Chapter 18

Eighteen

Standing before the hangar, Fieran pulled on the leather cap, then his goggles.

Pip shifted as she stood next to him, glancing from him to the aeroplanes lined up.

As excited as he was to fly again, his stomach knotted to the point he was nauseous. This first solo flight was the most dangerous flight for any recruit, as proven by the accidents last week.

"I'm going to be all right." Fieran adjusted the goggles so that they didn't pinch the tips of his ears.

"I know. Just…" Pip dropped her gaze, then gestured at the nearby flyer. "Bring my flyer back in one piece."

"Of course." Fieran forced a grin. He couldn't let the accidents shake him.

He strode to the flyer he'd been assigned, climbed up using the toe step, and folded himself into the cockpit.

He went through the checklist, switching on the power, checking the magic power level gauge, and feeling the vibration of the propeller thrum through the aeroplane's frame and down into his bones. On the ground, the flyer was a hunk of wood, canvas, and metal, and it seemed nigh impossible that such a vehicle could hurl itself into the sky.

Before him on the airfield, Lije in his flyer tore across the grass, the biplane ungainly until it lifted into the sky, a bird set free to soar.

Fieran's heart hammered in his throat as he maneuvered his aeroplane from its spot off to the side to the end of the airstrip, where the ground crew placed chocks in front of his wheels. He sat there for several minutes, letting the engine and the propeller fully spin up.

Shading his eyes, the flight master peered into the sky at Lije's retreating biplane. Then, he waved to Fieran, stepping out of the way as he did so. The ground crew dashed forward and yanked out the wheel chocks. Immediately, his flyer rolled forward, seeming of its own accord.

Fieran's heart worked its way up into his throat as he faced down the end of the airstrip, his aeroplane hurtling forward faster and faster. One wrong move on his part, and he'd end up a flaming ball of wreckage at the end of that grassy field.

Despite the hammering of his heart, his hands on the control column remained steady, his toes tucked into the holds on the rudder bar. He'd only had a few hours' flight time in the two-seater with an instructor, but already the movements were familiar. Similar to driving his automobile, and yet different enough that he'd never mistake this craft for something designed to remain on the ground.

There was that brief weightless feeling as the flyer tried to lift off the ground before the wheels crashed back again. Fieran gripped the stick, timing his moment through every bump and shudder around him, as if he were sensing the flyer's wings and the powers of lift and thrust at work around him. It was almost like the way he could sense the world around him with his magic or the sensitivity of a warrior's hair that his dacha had tried to explain to him.

Now. He pulled back on the stick, and the nose turned upward right at the moment when the wheels left the dirt, the biplane carried upward by a wind that was hard as solid ground.

As the flyer hurtled higher into the sky, the wind rushed past his face, clawing at his exposed skin. The propeller's hum and the engine's whine formed a steady cadence in his ears. His heart steadied as a peace settled over him. All his fears had been left behind on the ground. Only the calm of the sky remained around him.

He fell into line behind Lije, who was behind two more flyers and the lead flyer piloted by Capt. Arfeld. They circled lazily as they waited for Merrik and two more recruits to pilot their flyers into the sky until they formed a flight of eight aeroplanes.

Once everyone was in the air, Capt. Arfeld waved the orange flag in the coded signals to order them to follow him. He led the way on a patrol west, and they traced the Hydalla River as it glittered and rippled in the early spring sunshine, the river swollen and muddy from the spring rains.

Bridgetown appeared below them, its streets laid out in a grid that appeared even more neat and orderly from the air than it did on the ground. The spring foliage of Tarenhiel's deep forests hid most of Calafaren from view, though bits and pieces of it appeared now and then in the meadows and squares. Between the two, the Alliance Bridge soared majestic and mighty over the Hydalla River, a firm connection between the kingdoms as if in defiance of the river and everything else that had once divided them.

Then they were soaring onward, past farm fields and grand estates that bordered the river. A few riverboats with jaunty red paddlewheels plied the river, skirting around the lumbering barges heaped with goods bound for Escarland from the port cities on Tarenhiel's coast. Or headed downriver laden with grain and Escarlish goods to be shipped by sea to Kostaria's northern shores.

Farther still, the cylinder shape of a dirigible smudged the sky as it headed north over Tarenhiel. Probably laden with another group of rich Escarlish tourists seeking a holiday cruise to see the wonders of Tarenhiel and Kostaria.

Everything looked so peaceful, so prosperous, as if most of Escarland hadn't yet gotten the news that war was coming, despite the doom and gloom filling the newspapers in the wake of Mongavaria's invasion of Groyria earlier that week.

Then again, what should the citizens do with the possibility of war looming over them? Cower in their homes, too scared to live for fear of what tomorrow would bring? Or should they go about living, defying fear?

Besides, it wasn't like the war would ever touch this far into Escarland. With his dacha's Wall keeping Mongavaria firmly on their side of the borders, an invasion wouldn't happen even in the event of war. The only thing Mongavaria could do was send over a few of their airships and drop a handful of soldiers on the other side of the Wall.

As much as the tensions were building, especially now that Mongavaria was marching into Groyria, war was still just as futile for Mongavaria now as it had ever been. They couldn't invade. They couldn't claim new territory. They couldn't hope to weaken the Alliance Kingdoms enough to take them out as a powerful player among the nations on this continent. Their steam and gasoline engines couldn't compete with the magical power of the Alliance Kingdoms. They didn't have any weapon that could match Dacha's magic.

