Chapter 23

Chapter

Twenty-Three

F ieran flew his aeroplane over the ocean, leaning back and forth over the sides of his cockpit to take in as much of the ocean as he could. A clear blue sky arched overhead, the rising sun warm against his cheek. A beautiful day for a grim task.

Merrik flew several yards to the right and behind Fieran. Farther to the right, Lije and Pretty Face held station with other flyboys ranging to Fieran's left. Nearly half the squadron, both elves and humans, had turned out.

Four airships came into view, two of them standing guard high in the sky while the other two hovered only feet above the water as they searched the debris field and oil slick for any survivors. So far, all they had retrieved were the dead.

They'd found the remains of the Vanguard in the early hours of the morning, but it hadn't been light enough until now for the aeroplanes to do a proper search.

In the twenty-four hours since the battle, how far would any survivors have drifted?

"Let's make a swing to cover the ocean between where the ship went down and the shore." Fieran spoke into the radio as he turned his aeroplane in that direction. "Keep your eyes peeled. A head bobbing in the water won't be easy to spot."

Cold as the water was, it was highly unlikely that anyone would still be alive after twenty-four hours in the water.

But there were many trolls on the ship, and if they had ice magic, they might have been able to survive the dousing. Maybe.

Fieran scanned the ocean as he flew over. So much empty water. How would they ever find any survivors who drifted away from the wreck site?

"I've got a body here." One of the flyboys on the far end of their formation radioed in.

"Alive?" Fieran's heart jumped in his throat.

"No, definitely dead. He's floating face down." The flyboy paused before adding, "He's an Escarlish seaman. Brown hair, pale skin."

Not either of Fieran's cousins. But still someone's son. Someone's brother. Maybe someone's husband. Perhaps a father.

"Hold station over the body until one of the airships can retrieve him." Fieran switched to channel 2 and called in the body and the location to Dar Goranth. The troll stationed by the radio in the hangar would pass the message along to the communications room, which would get the word to the airships.

Such a clunky system. Hopefully Louise and Uncle Lance were hard at work figuring out how to integrate the long-wave and short-wave radios. Things would be a lot simpler once Fieran could coordinate with the airships himself.

Thinking of Louise brought up memories of family. Of family gatherings with the whole extended family. Uncle Julien joking with Dacha. Aunt Vriska debating with Uncle Edmund about strategy. Rokyd and Lucien as part of the whole gang of cousins.

They couldn't be gone. Surely not. Fieran couldn't imagine those family gatherings without them there.

Still he flew and searched. His flyboys reported more bodies. He had to make more radio calls.

Then there was nothing. Just endless, empty waves heaving up and down in inky depths.

Fieran flew for an hour, then two, searching. They were far from the wreck site now, the Kostarian shoreline more distinct.

"We should turn back." Merrik's voice came over the radio, low and aching with far too much compassion.

"Not yet. Just a little bit longer." Fieran couldn't turn back. Turning back would mean giving up.

A glint caught the corner of his eye. Fieran peered in that direction, but he couldn't spot what he thought he'd seen.

Still, he eased the rudder and the control stick, turning his aeroplane in that direction.

Merrik matched his turn, not questioning him again just yet.

After a minute or so of flight, there was another glint. Something white sparkled on the waves up ahead, farther south and closer to shore than Fieran would have expected.

Was that a chunk of one of the guarding icebergs? What was it doing way out here? Could the storm have pushed it this far out?

As he neared, Fieran dove his aeroplane closer, then slowed as much as he could to get a good look at the object.

It wasn't an iceberg. It was a raft made of ice, complete with ice oars. A troll halted in rowing, shading his eyes with a hand to peer upward. Another figure was sprawled partially on top of him, as if they had been huddling together to stay warm.

"It's Rokyd! Merrik, that's Rokyd!" Fieran all but shouted into the radio. "And that must be Lucien with him. They're alive."

"Yes." Merrik's voice held a breath of relief that carried even over the radio.

Gripping the control column with one hand, Fieran reached over the side of the cockpit and called up his magic. He unleashed a shower of sparks and sent bolts of magic through the sky.

The troll on the ice raft waved back, then slumped, not bothering to pick up the oars again.

With Rokyd now assured of which pilot circled overhead, Fieran pressed the talk button again. "Ground crew, come in."

There was no response but static. Not even the chatter of the other members of the squadron.

Shoot. Fieran and Merrik must have flown so far that they were out of range of both the rest of the squadron and the radio at Dar Goranth.

"I will fly back into range." Merrik peeled off, headed back the way they'd come.

"Thanks." Fieran continued circling to mark the location for the airships and keep Rokyd and Lucien company while they waited for help to arrive.

Fieran sprinted down the flights of stairs as quickly as he could without falling. Surely landing his aeroplane couldn't have taken as long as docking an airship and offloading the wounded .

Never had Fieran been so relieved to see an airship than when the KAS Dominion appeared on the horizon as he circled over Rokyd and Lucien's boat. Lucien hadn't stirred the entire time Fieran had been circling overhead. How bad off was he?

Fieran skidded out of the stairway into sick bay. On the far side, Uncle Julien and Aunt Vriska paced in the small, cleared space before the double doors that led to the airship dock jutting from the side of the cliff.

Before Fieran could cross the room to them, the large double doors were flung open. Two troll airmen hurried through the doors, carrying a stretcher between them. Lucien lay on the stretcher, still unmoving. An elf trotted alongside, her hand on Lucien's shoulder as her fingers glowed green with healing magic.

