Chapter 7

Chapter

Seven

" T est Eleven," Fieran called out before he switched on the old, rattling Garrumon Model 2 aeroplane.

Pip jotted a note on the paper on the metal clipboard she held. Merrik stood beside her, a pair of field glasses in his hand so that he could better observe the practice run. The other mechanics clustered a few feet away, also holding clipboards for their own notes.

This was strangely familiar to the routine Fieran had back at his dacha's company—the Alliance Magical Power Company—when testing new engines or other inventions. It had been one of his favorite parts of the job…when stuff blew up. When stuff didn't blow up, it had gotten tedious. He'd chafed under all the restrictions and proper protocol.

Now he was doing everything all over again, just for the army.

Strange how it didn't chafe as much, as long as he was working with Pip.

The aeroplane rolled forward, its nose pointed toward the end of the airfield facing the interior of the island. Stacked haybales with paper targets pinned to them sat at the end of the airfield.

He bumped and bounced toward it, not moving fast enough to lift the aeroplane off the ground. As old and brittle as this outdated aeroplane was, it might just disintegrate if he tried to fly. He wasn't so sure it wouldn't shake to pieces the first time he fired the machine gun that had been mounted to its nose.

Once he drew close enough, he released the control stick with his right hand—still keeping it steady with his left—and reached for the machine gun's trigger.

The deafening chatter of the machine gun cut through the morning. Hay puffed while large rents appeared in the paper target. Hot gunpowder residue blew back into his face, peppering his skin everywhere that wasn't protected by his goggles.

Another crack sounded, this one louder and closer.

Fieran released the trigger, then grasped the stick with both hands again to swing the aeroplane in a long, arcing turn before rumbling back the way he'd come. When he neared the hangar, he cut the engine and let the aeroplane roll the last few feet.

As the ground crew hurried to chock the wheels, Fieran pushed up his goggles and levered himself out of the cockpit. He jumped to the ground just as Pip and Merrik approached.

The three of them stood before the propeller as it slowly spun to a halt.

Pip reached up, and Fieran sensed her magic building before she cast a small shield of her magic. One of the propeller blades clunked into the magic, forcing it to stop. Pip released her magic, then gestured. "Looks like you hit your propeller several times. This one here is pretty banged up. A few more hits like that, and this blade would sheer off."

"Not unexpected." Fieran sighed and took in the bullet-riddled propeller blade. It was the problem everyone had been running into while trying to mount guns onto aeroplanes, and the reason Fieran had been piloting this particular test aeroplane. If the propeller broke apart and came back toward him, he could incinerate it with his magic rather than be hit in the head with shrapnel like anyone else would have been. "But I suspect we'll find a gun mounted like this is more accurate to fire than one on the wing."

He gestured toward their other test aeroplane, another Garrumon Model 2. This one had a gun mounted to the upper wing with the lowering track Pip had devised curving from the upper wing down to the fuselage so that the pilot could reload and clear jams. Lije currently sat in the cockpit, letting the engine spin up.

"Accuracy does not matter if we shoot ourselves out of the sky," Merrik oh-so-helpfully pointed out as he reached up and rested a hand on the propeller. A hint of his green magic flowed into it, and Fieran suspected that he was examining the integrity of the wood after the hits it had taken.

"True. And it isn't like a lot of accuracy is needed to punch holes in an airship's balloon." Fieran crossed his arms. "But the whole point is to figure out a way for aeroplanes to do more than take random potshots. We need to be accurate enough to take out the machine gunners or disable the airship significantly in some way. Otherwise there is no point in even arming the aeroplanes, and we should just leave fighting airships to our airships."

Not something Fieran wanted to contemplate. The flyers were faster and more maneuverable than the large, drifting airships. He firmly believed aeroplanes would play a bigger role than mere scouts, as many in the military still believed.

"Beyond that, the wing-mounted guns have a few problems." Pip tapped her pencil on her clipboard, her eyes also fixed on the end of the airfield. "The Yshendar aeroplanes favored by the Tarenhieli Flying Corps have a more forward upper wing, allowing for an upper gun mount. But the Soarwings currently used by the Escarlish Flying Corps have their upper wings too far back for a sliding gun mount to work. Not to mention, the upper wing gun mount still isn't short person friendly, even with the lowering track."

Fieran glanced at her. "How so?"

"While you were spinning up, we had the other pilots all sit in the other test aeroplane." Pip gestured to where Lije lined up his aeroplane at the end of the airfield. "The shorter pilots struggled to reach the trigger, and Stickyfingers couldn't reach it at all. Once some kind of firing mechanism can be attached to the control column, that won't matter, except that it would still be difficult for shorter pilots to reach the lowering mechanism in case the gun jams or needs reloading."

"Not much of a problem for the generally tall elven pilots, but not something recommended for Escarlish flyboys." Fieran waved to Lije, giving him the signal to start his run.

Lije waved back and shouted, "Test Twelve!"

Pip made another note on the paper on her clipboard.

