Chapter 22

Chapter

Twenty-Two

A s Fieran's aeroplane clawed its way back into the sky in Merrik's wake, the radio crackled again.

"Lt. Laesornysh." Commander Druindar's voice rang clear despite the static. "I saw what you and Lt. Loiatir did. That was quite the feat of flying."

"Yes, sir." Fieran couldn't think of anything else to say. That wasn't overconfidence. It had been quite the feat on both his and Merrik's part. "Your orders?"

There was a pause, as if Commander Druindar sighed but the sound didn't carry over the radio. "The surface warships took quite the beating during the battle. Battlegroup Hammer got the worst of it. The Mongavarian fleet didn't follow Battlegroup Anvil into the ice floes as far as expected, and when Battlegroup Hammer came out of hiding, the Mongavarian flank had the room to turn and face them."

This wasn't exactly orders, but Fieran appreciated the summary of what had happened with the surface fleet. He hadn't been able to keep track of that battle, busy as he had been in the air. By the time he'd taken out the enemy aeroplanes and airships, the battle on the sea had already been over. He'd never had a chance to dive down and help the warships as planned.

As he spoke with Commander Druindar, Fieran eased his aeroplane in a circle over Dar Goranth, getting a better look at the fires and bombing craters. The wreckage of a Mongavarian airship lay on the point, burning.

Commander Druindar's tone turned even more grim. "We lost at least fourteen ships, including one of the battleships. The elven airships have been tasked with aiding the surface fleet in recovering the dead and wounded, but it will be a long process. The surface ships fought a running battle as the Mongavarian fleet disengaged, and the dead and wounded could be scattered over miles of ocean."

Fourteen ships. That struck like a punch. That number was far too high, considering their confidence in the dwarven-built ships. Granted, not all of the ships were dwarven-made. But surely that battleship had been.

What had gone wrong? Even with the surprise attack not working as planned, Fieran had heard those massive explosions. What had caused the Alliance ships to implode like that?

Fieran had to clear his throat twice before he managed, "Which ships?"

"These are just the ones we know at the moment." Commander Druindar listed off the ships, hesitating before the last two. "ES Warren and KS Vanguard were last seen chasing the fleeing Mongavarian fleet. We lost contact with them twenty minutes ago. They are presumed lost as well."

The Vanguard . Rokyd's and Lucien's ship.

Did Sathrah know yet? Fieran had glimpsed the Dominion still afloat in the sky after the battle, though the outer dirigible had a few tears and the gondola had taken a pounding. Was Sathrah still alive? Just because her airship was still alive didn't mean she was.

"I'd like your squadron to aid the airships in finding any survivors." Commander Druindar's voice deepened. "Your aeroplanes will cover more ocean more quickly than the airships. Keep a watch in case the Mongavarians return while we're distracted."

This would be the time to attack while Dar Goranth was still shaking off the last attack.

Hopefully the Mongavarians had been too badly beaten to return. While it seemed the surface fleet hadn't been as damaged as hoped, they had lost a large chunk of their airborne fleet. If they returned, Fieran would wipe out the rest of it.

And once he did, their surface fleet would be in trouble. Surely that would be enough of a deterrent that they wouldn't return anytime soon.

"Understood, sir." Fieran peeled his aeroplane away to head back over the debris-scattered ocean. Merrik kept his station guarding Fieran's six even now. He'd pulled the vines back—they would be quite the wind resistance—but his aeroplane still glowed green.

"And Laesornysh?" Commander Druindar's tone left no room for argument. "Set up a rotation so you and your pilots can rest. That includes you. That's an order."

"Yes, sir." Fieran bit back his sigh. It would be tempting to push himself, trying to find his cousins.

But they were all in for a day. They would need food and rest. Not to mention their aeroplanes would need new magical power cells eventually.

Though, Commander Druindar had never given any orders regarding when Fieran landed for rest. If he put himself last in the rotation, well, he was currently the commanding officer of the squadron. That was his prerogative.