All in all, if Empress Bella of Mongavaria were wise, she would call the whole thing off.

Which would be a bummer for Fieran. His life would become endless rounds of peaceful patrols along the borders, keeping an eye on Mongavaria even as the empire sought to expand into some other hapless nation's territory, like they were doing now with Groyria.

Though the thought of war didn't send the same sense of anticipation through Fieran it once had. Not after the deaths of Stevens and Baker. War would only cause more death. More of those he knew in his unit might die.

The flight of aeroplanes passed over the ruins of an ancient castle perched on a bluff over the river far below. Perhaps a castle from the early history of Escarland. Maybe it was even older than that, from ancient times when elves ruled an empire that spanned over what was now Kostaria, Tarenhiel, Escarland, the Mongavarian Empire, and beyond, all the way to the foot of the dwarven mountains.

More recent military fortifications perched on either side of the river, their artillery guns pointed downriver in the direction from which a Mongavarian fleet would appear, should they somehow get through the Wall and make it this far upriver.

Finally giving the signal to turn around, Capt. Arfeld led them in a wide arc, and they headed back the way they'd come, flying into the late morning sunlight as they headed east back to Fort Linder.

Fieran pulled down the extra lens on his goggles, painting the world in a tone of amber and changing the shades of colors on the circles painted on the wings of Lije's aeroplane ahead of him.

All too soon, seeming far quicker than their outward journey, they circled the sky above Fort Linder's aerodrome.

Capt. Arfeld pointed with his flag, indicating for one of the other pilots to land first.

Fieran's heart leapt into his throat again, but this time he wasn't thinking about himself. It was Lije's craft he could picture burning in a pile of wreckage. Merrik's.

The two flyers before Lije touched down without incident. Then Lije was lining up his biplane with the airfield, bleeding off speed, his craft growing wobbly in the air.

All Fieran could think about was the statistics he'd read in the paper once. That more of those early pilots died while trying to land than at any other time during flight. Recent days hadn't disproved those articles.

Lije came in, his aeroplane a little too far sideways, the wings on one side coming perilously close to the ground. Then he managed to right the craft just enough that it was the rubber wheels that touched down. The aeroplane swerved, sliding on the short grass into the weeds alongside the runway. As the wheels snagged on the weeds, the flyer tipped forward. It was caught on the skids out the front, standing on its nose for a breathless, aching moment before it crashed back onto its wheels. Not on the airfield but unscathed at least.

After a moment Lije climbed from the flyer and waved at the sky, signaling that he was all right.

Fieran released a long breath, flexing his fingers on the control column as he followed Capt. Arfeld in circles high above. Below, the ground crew gathered around the biplane and pushed it out of the weeds and across the field, back to the hangar.

Once they were well away from the airstrip, Capt. Arfeld waved the orange signal flag again, pointing to Fieran to order him to land.

Fieran circled one last time, controlling the craft with both his feet on the rudder bar and his hands on the control column, using the loop to descend closer to the ground. When he lined his nose up with the airfield, he had bled off enough speed that the aeroplane felt heavy, less like a nimble warbird and more like a lumbering hunk of machinery.

He tried to keep his senses attuned to the craft and regain that sense of oneness with his aeroplane that he'd had before.

A slight breeze kicked up off the ground, stirring in eddies. It tried to shove his flyer over, and he resisted the urge to overcorrect the other way, instead gently leaning his biplane back the other way. Another gust sent his whole aeroplane into a sudden drop, jerking at the stick in his hand.

Gently now, even as he fought the forces that threatened to both drop his aeroplane too fast to the ground and yet also snatch it back into the sky.

The ground rushed up, closer and closer. Then his wheels touched the dirt, the stick nearly jerking from his hand as the grass seemed intent on wresting control of the biplane from him.

The forces yanking on the biplane lessened as his momentum slowed, the forces of gravity and friction winning over all the others. The tail skid dug into the ground, further stabilizing and slowing the aeroplane.

Fieran slowly turned the flyer as it jounced over the ground, heading for the hangar. Once he was just outside, he cut the engine. The flyer creaked and rolled to a crunching halt.

Fieran released another long breath, not quite sure if he was bleeding off adrenaline fueled by exhilaration or terror. Perhaps a mix of both.

He'd survived his first solo flight. Only a few more hours in the air, and he'd be able to pass his training as a pilot. Only a few more weeks, and he'd have his wings pinned to his chest.

He levered himself out of the cockpit and shakily climbed out. As his feet touched the ground, he turned just in time to see Merrik land his plane in a perfect touchdown on the grass.

Pip halted next to Fieran, glancing from him to the aeroplane behind him. "I see you brought my flyer back in one piece."

"Yep. Not a scratch on her." Fieran patted the biplane's fuselage, then grinned at Pip, even as the ground crew claimed the biplane to wheel it into the hangar.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if war never came. Maybe Mongavaria would realize the futility of going to war with the Alliance Kingdoms. Or their aged queen would finally stop living on vengeance and vitriol, and her heir wouldn't be as keen to fight the Alliance Kingdoms.

Fieran wouldn't mind if life continued like this for a while. Low-key flirting with Pip. Flights over the countryside. Weekends spent with the guys and Pip in Bridgetown.

That wouldn't be such a bad life, even if it meant he'd live in his dacha's shadow forever.