Chapter 5

Chapter

Five

F ieran forced himself out of bed before dawn. Or what he guessed was the dawn, since his interior room didn't have any windows.

At least the hard military cot was easy to leave. The mattress could hardly be termed such, formed as it was by a packed layer of scrap fabric stuffed inside a thick canvas that was similar to that used for tarpaulins and the sides of dirigibles. It made the bed in the barracks at Fort Linder feel like luxury.

Across the small room, Merrik rolled to a sitting position on his cot, grimacing. "Do you think anyone will notice if I grow a patch of straw to restuff my mattress?"

"As long as you grow enough for my mattress too, I'll cover for you by officially authorizing it." Fieran rubbed his lower back. "I'm going for a morning practice."

He needed to get back in the habit of practicing his magic every morning like he used to do with his dacha and sisters. The rigid structure of Escarlish basic training hadn't allowed wiggle room for a recruit to go off by himself for magic practice. But here, Fieran was a first lieutenant with the freedom to set his own schedule. Somewhat.

"Good. With Rhohen at Dar Goranth, you need to work out your jitters as much as possible." Merrik stretched his arms over his head. "Rhohen is volatile enough for the two of you."

"Very true." Fieran rolled his head, trying to work the stiffness out of his neck. "Maybe you can practice your magic with the elven flyboys and fix our mattress situation."

Merrik snorted and rubbed his own back. "Given the looks Lt. Rothilion and his cohorts were giving us, I do not believe I would be welcomed."

"Aylia might not be as snooty. She doesn't seem to get along with the others." Fieran gripped one foot, then the other, stretching his leg muscles. He would need to get in a good practice to work out all the kinks.

"There might be a few others." Merrik grimaced again and reached for his uniform shirt. "They likely do not dare to speak up and disagree with Lt. Rothilion. Not only is he their commanding officer, but he is from a well-connected, noble family. One with something to prove to regain their status in the king's eyes."

"Insulting the half-elven nephew of that king is a strange way to go about it." Fieran just shook his head and strode for the door. He left his uniform shirt behind, opting to remain in his undershirt and fatigues. It would be chilly this morning, but he wouldn't be cold for long.

Merrik followed as Fieran exited their room. Together, they strode down the short corridor filled with rooms on either side.

Several flyboys were already up. Some were jogging up and down the corridor or performing a basic PT routine in their rooms while joking with their bunkmates. Others had towels over their shoulders and hygiene kits in their hands as they headed for the showers at the end of the passageway.

The door to the shower room stood open as a pair of the flyboys loitered in the doorway, talking. Inside, one of the flyboys threw open one of the shower curtains. He dragged out a protesting elf, who was scrambling to wrap a towel around his middle. Suds still coated the elf's hair.

"My hair needs more time than this!" The elf clutched at the towel.

"Tough. We're all allotted the same three-minute showers." The flyboy pushed past the elf and yanked the shower curtain closed.

Another flyboy snapped a towel, flicking it so that the end lashed the elf's bare chest. "Go back to your own section and stop hogging our showers."

The elf gave a yip and jumped back, nearly dropping his towel. With a sniff, he spun on his heel and marched from the room, suds dripping from his hair and his wet feet slapping against the stone floor.

Fieran hesitated. Was this something he should deal with as the commanding officer for his Flight? Or was this something minor that would sort itself out if he left it alone?

On the one hand, the elven half of the squadron must have gotten used to taking over the showers not just on their level, but this level as well in the time they'd been at Dar Goranth. That couldn't continue now that Fieran's men occupied these rooms. They didn't deserve to have their showers hogged by elves needing extra time to wash their long hair.

But on the other hand, such animosity between the two halves of the squadron wouldn't be good for morale. They needed to be a united front to fight Mongavaria.

After another moment, Fieran shrugged and decided to let it go, for now. It was only the first morning. Everyone would settle in eventually, especially once the aeroplanes arrived and Fieran's men could take to the skies once again.

Merrik glanced from the retreating elf to Fieran. "I will stay and keep the others out of trouble. Go practice."

"Thanks." If anyone could keep the others in line, it would be Merrik. His repeated failures at keeping Fieran out of trouble weren't a true indication of his ability to watch over others.

After clapping Merrik on the back, Fieran followed the trail of suds and wet footprints from the passageway and up the winding stairs until he stepped into the aeroplane hangar. He didn't see Pip yet, though several of the elf mechanics bustled about, getting a few of the elven aeroplanes ready for a morning patrol.

Fieran strode across the cavern, then out into the gray of the early morning. The frigid breeze cut through his clothes, and he resisted the urge to give in to shivers. Instead, he set out at a brisk pace across the airfield, over the nearest ridge, then through a gully.

Only once a bend in the gully hid him entirely from view did Fieran finally stop. This would be a good spot for morning practice, not just this morning but for every morning he was here. The rock walls surrounding him would keep his magic nicely contained, should he let a little slip.