Pip groaned at the hand shaking her awake. She blinked wearily up at the person, finding Tiny's face only a foot above hers where she lay on a cot someone had dragged up from one of the rooms and placed in one corner of the hangar.

Tiny straightened and tilted his head. "Fieran's back."

That got her to her feet. She stretched, scrubbing at her eyes to wake up, before she looked around.

It was sometime in the middle of the night. She'd been busy all day and into the night, fixing damaged aeroplanes as they came in, before she'd finally curled up on the cot. She must have only gotten a handful of hours of sleep.

At the mouth of the hangar, Fieran and Merrik wearily trudged inside. They paused to briefly talk to Lije, Pretty Face, and Murray, who were on their way outside to take off for another shift in the sky. Tiny hurried to join them, tugging on his flight cap as he went.

To one side, Sontar was manning a coffee, tea, donut, and medical care station. He'd proved invaluable here in the hangar, seeing to it that all the incoming flyboys were given a coffee and donut upon landing. He'd also assessed all their injuries, binding up the minor wounds and sending the others to sick bay.

"Mind if I take the cot?" One of her mechanics pressed a hand against the wall, dark smudges underneath his eyes. He hadn't had a chance to sleep yet.

"Of course. I'll be up for a while." Pip stepped away from the cot as the mechanic collapsed onto it. The poor man was snoring within moments.

Fieran extracted himself from his flyboys, Merrik at his side. Sontar met them partway across the hangar, handing each of them a mug and a donut.

Pip wasn't sure how, but Fieran managed a smile for his cousin, the expression digging weary lines into his face and not quite reaching his eyes. Still, seeing that smile sent something like hope through her. If Fieran could smile after the day they'd had, then surely everything would be all right, eventually.

Even though Pip hadn't left the hangar since returning with Sontar, the rumors had flown around Dar Goranth. They were saying it was estimated that there were over ten thousand casualties with perhaps as many as six or seven thousand dead, most of those sailors on the surface ships. Many of the ships that had blown up had few survivors.

The airships with elven healers on board had been turned into mobile healing units, docking at the sick bay level to transfer the worst of the wounded to recover on land. Any surface ships with elven healers had also been turned into hospital ships.

But worst was the ships picking up the dead. The stories floating around Dar Goranth told of ships coming into the harbor with the dead mounded on the decks. There was not enough canvas in all of Dar Goranth to properly shroud the dead, even with many of the trolls in the local villages donating their spare canvas. Teams were trying to identify all the dead before they were quickly buried on a hill farther along the coast of Drogenvroh Island.

At least the Alliance sailors were being given that much. The dead Mongavarians were buried at sea, nameless and friendless, even if they were afforded as much dignity as possible.

That was what Pip had heard, anyway. She hadn't looked out the hangar mouth to see for herself. She hadn't wanted to. Just that one trip to sick bay had been enough.

Instead, she had focused on fixing the aeroplanes, swapping out their depleted magical power cells for the last of the full ones, and getting her boys back in the sky as safely and quickly as possible so they could continue the search for survivors.

Fieran patted Sontar on the back before he turned toward Pip. Their gazes met for a moment. There was so much in his blue eyes. An aching pain. A longing. A weariness that went beyond just his body's exhaustion. The Fieran she was looking at now was older than the one who had gone up hours ago.

Merrik said something to Fieran in a low voice before he strode past him, headed for the stairs.

After another heartbeat longer, Fieran headed in her direction. As he neared, she swallowed and tried to put a little levity into her voice, though it rang hollow on a day like this. "You finally brought back my aeroplane. Took you long enough."

"Yeah." Fieran gave a little shrug, a tilt of his head indicating where the crew was wheeling in his aeroplane. "It's in one piece. There might be a few bullet holes, but that's it."

"I saw the stunt you pulled." Pip poked him in the chest. "That was reckless."

He didn't need dating her as a motivation to do reckless stuff. But perhaps he had been right in not pursuing anything more right now, if that was the kind of stuff he pulled on a regular basis. If he would do something like that for a nemesis, then what would he do for a girl he liked ?