Fieran stopped talking as Lije's aeroplane lumbered down the airfield. Next to him, Merrik lifted the field glasses.

As Lije neared the end of the airfield, he opened up. He'd be aiming for the higher of the targets on the haybales, the ones that were set up to be in line with the trajectory of the wing-mounted gun vs. the one on the flyer nose.

Without field glasses, Fieran was too far away to see any of the puffs from the haybales, but spurts of dirt kicked up on the hillside beyond the target.

"It is hard to tell, but I believe he may have hit the haybales once or twice out of that volley." Merrik had the field glasses pressed to his eyes. "The rest went high."

"Still shooting high, then." Pip scratched a few more notes. "Though I'm not sure we can lower the gun's muzzle without risking it also hitting the propeller."

Merrik lowered the field glasses as Lije ended his run and turned back toward them. "It also seems to have a wider spray pattern. The upper wing does not appear to create as steady a gun mount as the nose does."

Another strike against trying to mount a gun on the upper wing. Yet that still didn't solve the main problem keeping them from mounting a gun on the nose.

"Any thoughts on how to fix the propeller problem for the nose-mounted guns?" Fieran waved to his test aeroplane.

"Ideally, there should be an engineering solution to the problem. Perhaps tied into the firing mechanism that will need to be reworked into a trigger on the control stick." Pip sighed and tucked her clipboard under her arm. "But that will take time. For now, I'm thinking something a bit inelegant but simple. If we reinforce the blades with iron plates, the bullets should just bounce off."

Fieran nodded, running the calculations through his head. "The angle of the blades should cause the bullets to ricochet to the side, but we'll want to test to be sure."

Another test he would have to conduct himself. He could incinerate any bullets that strayed toward him .

"I could further reinforce the wooden propellers with my magic to help them take the strain of repeated hits." Merrik gestured at the aeroplane before them. "I know the elven pilots already reinforce their aeroplanes with their magic as a point of practice."

"Perhaps we can talk a few pilots from Flight A into helping so the burden doesn't rest solely on you." Fieran already internally gritted his teeth at having to approach Lt. Rothilion.

Or, perhaps, Fieran wouldn't beg permission. He'd just casually ask a few of the pilots on the side and hope they didn't get in trouble.

Once their aeroplanes finally arrived, that was. The Escarlish military seemed to be taking their sweet time about it.

"Aylia will help." Pip kept her voice low, as if she, too, wasn't so sure Lt. Rothilion would authorize such a thing. "She seems to be a bit on the outs with the other elves in her Flight."

"I noticed." Fieran straightened his shoulders as Lije's aeroplane rolled to a halt at the end of the airfield near them. "Let's try the metal plates and see if that is at least a functional solution until the engineers in Aldon can figure out a more permanent option."

Perhaps he'd give Louise a nudge in that direction in his next letter. Between her, Uncle Lance, and the others at AMPC, surely one of them could figure out a mechanism.

It would take time. Time they didn't currently have. All Fieran could hope was that Mongavaria wouldn't attack before the Escarlish aeroplanes arrived.

Fieran strode out of the hangar and into the chilly mist clinging like a blanket over the whole island. Wearing a fur-lined leather coat that went to his knees and long boots that went above his knees, he was covered from head to toe to stay warm enough while on patrol. A leather hat buckled under his chin while his goggles perched on his forehead, waiting to be pulled over his eyes. The silk scarf—early aviators had discovered that silk chafed less than wool—wrapped around his neck.

Here on the ground, he was just about roasting, but he would be thankful for the layers once in the air.

If only he was flying himself. But today, he was merely a passenger, with a bulky camera in hand instead of the control column.

As he approached the two-seater aeroplane waiting at the end of the airfield, Lt. Rothilion turned toward him, a curl twisting his mouth. "Finally deign to show up, Laesornysh?"

"It wasn't like we could have taken off if I'd arrived any earlier. There wouldn't have been enough light for scouting." Fieran plastered a smile on his face, but he couldn't work up any genuine pleasantness to it.

Lt. Rothilion's face twisted into an even more sour expression as he spun on his heel and stalked toward the aeroplane. "Then let us not waste any more daylight."

As Fieran would like to get this over with as quickly as possible, he had no arguments there. He waited while Lt. Rothilion slid into the front seat before climbing into the rear seat where the wings wouldn't block his view. He rested the camera in his lap and pulled his goggles over his eyes.

Lt. Rothilion flipped the switch to turn the aeroplane on and let the engine spin up before he motioned for the ground crew to remove the chocks.

Fieran's heart beat harder in his chest in that familiar, rising anticipation of taking to the skies once again. He hadn't flown in an aeroplane since the Battle over Bridgetown. He'd missed it. And yet there was a little bit of something extra raw there too. This wasn't just about the skies or the excitement anymore.

Lt. Rothilion pointed the nose of the aeroplane into the wind rising off Dar Goranth's harbor.