Behind them, Sathrah supported Rokyd. He was lacking a shirt and had bandages wrapped over his torso and arms. His trousers were shredded, showing burns and bloody cuts.

Rushing forward, Uncle Julien took Rokyd's other arm, supporting him, while Aunt Vriska clenched her fists, glancing between Rokyd and Lucien as if she really wanted to punch a Mongavarian or two. The faint line of a scar showed starkly on one of the fingers of her right hand.

Aunt Melantha strode from the main hospital ward, her gaze sweeping over Rokyd and Lucien with a cool assessment that someone who didn't know her might mistake for detachment. She paused beside Aunt Vriska for a moment, speaking with a firm, almost fierce note. "I will take good care of your boys, Vriska."

Aunt Vriska nodded, her fists still clenched. "You had better."

From Aunt Vriska, the worry for her sons came out sounding rather pugilistic. Sathrah got it from somewhere, after all.

Aunt Melantha shouted more orders to her healers, nurses, and medics as she led the way into sick bay, as commanding as a general on a battlefield.

Fieran slumped against the wall next to the stairwell. He didn't want to get in the way of the healers. Nor was this a moment for a cousin to be intruding.

Sliding down the wall, Fieran settled in as comfortably as he could to wait.

Fieran woke at the sound of footsteps, then someone lowering himself to sit next to him. Fieran cracked his eyes open, then straightened. "Uncle Julien."

Uncle Julien wearily leaned his head against the wall. "I see you have gained the essential army skill of sleeping anytime, anywhere."

Fieran would have joked right back, but now didn't seem the time. "How are Rokyd and Lucien?"

"They'll be fine." Uncle Julien spoke the words on a weary sigh. "Both of them sustained burns, and Lucien suffered hypothermia. When the Vanguard exploded, Rokyd shielded the two of them as best he could with his magic, and they were blown into the water."

"I'm glad they'll be all right." Fieran sagged more heavily against the wall, his muscles aching after the long hours of flying in the past two days.

It was over. Truly over. There would be another long day, another battle, sometime in the future, but for now, he could rest .

"Thank you for finding them." Uncle Julien met Fieran's gaze, something in his brown eyes haggard.

"I just happened to be the aeroplane patrolling that area." Fieran shrugged, dropping his gaze to his hands. "It looked like Rokyd was doing his best to rescue both of them all on his own."

Once Rokyd realized help wouldn't be coming any time soon, he must have made that raft with his magic and set out for the coast. Between how far south the Vanguard had been and how the currents flowed in that area, the coast would have been a better option than Dar Goranth.

"Yes, Rokyd made a valiant effort to save Lucien." Uncle Julien's voice held pride, the first hint of a smile twitching beneath his thick beard. The smile faded a moment later. "But that stretch of coast is isolated. Lucien would have died long before Rokyd got him to an elven healer."

Fieran swallowed. He couldn't imagine being in Rokyd's place. No help coming, his brother dying in his arms, and his only option to row toward a shoreline that likely wouldn't even have the help his brother needed. What mental anguish he must have endured during the long night of rowing.

"I heard you made a valiant showing of your own during the battle." The warmth returned to Uncle Julien's voice.

"I'm a Laesornysh." Fieran shrugged, not sure how to reply to the praise. He liked praise well enough, but somehow it was easier to take from strangers and peers than from his uncle. "I'm not sure my efforts were enough. If I could have taken out the enemy aeroplanes and airships sooner, perhaps I could have prevented some of the losses among the surface fleet. I could have done more."

"Don't torture yourself with what-ifs. There's no point to it." Uncle Julien kept his voice low, though still firm. "This is a modern, mechanized war the likes of which we have never fought before. There is no victory. Just being defeated less than the other side."

If even Uncle Julien had that perspective, then that was…discouraging.

" Did we lose less than the other side?" Fieran gestured toward the packed sick bay.

Uncle Julien's gaze, too, fixed on the wounded men and women waiting for treatment. "Dar Goranth didn't fall, so the enemy didn't achieve their objective. Thanks to you, their air fleet suffered significant losses. In that regard, we won. While we succeeded in sinking twelve of their surface ships, we also didn't achieve our objective in making a noticeable dent in Mongavaria's seagoing fleet. We lost more ships and men than they did. Mongavaria will probably claim this as a victory as well."

Disheartening thought.

"Why did we lose so many ships? Do you know?" Fieran searched Uncle Julien's face. While Uncle Julien was a general in the army, not an admiral in the navy, he was high enough ranked that he would likely be told that information.

"Some of the losses were the smaller ships built without dwarven magic. Those the Mongavarians sank the same way we sank theirs—by putting enough holes in them." Uncle Julien heaved an even more weary breath. "But as for the others, it seems there were many among the troll captains who grew too confident in the protections of the dwarven-made ships. To prioritize a more rapid rate of fire, the blast doors were left open, and shells and cordite were stacked together. The dwarven-made ships are well-built, but there are still ways for enemy shells to penetrate from the upper decks. And when they did…"

A fire, then a catastrophic explosion .

Fieran scrubbed a hand over his face. "How do we win a war when even a victory feels like defeat?"

Uncle Julien paused, not continuing until Fieran dragged up his gaze to meet his. "All you can do is your duty."

Fieran tried to let that settle into his chest, the way those similar words from his dacha had after the Battle over Bridgetown.

Did his dacha wrestle with this guilt each time he fought? With their powerful magic, perhaps it was inevitable to feel they could have done more. A curse of being Laesornysh.

But if carrying this weight was what it took to protect the Alliance, his family, his friends, and his flyboys, then Fieran would carry it gladly.