"It was." Fieran shifted, peeking at her with more hesitation than the normal confidence he wore so well. "Do you think…can friends still hug?"

"I think so." Pip stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. She wasn't going to deny him. He looked in need of a hug.

Fieran embraced her in return, his arms strong around her. He reeked of acrid smoke and gasoline fumes, as if he'd flown through an explosion. His face was smeared with soot and gunpowder, except around his eyes where the goggles had protected him. But he was alive and unhurt. That was all that mattered.

She sighed and leaned into him. Perhaps she'd needed a hug too.

"We haven't found my cousins yet," Fieran murmured into her hair. "We found the oil slick for the ES Warren and the airships picked up a handful of survivors. But there's been no sign of the KS Vanguard ."

"You'll find them." Empty words, but Pip said them anyway. They both knew that even once the Vanguard was found, there was no guarantee Rokyd or Lucien would have survived. Their odds weren't good, and their bodies might never be found.

Fieran just nodded, his arms tightening around her for a moment.

As much as Pip wanted to stay there, hugging Fieran, both of them had duties weighing heavily on them. With an iron force of will, she stepped out of the hug, letting her arms drop. "You need to get some sleep. I'll have your aeroplane ready to go when you wake."

"Thanks." Fieran lifted a hand, as if to stroke her cheek. But he changed the gesture at the last moment to lightly bump her shoulder with his fist in a friendly, far-too-brotherly gesture.

But that was the way it had to be. She didn't like it, but she understood.

Fieran turned on his heel and strode away.

Pip turned too, heading for her tool cart. She had work to do.

Fieran trudged down the stairs. At the next level down, he paused, listening to the quiet talk of a few of the elven pilots as they took showers or wandered in something of a daze along the corridor. The whole squadron was hurting, but Flight A had taken the worst of it. Flight B had lost Grady and Miller. But Flight A had lost six pilots, and their leader currently lay in sick bay, gravely injured.

After a moment, Fieran got his legs moving again. He climbed down the stairs, passing the level with his rooms. He wasn't ready to face his men yet, and there was something he needed to do before he could rest.

At Level 3, he halted in the stairwell for a moment, nearly staggering back a step at the sight, the smell. So many wounded.

When he could finally force his shaking legs to move, he approached the nearest troll nurse. She was giving one of the wounded men a sip of water and glanced up at his approach. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Lt. Saranthyr Rothilion. He was brought in earlier today." Fieran tried to force a smile. "I'm the second-in-command of his squadron."

"He's resting in there." The troll nurse pointed toward the other side of sick bay, across the way from most of the bustle. "Don't disturb anyone and don't stay long."

"I understand." Fieran nodded to her before he picked his way to the ward that must have been turned into a recovery room for the worst of the wounded.

Inside the ward, rows of cots lined the room, some with curtains drawn around them for privacy, some with the curtains pulled back. A few nurses moved among the wounded, but this room was far quieter than outside.

Fieran paused to ask another nurse, who pointed him toward one of the beds at the far end of the room. Fieran walked down the aisle between the beds.

Lt. Rothilion lay under a sheet, still and pale as his long blond hair straggled across the pillow. A far cry from the normally stuffy and put together elf noble.

At Fieran's approach, Lt. Rothilion's eyes flickered open, and he blinked several times as if he was trying to wake up…or he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Fieran sank onto the chair next to the cot. "How are you feeling, Rothilion?"

Lt. Rothilion gave a huff that was more frustrated groan than laugh. "About what you would expect."

That was a bit of an unnecessary question, but Fieran didn't know what else to say or ask. It wasn't like he and the elf lieutenant had been close before he'd been wounded.

"I've never been shot, so I wouldn't know what to expect." Flippant probably wasn't the best route to go, but Fieran wasn't going to manage consoling very well.

"Of course not." Lt. Rothilion's voice held a trace of that old bitterness. "Not with your magic."