Fieran held his hands out like he gripped his swords. He let bolts of his magic form, letting it swirl around him while also maintaining two blade-like shapes crackling from his hands.

He threw himself into the first basic sword stance. Without someone to fight, this practice wouldn't be as satisfying as one with his dacha and sister. But he could at least take the edge off the magic crackling inside his chest.

He blasted his magic outward as he threw himself into a whirling sword strike, raising his other hand as if parrying a blow.

As he spun again, a blast of a different, icier magic slammed into his from the side. Fieran nearly stumbled under the blast, his own magic rising in him to blast outward into a shield. He whirled to face the threat.

Not a threat. His cousin Rhohen, which was kind of the same thing.

His long black hair tossing on the slight breeze, Rhohen sauntered down the gully, a sword in each hand as bolts of his white-blue magic—the color of deep lake ice—crackled around him. The magic held some similarities to Fieran's, from the crackle to the power of it coating the air. But it also had an icy edge, a shimmer more in line with the magic Fieran had seen Uncle Rharreth wield.

Fieran crossed his arms, his magic still blasting around him. "Shouldn't you be in your own morning practice with your dacha?"

Rhohen halted a few yards away, that pouty smirk creasing his face. "My da got called away this morning. He is busy, being king."

A subtle dig. Not a very good one, since neither Fieran nor his dacha cared that they weren't going to inherit a throne someday. Thrones were an awful lot of bother.

Fieran gestured, not bothering to tamp down the edge of his sarcasm. "I'd offer you a morning practice, but it seems I'm a bit under-armed, considering you have two swords and I have none."

"That sounds like a problem for you." Rhohen snorted and stalked a few steps closer. "A proper warrior would never let his sword out of his sight."

"Yes, well, I'm hardly a proper warrior." Fieran forced himself to remain relaxed instead of dropping into a fighting crouch. "Besides, I don't need a weapon."

Rhohen gave another derisive snort. He really should get his nasal passages checked out. He seemed to have a condition. "Arrogant as always, I see. Fine. Take this one."

Rhohen tossed one of his two swords, and it landed on the grass at Fieran's feet.

"And you claim to be a proper warrior. That's hardly the proper way to treat a sword." Fieran picked it up anyway.

This sword was all wrong in his hand. Not the familiar leather grip. Not the right length. Not the right weight.

And yet as he clasped his hand around the leather-wrapped hilt, a pang of something almost like homesickness rose in his chest.

He'd never thought he'd miss the feel of a sword in his hand.

Not as much as he missed flying, but perhaps he had something of the elven warrior in him after all.

Fieran had barely straightened when Rhohen struck, stepping into the blow even as he blasted with his magic.

Scrambling to get the sword up, Fieran strengthened the magic crackling around him. His magic clashed with Rhohen's in a popping sizzle.

Fieran blocked Rhohen's blow, the force of it driving all the way up Fieran's arm. Rhohen might be slim for a troll, but he hit hard—harder than Adry or Fieran's dacha.

Fieran danced back to gain space, then unleashed a blast of his magic, burning through the first few layers of Rhohen's magic.

Rhohen growled and rushed forward, hammering with his sword. As Fieran expected, his cousin wasn't too happy to find out Fieran was still magically stronger than him.

Rather than take the blow, Fieran jumped back again. He strengthened the magic both around himself and crackling down the sword before he darted in close, whirling his sword and slicing through Rhohen's magic.

Rhohen parried, his jaw hard, the dark brown eyes he'd inherited from his macha flashing.

Fieran had him riled now, and Rhohen always got more sloppy when angry.

Rhohen pushed forward with a series of strikes and slashes, hammering again and again like he wanted to pound Fieran into the dirt.

It was all Fieran could do to parry the strikes, dancing backward until his back struck the stone cliffs behind him.

Rhohen growled again and gripped his sword with both hands to swing it at Fieran. "You never could stand up to a troll in a sword fight."

Fieran drew deep into his chest and unleashed a crashing wave of his magic. In Rhohen's focus on the sword fight, he'd neglected his magical shield. Fieran's magic exploded through Rhohen's magic, consuming it in a mere moment, and tossed Rhohen backwards.

He landed on his back with an oomph , the sword flying from his grip.

Fieran couldn't help his smirk as he stepped forward. "I might be a lackluster sword fighting student, but I still have more magic."

Rhohen snarled, rolled, and snatched his sword from the ground. He launched himself from the ground, lifting the sword high as he ran at Fieran.

"Rhohen!" Uncle Rharreth's stern command boomed off the walls of the gully .

His sword still raised, Rhohen halted, his face twisted in a snarl. "Da…he…"

"It does not matter what Fieran did. You are responsible for controlling yourself and acting in an honorable manner. That means losing with honor." Uncle Rharreth strode closer, glimmers of ice magic glinting around his fingers. "I don't care who started this fight, I'm ending it. Rhohen, go back to your room and finish packing."

