Chapter 16

Sixteen

Fieran waited to one side of the long lines of massive guns that faced into the bomb range at Fort Charibert. All morning, the various guns had been booming as an army artillery unit aimed at various items set out in the bomb range. But about half an hour ago, the guns had fallen silent.

A single machine gun—similar to the type installed on the airships—stood at the far end, and it was the only weapon Fieran's unit was going to be rotating through certifying on today.

Fieran adjusted the army-issue earplugs that were stuffed into his ears. They were, at least, similar to the elven ones he was used to wearing at AMPC, though this mass-produced version was clearly of inferior quality.

There was a stir at the far end of the row of guns. Then a cluster of generals and high-ranking officers came into view, causing everyone in their vicinity to snap to attention and salute.

As Fieran saluted, he resisted the urge to groan. Among those generals was his uncle Julien, his thick red-brown beard and hair lacking any gray, though a few lines etched around his eyes.

Next to Uncle Julien strode Dacha in his elven leather and metal armor, his twin swords sheathed across his back.

Uncle Julien and the other generals saluted the recruits. Uncle Julien, at least, didn't search out Fieran in the crowd, though he must have been aware that Fieran was there. The less attention Fieran had drawn to him, the better, and Uncle Julien would know that, having once been a prince undergoing basic training himself.

"Fieran Laesornysh, step forward."

So much for not drawing attention. Fieran gritted his teeth on his groan and stepped forward out of line, keeping his gaze just over the lieutenant's head rather than look at Dacha or Uncle Julien.

"You have been placed on special assignment under General Laesornysh."

Now everyone standing there—not just his unit—knew he was being given special treatment because of his dacha. If the sergeants didn't make his life miserable once they were no longer under the gaze of Fieran's powerful father and uncle, then the others in his unit—those he wasn't friends with—would see to it that he received a bit of mild hazing.

Dacha nodded to Fieran, then strode past the machine gun, heading out into the bomb range.

Fieran followed, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder at his unit.

His dacha strolled into the bomb range, avoiding craters in the dirt, until they reached a spot marked with a green flag. Once there, his dacha turned, facing him.

This far from the others, they didn't have to be General Laesornysh and a lowly recruit. A brief smile twitched across Dacha's hard face as he swept a glance over Fieran. "Elontiri, sason. You are well?"

"Yes. Army life agrees with me." Fieran resisted the urge to hug his dacha. The others would see that, even from so far away. He was already going to get enough teasing for having his dacha pull him aside in front of everyone.

Dacha stepped forward, as if he was going to give Fieran a hug anyway, before a slight breeze kicked up and he halted, his nose wrinkling in that way it did when Dacha was disgusted by something.

The breeze curled around Fieran, and he got a whiff of his own body odor. He sniffed his armpit, then grinned at his dacha. "You don't have to say it. We've been out in the field for a week. I'm a little ripe."

His dacha made a non-committal noise, as if he didn't want to agree and say his son stank but he also didn't want to lie.

"Probably best if we avoid hugging." Fieran tilted his head to indicate the unit he'd left behind. "Besides, getting singled out like this won't help my standing with the guys."

"I am sorry for that, but you need this training far more than you need that." Any hint of a smile faded from Dacha's face as his eyes hardened. "Because of your magic, sason, you cannot simply be one of the lowly recruits. You will always be called upon to step forward and do more."

If only Dacha's words weren't so true. Fieran might have spent the past six weeks pretending he was nothing more than a normal recruit, suppressing his magic and ignoring much of the training his dacha had given him over the years.

But no matter how much Fieran wanted to pretend otherwise, he wasn't normal. He might grit his teeth at special treatment, but he couldn't hide from the fact that he was special. He had special written all the way down to his bones, and he couldn't escape that.

He also couldn't escape the burden of having to live up to the destiny placed upon him thanks to his magic and parentage.

Fieran nodded, then met his dacha's gaze. "I understand. So what's this extra training?"

Dacha faced the line of artillery guns pointed at them. "How to use your magic in battle."

Fieran swallowed and nodded.

Dacha had taught them how to incinerate bullets with their magic, but they stood off to the side while Mama fired at a target. It had felt more like a game, trying to incinerate the bullet before it hit the earthen berm. At the time, Fieran had realized only in the vaguest sense that the training was a precaution in case some crackpot assassin tried to shoot Fieran or his siblings.

But this felt far more real, standing there beside his dacha on the bomb range and staring down that intimidating line of guns, their barrels black and ominous. Despite his magic, Fieran shifted at the sheer vulnerability of standing there without so much as a helmet for protection.