There wasn't a good answer to that. Fieran did have a rather big advantage when going into battle. He could incinerate bullets .

Lt. Rothilion's eyes dropped closed on a weary sigh, and for a moment he seemed to drift back to sleep. Then he murmured, without opening his eyes, "And my pilots? How many were lost?"

"Six." Fieran hesitated, hoping Lt. Rothilion wouldn't ask.

"And Flight B?"

Fieran couldn't lie. "Two."

Lt. Rothilion grimaced as he turned his face away. "It is my fault. I saw how hard you trained your men. I noticed how effective pairing off your men was. Yet I was so convinced of the superiority of elves that I thought it would be admitting weakness to implement those same measures for my own pilots. And that arrogance got my pilots killed."

"My pilots had the advantage of my magic." Fieran wasn't sure why he was reassuring Lt. Rothilion. Any other time and he would have relished having Lt. Rothilion basically tell him that he was right.

But Rothilion wouldn't have said any of this if he hadn't been dosed up on healing magic and out of it from blood loss.

"Perhaps. But you were not at the side of all your pilots during the entire battle. They held their own, and they did it well." Lt. Rothilion heaved another sigh, seeming smaller and more sunken on the cot. "It is my fault that my pilots did not fare as well."

It was also the elven pilots' first battle while Fieran's flyboys had faced battle before. Not against other aeroplanes, but they had been shot at before.

But Rothilion was in no shape mentally or physically to hear any more reassurances.

"Don't dwell on it now." Fieran squeezed Rothilion's shoulder and pushed to his feet. "I will leave you to your rest."

Rothilion didn't respond. Fieran would have thought he'd fallen back asleep, but the elf lieutenant was too tense to be sleeping.

Fieran slipped out of sick bay once again. He halted at the base of the stairs, gathering his strength to drag himself back up the twenty flights of stairs back to his room. He might just curl up in the landing and fall asleep here.

A noise echoed up the stairs from the landing below, followed by what he thought was a familiar voice.

But surely not. They couldn't have gotten here this fast, could they?

Fieran crept down the stairs, then peered around the corner at the next landing down.

Uncle Julien leaned his back against the wall as he held Aunt Vriska in his arms. Her face was hidden against his shoulder, one of her hands fisted in his shirt, the other wreathed with gray magic as she slowly pounded her fist against the stone wall. Her shoulders shook, but Fieran couldn't hear any sobs, just a tight note in her voice as she murmured, "Our boys, Julien. Our boys."

"I know." Uncle Julien's voice was choked, tears glinting in his eyes and on his cheek above his red-brown beard.

Fieran withdrew around the corner, easing away. He shouldn't intrude.

When he turned to creep back up the stairs, he jumped, barely biting back his exclamation before he made a noise that would give away his presence to Uncle Julien and Aunt Vriska.

Sathrah slumped against the wall at the top of the stairs on the next landing up, her light brown hair straggling long over her shoulders. She hadn't been there when he'd walked down a moment ago.

Fieran tiptoed up the stairs, then leaned against the wall next to Sathrah.

"They arrived a few minutes ago." Sathrah's voice was little more than a whisper, her tone resigned and lifeless. "They were already on their way when word came of the attack. They had to be here. Famous generals and all that. They did not know they would be here for…for…"

Fieran swallowed. He opened his mouth, but he just couldn't choke out any words.

Sathrah hugged her arms over her stomach, looking more hunched and small than he'd ever seen her. "I can't lose them, Fieran. I can't…not again."

A lump clogged Fieran's throat. He couldn't imagine losing any of his siblings. But Sathrah had lost her entire family once before. How terrified must she be, facing the possibility that she might lose all her siblings yet again?

Fieran cleared his throat, his voice still coming out rough. "We'll find them, Sathrah."

"You can't promise that." Sathrah glared, tears glittering in her eyes. "Their bodies might already be at the bottom of the ocean."

An all too likely possibility. But Fieran held Sathrah's gaze as he said again, "I will find them."

It might be a promise he couldn't keep. But he made it anyway.