Fieran schooled his features and held out Rhohen's sword. He was not going to smirk at Rhohen getting lectured.

Something of his humor—okay, gloating—must have shown on his face for Rhohen glared as if he wanted to strangle Fieran. After a moment, Rhohen's jaw flexed, and he snatched his sword. He stalked away, murmuring not-so-under-his-breath, "I could have protected Dar Goranth by myself. He didn't need to come."

Uncle Rharreth sighed, though he did not speak until Rhohen had disappeared from view. "It is probably just as well Rhohen and I are leaving tomorrow. I'm not sure the island is big enough for the two of you."

"I shouldn't have antagonized him." While both of them knew better, Fieran had the first lieutenant's bar on his shoulder that said he was supposed to be levelheaded enough to lead Flight B. He should have been mature enough to keep a few of those comments behind his teeth.

Though considering the mere sight of Fieran's face tended to antagonize Rhohen, it wasn't like Fieran could have avoided all of that confrontation.

"No." Uncle Rharreth wasn't one to tiptoe. He was right. Fieran was due some of the blame. "But the fact that you could antagonize him proves he is not as ready to shoulder the protection of Dar Goranth as he believes. "

In a show of his superior maturity, Fieran wasn't going to comment about that, not even to agree.

Rhohen was about the same age that Fieran's dacha had been when he'd married Fieran's mama, was captured, and tortured. Young and not fully in control of his magic, but still considered an adult. Adult enough to marry.

Scary thought, that. Fieran's dacha must have been far more mature back then than Rhohen was now.

Uncle Rharreth shook himself, then clapped Fieran on the shoulder, the gesture firm enough that Fieran nearly stumbled under the force of it. "Well done at Bridgetown. I trust that you will protect Dar Goranth just as competently. I do not need to remind you of how leery the trolls are to trust the protection of their base to a squadron of humans and elves, including the son of Farrendel Laesornysh."

Fieran shifted, clenching his fists to keep his magic contained. "I've gathered as much. I doubt most of the trolls here put much stock in the protection of the Flying Corps."

"No, they don't. They believe the seaborne and airborne navies will be enough." Uncle Rharreth rested a hand on his sword's hilt as he strolled down the gully toward the base.

"They won't be." Fieran fell into step with Uncle Rharreth. "Bridgetown was a warning. The next attack will have much more force behind it."

As bad as the attack at Bridgetown and Calafaren had been, Mongavaria had sent a mere six airships. More than enough to take on an unprepared army base and unprotected town if Fieran hadn't been there.

But six airships were a drop in the bucket compared to Mongavaria's military might.

"Will the Alliance stick with the original plan?" Fieran was tall, but he still had to lengthen his stride to keep up with Uncle Rharreth .

Last Fieran had heard, the Alliance planned to hold a strong front at the Wall. As long as they countered whatever airborne units Mongavaria sent over, the Alliance could simply weather the war behind the Wall, forcing Mongavaria to exhaust their resources until they were eventually forced to ask for peace. If needed, the Alliance would invade, but only once Mongavaria was weakened from trying to fight a war over the Wall.

"I believe so, though there is some talk about what we can do as a retaliatory strike." Uncle Rharreth clenched his fists. "But if Mongavaria keeps targeting civilians, your Escarlish generals and politicians will experience great pressure to end the attacks. The trolls and elves are much more used to war, and they are far more pragmatic about how many civilians will get killed than the Escarlish are."

"Except for those older than seventy, the Escarlish people have never experienced a war." Fieran didn't add that, up until the little taste of it he'd gotten less than a week ago, he hadn't either.

He and Uncle Rharreth hiked up the ridge out of the gully, headed for the edge of the airfield. Fieran worked to keep his breathing even, not wanting to sound out of breath in front of his troll warrior-king uncle.

"The current Escarlish population might not have faced a war before, but after Bridgetown, they are out for blood." Uncle Rharreth's smile was that of a wolf on the hunt. "Something we trolls understand quite well. We've been eager for this war for nearly seventy years. We are not about to be denied now."

"The poisonings." Fieran resisted a shudder. He'd rather face a bullet than poison. He could incinerate a bullet, but he had no defense against poison.

"Yes, but not only that. We fight this war not just for revenge but also to prove our true honor." Uncle Rharreth halted at the edge of the airfield. "Kostaria might be a part of the Alliance, but we trolls have never forgotten that we became a part of the Alliance because we lost a war to the humans and elves. Worse, we were the ones in the wrong in that war. We have more to prove in this war—to Mongavaria, to the other Alliance Kingdoms, and to ourselves—than any of the other kingdoms."

Fieran felt that deep in his chest. Perhaps a need to prove oneself was more universal than one might think.