Dacha reached into his pocket and pulled out two sets of the elven moss earplugs, handing one set to Fieran. "This will be loud."

Fieran took the earplugs and swapped out his cheap, army-issue ones for the better earplugs from his dacha. Beside him, Dacha tucked his earplugs into his ears, then motioned, probably to someone watching by the line of guns, to indicate that they were ready.

Dacha crouched, then unleashed his magic, the crackling blue bolts bursting around him, filling the air with the power of the ancient kings.

With a deep breath, Fieran crouched. He'd had his magic clamped so tightly in his chest for so long that it took a heartbeat longer than it should have to release his control.

When he wrenched away the tight feeling in his chest and freed his magic, it lashed around him, surging out of his control.

Dacha glanced at him, his eyebrows lifting. Dacha's magic kept Fieran's from getting anywhere close to hurting him or lashing too far out of control, the two magics sparking against each other wherever they touched.

Fieran grimaced, hearing Dacha's reproof without him having to say it out loud. Fieran should have known better than to keep his magic tightly repressed for so long, even if he'd had little choice in doing so.

The magic of the ancient kings never responded well to being restricted. Dacha had always told them growing up that they should regularly practice with their magic for their own physical, mental, and magical health.

After letting his magic rage for another heartbeat, Fieran reined it in as best he could, directing his magic to twine around him in a protective barrier.

With a boom that shivered through the ground, the farthest of the artillery guns belched smoke. Moments later, the ground shook as an explosion kicked up a spray of dirt behind them.

Fieran flinched, unable to suppress the instinctual reaction. Even after six weeks of army training, this was a step beyond anything he'd experienced. Those guns were aimed well above his and Dacha's heads, but it still felt precarious, facing down that menacing line of guns.

Dacha, of course, didn't flinch, his eyes flinty, his jaw hard. In that moment, he was more the legendary warrior Laesornysh than Fieran's dacha.

This was what it meant to be Laesornysh. How many times had Dacha walked onto a battlefield just like this, except the guns he faced were truly aimed at him? He'd done it alone, no one else capable of standing with him.

More of the guns boomed. The machine guns at the end—including the one manned by Fieran's unit—spat a line of lead into the air.

The bullets whined disconcertingly close over Fieran's head, and he ducked again. He barely bit back one of the crude words he'd learned in the past few weeks. He wasn't about to speak that kind of language in front of his dacha.

Dacha lifted his hands, though he kept his magic tight around him. "Expand the shield of your magic, sason, and incinerate the machine gun bullets."

Fieran unleashed more of his magic, creating a wall of magic in front of him and Dacha. The machine gun bullets punched through the magic, traveling so fast with such quantity that a stream of them got through.

Biting back a few more crude words, Fieran adjusted his magic, spreading it so that his magic formed a wall a good ten inches deep. This time, the bullets were sparking lights as he incinerated them.

"Now the artillery shells." Dacha remained poised as another gun boomed. Instead of letting the shell fall behind them, Dacha lashed out with his magic. Somehow, he seemed to catch the projectile with his magic, redirecting it and slamming it into the ground off to the side. The earth beneath Fieran's feet lurched with the explosion.

Dacha caught the next shell the same way, meeting Fieran's gaze rather than look at the shell as he slammed it too into the ground with an explosion of gunpowder and magic. "You can catch the shells with your magic, then change the trajectory to direct it to explode in the location of your choice."

Fieran nodded. The magically powered engines functioned because of the properties of magi-magnetism the magic of the ancient kings had. But right now, his dacha was teaching him to use his magic to turn an enemy's shells against them.

He spread his magic higher, not trusting himself to be able to snag one of the shells as easily as Dacha had.

Another gun boomed, and Fieran felt the shell as it flew into his magic. He wrapped his magic around it, but he couldn't get his magic moving around the shell quickly enough before the shell hit the ground, exploding on impact.

Fieran tried again, this time reacting more quickly and shifting the shell from its trajectory enough to slam it straight down on one of the old boats placed on the bomb range as a target.

"Yes!" He pumped his fist.

"Well done, sason." Dacha nodded, then tilted his head. "You have neglected the machine guns."

Some of the bullets from the machine guns were once again whizzing through Fieran's thinning magical barrier without being fully incinerated.

Fieran grimaced and strengthened the shield, even as he fumbled to grab the next artillery shell with his magic.

He had plenty of magic. That wasn't the problem. But it was harder than it looked to split his focus to both shield himself from the machine gun fire while re-directing the shells.

In a real battle, he would've been dead if he'd let his shield slip. But those standing behind him would be dead if he let shells through.

The rhythm of the booming guns changed, firing the shells even faster.

