two weeks."

Fieran was going to grind his teeth to nubs if he kept gritting them like this.

Commander Druindar shot a glance at Lt. Rothilion that had the other lieutenant snapping his mouth shut. At least the troll commander wasn't the type to appreciate such flagrant butt-kissing. "In the meantime, Lt. Laesornysh, I'd like you and your men to work with the mechanics to come up with a viable way to arm the aeroplanes. I want a working solution by the time your flyers get here, understood?"

"Yes, sir." Fieran gave his own sharp nod at this.

At least arming the aeroplanes would be something productive to do while they were grounded. And it would involve some shooting and experimenting. A few things might get destroyed. That might be kind of fun.

And he'd get to spend the time with Pip. That might be worth being grounded for a week or two.

"We also have a few two-seater scout planes. Lt. Laesornysh, Lt. Rothilion, put together a schedule for Flight B pilots to ride with Flight A pilots." Commander Druindar gestured from Fieran to the elven half of the squadron. "I'd like any movement of Mongavarian warships to be documented and photographed. We all know Mongavaria needs another decisive strike, and that strike will likely be here. We need to be ready."

"Yes, sir." Fieran spoke at the same time as Lt. Rothilion, and it grated on him.

After going through a few more rules of the base—and specifying the all-important meal times for their unit—Commander Druindar dismissed them.

Fieran dismissed his flyboys to get settled into their rooms. Pip and the other mechanics scattered to find their own rooms and check in with the head mechanic.

Instead of leaving, Fieran squared his shoulders and faced Lt. Rothilion, his new commanding officer. Merrik remained at Fieran's back, as if he doubted Fieran's ability to stay calm.

Fieran was perfectly calm. He wasn't about to go starting trouble. Instead, he plastered on that perfectly pleasant smile he'd learned from his mother and stuck out his hand. "I look forward to working with you, Lt. Rothilion."

His words were as sugared as spoiled milk laced with honey to attempt to make it palatable.

Lt. Rothilion stared down his nose at Fieran's hand and didn't shake. He didn't even offer the elven forehead to mouth greeting gesture. His mouth curled as if he did indeed taste the spoiled milk in Fieran's words.

Still giving them that nose-in-the-air look, complete with the faintest disdainful sniff, Lt. Rothilion glanced from Fieran to Merrik and back. "You do realize that as an Alliance Flying Corps unit, long hair is now permitted."

Behind Fieran, Merrik stiffened, going so still Fieran could sense it without having to turn around to look .

That hadn't occurred to him yet, nor, it seemed, had it dawned on Merrik either.

As Alliance units would be made up of a mix of trolls, elves, and humans, certain Escarlish military regulations no longer applied. Such as the rule on keeping one's hair a regulation length.

Merrik could re-grow his hair. Well, Fieran could too, but he wouldn't. He supposed even the humans in his unit could grow their hair long if they liked, but he doubted any of them would let it get too shaggy. Some of them might opt for facial hair, which would also now be allowed. A concession specifically added so that Fieran's Uncle Julien could keep his beard once beards were no longer allowed in the Escarlish Army.

"No proper elf would allow his honor to be stripped away in such a fashion." Lt. Rothilion somehow managed to stare even more down his nose at them. "But I suppose neither of you are true elves."

With that, Lt. Rothilion spun on his heel and strode briskly away.

For elves, long hair was a symbol of honor. When elves committed crimes, their hair was often shorn as a sign of dishonor. For that reason, when the trolls had wanted to humiliate Fieran's dacha when they'd captured him during the wars, they'd cut his hair.

Fieran clenched his fists at his side, his magic burning in his chest and down into his hands. But he didn't let so much as a single bolt curl around his fingers. It would be too tempting to zap Lt. Rothilion's posterior as he sauntered away in that self-satisfied manner.

That had been a dig not only at Fieran and Merrik, but also their human mothers. Probably even Fieran's father, given what the trolls had done to him back then .

Merrik joined Fieran, his own fists clenched, his jaw hard. "I almost want to keep my hair short just to protest."

"Don't. The only one that would hurt would be you." Fieran lightly bumped Merrik's shoulder, forcing a grin back onto his face. "I'll be the improper elf for both of us. I'm good at that."

Merrik's shoulders relaxed a fraction, and he sighed. "And here I thought Prince Rhohen was the most likely one to drive you to brawling. Just keep in mind, punching our acting commanding officer is just as bad as punching a prince. Probably worse. King Rharreth would let you off lightly. The military will not be so forgiving."

All too true. Fieran wasn't quite sure how he was going to get through his time stationed here at Dar Goranth without punching that pouty smirk off Lt. Rothilion's face.

He wasn't normally the type of person to resort to punching as a way to solve problems. But there was just something about an attitude like Lt. Rothilion's—or his cousin Rhohen's, for that matter—that just brought out the temper Fieran was supposed to have because of his red hair.

Or maybe it was Dar Goranth and the more punchy culture of the trolls that made Fieran want to throw a few punches of his own.