Fieran gripped the camera in his lap tighter, his legs braced in the tiny compartment afforded the passenger of this two-seater. Unlike the airfield at Fort Linder, which was huge and flat and bordered by more flat fields, this airfield ended rather abruptly in a cliff. Any mistakes in takeoff would lead to the aeroplane tumbling off and crashing amongst the buildings of the port.

It didn't seem like a great design, but there weren't many open, flat places to build an airfield near the Dar Goranth base.

Lt. Rothilion pushed the aeroplane to full power as it shook and rattled its way down the airfield, bumping along over the grassy hillocks. The craft grew light around them, lifting off the ground, then falling back.

Fieran braced himself, flexing his fingers with the need for that control stick in his hands, the rudder bar at his feet. It took everything in him to grit his teeth and avoid yelling instructions on how to fly to Lt. Rothilion.

The elf lieutenant didn't need a backseat pilot. He gauged the moment and pulled back, pointing the nose toward the sky just as the aeroplane lifted off the ground.

They roared into the air, rising into the sky well before the cliff's edge. The wind buffeted Fieran's face, frigid and biting, yet so freeing. Riding as he was with Lt. Rothilion, he suffocated his urge to whoop.

Lt. Rothilion kept the aeroplane's nose pointed skyward as they climbed higher with agonizing slowness. As they climbed, Fieran peered over the side.

Brenzuk and Urixidor Islands were dark smudges on the horizon. Long white wakes marked the passages of the various ships—both warship and merchant ship—making their way through the various channels.

Fieran leaned over, gripping the square camera tightly as he used the dial to adjust the large lens. He snapped a few images of some of the ships. Once the pictures were developed, they would be good for training.

Once they finally reached a high enough altitude, Lt. Rothilion leveled the aeroplane off. As they cruised over the two islands, winds shook the flyer, tossing it about. Once the aeroplane steadied, Fieran took a few pictures of the islands and the layout of the icebergs scattered through the channels.

They turned to fly along the sea lane that stretched from the ports of Kostaria and Tarenhiel to the kingdoms on the far continent. A handful of cargo ships steamed together in a cluster, clouds of dark smoke billowing from their funnels as they hurried at full steam ahead to reach a safe port.

In the past few days, word had reached Dar Goranth that Mongavarian warships had already begun harassing shipping headed for the Alliance Kingdoms, especially around the elven port of Sylmare that shared the same bay at the mouth of the Hydalla River as one of the major Mongavarian ports.

A few Alliance warships had been dispatched to deal with the threat, and some minor ship-to-ship skirmishes had occurred. But no major battles yet, and it seemed that Mongavaria was still holding back the bulk of their navy.

Likely for an attack on Dar Goranth, along with a full-scale battle with the Alliance Navies. A showdown was coming where Mongavaria and the Alliance would determine who would rule the seas. Or the Danorbic Ocean, at the very least.

Fieran tried to settle more comfortably on the hard seat, snapping the occasional photograph. They passed over a warship, the lack of funnels and billows of smoke showing that it was a magically powered vessel. A Kostarian battle cruiser, based on the silhouette, though he couldn't tell from this distance if it was the KS Vanguard .

Perhaps flying high over the ocean wasn't the time to hash this out, but Fieran wasn't one to just sit there in silence when he could be talking. Or shouting to be heard, as the case might be.

He leaned forward and shouted, "Look. We're going to have to work together as the leaders of our squadron. What happened between my aunt and your uncle was a long time ago. Let's leave it in the past and move forward."

For a moment, Lt. Rothilion remained staring forward. Had he even heard Fieran over the roaring wind with his leather cap pulled tight over his ears?

Then he turned his head and shouted back, "It is not my family who has continued the rift. It is your uncle who refuses to return favor to my family before the court."

Perhaps Uncle Weylind was not the most forgiving when it came to those who had hurt one of his siblings. But it wasn't like Lt. Rothilion's family had eased their stuffiness or stopped ostracizing Fieran's dacha because of his illegitimacy.

"Besides," Lt. Rothilion continued, his voice somehow laced with contempt even while yelling, "it is not your family to which I object. I find it disgraceful that the magic wielded by the storied kings of old should be sullied in the hands of a half-breed. "

Fieran sighed. That always was the sticking point with the most prejudicial of the elven court. It just stuck in their craw that the most revered magic in all elvendom would find itself first in the hands of an illegitimate prince, and now in the hands of his half-human children.

As much as Fieran wanted to give Lt. Rothilion a little taste of his magic—here in Kostaria, he probably wouldn't even get in trouble for such a minor attack on a fellow officer—Fieran forced himself to smile, even though Lt. Rothilion couldn't see it. But the smile could carry through in his voice.

When Fieran spoke, his tone was cheery with only a trace of the sarcasm he couldn't fully hide. "Glad we could clear that up. It's comforting to know that this is, indeed, quite personal. Good to know where I stand and all that."

Lt. Rothilion didn't bother to reply, and they spent the rest of the scouting flight in silence.