Fieran drew on his magic and let it surge from him in a way he'd never done before, not even in those morning practice sessions. There was nothing anywhere close to him that he had to worry about destroying.

The more magic he unleashed, the freer he felt. A laugh built in his chest at the heady, reckless feeling filling him. He'd never been this…whole. As if he'd been living with a part of him locked in a box.

Right now, he didn't have to hold back. No making himself less than he was.

For several more minutes, he caught and exploded numerous artillery shells, growing more confident with the practice until it was almost easy to just grab a shell from the sky.

At last, Dacha motioned to him, then shouted, holding his gaze, "There is one last thing I need to teach you. Send your magic behind us."

Fieran spread his magic into the straggling brush of the range behind them. As his magic coiled over the ground and around the scrub brush, he could get a vague sense of what the magic was touching. Dirt. Grass. Trees. He couldn't sense anything with the accuracy of someone with plant magic, but he could sense enough that he could have wiped the ground clean of plant life while leaving the dirt unmarred.

Then his magic encountered something else, just out of sight.

Bodies.

He yanked his magic back. "There are bodies out there!"

"Pig carcasses, yes." Dacha stated it flat and matter of fact, as if it was perfectly normal for dead pigs to be laid out in the bomb range.

Fieran reached out with his magic once again, letting it curl around the bodies. He wasn't a healer, so he couldn't sense more than the difference between tree and flesh. Yet there was still an impression of death that carried through his magic rather than the sensation of life that he could feel when he curled his magic around something alive.

Dacha's magic joined his, wrapping around one of the pig carcasses. Dacha's shouted words held a steely edge. "The army has taught you to kill, Fieran, but now I need to teach you to kill with your magic."

Fieran couldn't suppress the shiver that ran down his back, both at his dacha's words and the fact that he'd used Fieran's name rather than the warmer endearment of sason.

Perhaps it seemed harsh, forcing Fieran to practice this.

But Fieran understood the heart behind this gesture, even as he quailed at it. Dacha had been sent into war far too young. The first time he'd wrapped his magic around a body, it had been to kill a living enemy. He would not let Fieran walk into battle so unprepared.

Dacha held Fieran's gaze, his eyes so very hard and unflinching, as he clenched his fist. In the far distance, Dacha's magic incinerated the pig, leaving nothing but ashes behind.

Fieran drew in a steadying breath. Then he wrapped his magic around the carcasses, squeezed his eyes shut, and poured more power into the magic. He could feel his magic eating through muscle and blood and bone, and he let himself imagine that it was an enemy. That he was killing.

His stomach lurched, his breath hitching, but he didn't relent until the dead pigs were nothing but ashes, quickly eaten away into nothing by his magic.

Fieran released that part of his magic, exhaling in a whoosh. He opened his eyes, his breaths coming hard and fast, as if that had been physically taxing.

Dacha motioned again, and the artillery and machine guns fell silent. Dacha straightened, cutting off his magic so that it fizzled out into sparks in the air.

Fieran clamped down on his own magic, straightening from his crouch as his magic dissipated. In the stillness, he took the moss earplugs out of his ears, his heart still beating, sweat slicking his shirt to his back, as if he'd been through a grueling PT session instead of magic practice.

When Fieran could finally bring himself to meet Dacha's gaze again, Dacha's eyes searched his face, the hardness easing with that undercurrent of fatherly worry. His voice was low, regretful and a touch weary, yet carrying a note of pride. "Well done, sason."

"Linshi, Dacha." This time, Fieran didn't hold back. He reached out and clasped Dacha's shoulders in an elven style hug.

Dacha gripped his shoulders in return, nodding. Then his nose wrinkled, as if he smelled something foul, and he withdrew his hand. "You are still in great need of a shower, sason."

Fieran grinned, sniffing at himself. "If you're going to get me special treatment, perhaps you could get me a hot shower?"

"Do not tempt me." Dacha's mouth tipped with a hint of a smile. "I am a general, but you chose the Escarlish Army. I am not your general."

"I didn't think that one through." Fieran heaved an exaggerated sigh.

Then, together, the two of them strode toward that line of guns.

As they reached the others, Dacha gave Fieran one last nod before he strode away to rejoin the gathered generals.

Fieran turned and faced his unit, bracing himself.

About half the unit was openly gaping at him. Even Pretty Face, Lije, and Stickyfingers had their mouths hanging open, their eyes wide and awestruck. Tiny had his arms crossed. When Fieran met his gaze, Tiny gave him a nod of respect.

Only Merrik didn't appear completely overawed by what he'd just witnessed. He, after all, had grown up seeing the magic of the ancient kings all the time. Perhaps he had never personally witnessed Fieran and his dacha wield their magic quite like that, but he was not unfamiliar with their power.

Fieran gestured at himself. "I'm still me, guys. Don't look at me like that."

Pretty Face whooshed out an exhale, his gaze darting from Fieran to something—or someone—beyond him. Pretty Face spoke in a lowered tone, his shoulders slightly hunched. "I'm going to be beyond respectful of Fieran's mama."

Lije slapped Pretty Face's back. "As you always should have been, even without the threat of incineration."

Fieran shrugged as he sauntered closer. "It isn't my dacha you have to worry about. Thanks to their heart bond, Mama can use Dacha's magic. So all that incineration and exploding stuff? Yeah, my mother can do that too."

Pretty Face gave a little shudder. "Your whole family is downright terrifying."

Stickyfingers shook himself, then grinned as he slapped Fieran's back. "I'm glad you're on our side, Red."

Exhausted,Fieran climbed down from the truck that had carried them from the train station in Bridgetown to Fort Linder. Darkness had long since fallen on the fort, and after traveling all day, his body ached to collapse on his hard bunk and sleep for the few hours that remained until reveille. He stank of body odor after a week without a shower.

He dragged his feet as he marched next to Lije, his rucksack heavy on his shoulders.

The first few people in their column opened the door to the barracks, then halted. The drill sergeant barked at them to keep moving.

As Fieran shuffled inside, he nearly halted in the doorway before the sergeant's yelling forced him to keep moving.

The barracks in front of him looked like a whirlwind had gone through. All the wooden bunks were tipped over, the blankets and mattresses strewn about. The foot lockers were all out of place, and what appeared to be the contents of at least one footlocker joined the chaos. Items of clothing were tossed over everything, including a pair of skivvies hanging from the back door's handle, while cream-colored flakes of something smelling faintly of oatmeal and honey had been ground into the floor, the walls, and even their blankets and mattresses.

The drill sergeant stalked into the center of the barracks. "One of your fellow knuckleheads left his footlocker unlocked. You have four minutes." With that, he stalked out once again.

For a moment, everyone froze, staring at the disaster that was their barracks.

Then they all leapt into motion, still avoiding the center sergeant's zone.

Fieran dropped his rucksack near where his footlocker was supposed to be. He and Lije righted their bunk, then scrambled to help the others right bunks and place mattresses in place.

Fieran located his footlocker and heaved it back into place at the end of his bunk. Everything inside would be all tossed around, no longer arranged properly. But he didn't have time to rearrange it. Nor put the items from his rucksack away.

Lije spat a slightly naughty word, then tipped his footlocker back into place. The top was open, the green-painted wooden box entirely empty.

There was no time for recriminations or teasing. Fieran scrambled around the room, grabbing Lije's things and tossing them at him. Several others hurled items toward Lije.

Several people rushed outside, then returned with buckets of water. They sloshed the water over the floor while others took mops and scrubbed at the cream flakes, creating a flurry of suds. A few people doused the blankets, trying to wash them off.

Lije's mama's goatmilk soap. The drill sergeant must have taken the bars and ground them into the cement walls and floor until the bars were all gone. Worse, Lije had just gotten a fresh care package right before they'd left so the sergeant had plenty of soap to spread all over the barracks.

The more they sloshed water and scrubbed with the mops, the more soap suds billowed and foamed.

Fieran slipped on the wet, soapy floor, catching himself on a nearby bunk. Across the way, Tiny slipped and fell on his rear on the floor. The puddle around him froze into a slick of ice, as if he'd briefly lost control of his magic.

The drill sergeant swept back inside, barking at them to get into formation and chewing them out for not having the barracks cleaned, even though it had been an impossible task in four minutes.

Fieran slid into place before his bunk, standing at attention with Lije on one side, Pretty Face on the other. Merrik stood on the other side of Pretty Face.

The sergeant gave the order, and they all dropped to the floor for push-ups.

As Fieran lowered himself toward the ground, his palms slid on the soapy floor, and he had to slide them back into place before the drill sergeant yelled at him for doing push-ups incorrectly.

When he reached the bottom of the push-up with his nose nearly touching a section of foam, his nostrils and eyes burned with the lye. He'd never known the scent of oatmeal and honey could be an overwhelming stench until then.

Up he pushed. Out his hands slid. Down he went in his push-up. Out his hands slid again. His muscles burned from the extra exertion. Each time he slid his hands back and forth, he created more soapy foam, just making the floor even slicker than it already was. His hand bumped into Lije's, then into Pretty Face's on the other side.

Across the way, Sticky's hands completely slid out, and he ate it, smashing face-first into the concrete, the billowing suds doing nothing to cushion his fall. Another recruit—Stevens—also biffed it, landing with a splat.

Fieran's shirt trailed into the suds, growing heavier and sloppier the more water and suds it soaked up.

The sergeant gave the order, and they all had to roll on their backs and perform kicks, holding their legs out and clenching their abdominal muscles.

As Fieran kicked, he slid on the ground, inching ever closer to the sergeant's zone with each kick. He planted his hands on the floor, trying to hold himself in place as best he could before he crossed the line and ended up with even more PT.

Water soaked through his shirt to slick across his back. The back of his head rubbed in the soap, wetting his hair, while his eyes stung from the lye so much that he was blinking away tears.

By the time the sergeant ordered them to switch to sit-ups, the back of his shirt was gloppy and wet. As Fieran sat up, his shirt stuck to the floor for a moment before peeling away with a slurping sound. He had a moment when he was upright, and he caught a glimpse of the others, just as wet and covered in soap suds as he was. Then he flopped back to the floor with a splat.

Schloop. He sat up again. Splat. He lay back down. Schloop. Splat. Schloop. Splat. The entire barracks room echoed with the noise of dozens of men slurping and splatting in the suds.

When Fieran caught Stickyfingers' eye across the way, it was all he could do to swallow back his laugh. With the sergeant there, he couldn't chuckle. He couldn't even smile.

But this whole situation was so ridiculous. Their entire unit was doing PT in a sea of suds, their clothing making funny noises as they slurped and splatted. By this point, the entire floor was nothing but several inches of foaming bubbles and suds. Their blankets, rucksacks, and anything left on the floor was just as soaked and sudsy as they were.

After two hours of PT, the sergeant finally let them halt and marched from the room. But he only went as far as his room tucked in the front of the barracks, separated from them by a cement wall and a door.

Fieran rolled upright to sit in a puddle of soap suds. A drip of soapy water ran into his eye, causing his eye to burn. He fumbled for a dry part of his shirt. He couldn't find one, so he had to settle for squeezing that eye shut and hoping the burn went away.

Pretty Face swiped a hand through the mountains of soapsuds coating the floor. "Well, Lije, we all got a taste of your mama's soap."

Across the way, Stickyfingers grimaced and spat onto the floor. "Literally. I'm not sure I'll ever get the taste out of my mouth or the smell out of my nose."

Lije grimaced as he shook suds off his fingers. "This wasn't how I planned to share."

"At least we all got a good wash out of it." Fieran planted a hand on a nearby footlocker to steady himself as he slipped and slurped to his feet.

Merrik peeled himself out of a cloud of bubbles so thick he looked like a kid enjoying a bubble bath. Grimacing, he ran his hands down his legs to squeegee some of the soap off his army fatigues before he gestured at the mess before them. "Do you think you could clean this up with your magic?"

"Maybe?" Fieran took in the room. Incinerating the water and soap suds from the floor and walls shouldn't be too much trouble. "Everyone, stand on your footlockers for a moment. I'd like to try something."

Once everyone jumped onto the footlockers—creating sudsy puddles and footprints on their lids—Fieran pressed a hand to the floor. After all the practice with his dacha, his magic crackled from him in a surging, yet controllable tide as he swept it over the floor, then up the walls, letting it consume the soap suds and water.

Almost instantly, the entire room steamed up as if they stood in a sauna. Fieran scoured away the last of the soap suds as best he could before he clamped down on his magic once again.

Pretty Face waved at the clouds of water vapor. "Why didn't you just do that in the first place? Could have saved us a lot of trouble."

"It would have taken far more finesse to try to get all of the soap out of the cement, ground into it as it was." Fieran plucked at his shirt, the sticky, wet warmth of the fabric clinging to him in a way that was even more uncomfortable in the now hot and humid room. "I got as much as I could. We're still going to have a lot of cleaning to do."

Lije sighed, stepped off his footlocker, and reached for the nearest mop.

With one person standing with his ear pressed to the door dividing them from the sergeant's room, keeping watch in case the sergeant came back, the rest of them hurried to grab more buckets and mops, scrubbing the floor and the walls, trying to rinse with enough water to wash away the soap.

Fieran held the back of Lije's belt while Lije leaned way over the line and used the mop to squeegee the soap suds from the center sergeant's zone. Even now, alone as they were, none of them dared cross the line into that area of the barracks.

It took four hours, but they finally had all the soap cleaned up and the barracks set to rights, and Fieran could finally collapse into the damp and soap-smelling sheets and blanket on his bed for a few hours' sleep.