Chapter 6

Six

After eight hours, Fieran was ready to climb onto the top of the train to get some fresh air and stretch his legs.

But that was something he could only do on his parents' private train. Public train conductors got a little nervous when their passengers wandered about on the roof.

At last, the train sped toward the city of Bridgetown as the setting sun cast long, orange beams across the rippling water of the Hydalla River, which formed the border between Escarland and Tarenhiel.

On the Escarlish side of the river, the nearly flat, open plains gave way to tall brick buildings clustered in the tight, neat grid of a city that had only sprung into existence in the past seventy years.

On the northern side of the river, the dense Tarenhieli forest grew right up to the water's edge for as far as anyone could see. Directly across the Hydalla, the elven city of Calafaren—which meant Bridgetown in elvish—was grown into the trees. Unlike most elven cities, this city was designed with human tourists in mind, so everything had handrails and was kept far closer to the ground.

Between these two sister cities, the graceful stone arches of the Alliance Bridge spanned the Hydalla River, as it had for the past sixty-nine years, a monument to the close friendship between the three kingdoms.

When it had been built, the Alliance Bridge had been intended for train traffic. It had served that purpose for forty years before it was converted into lanes for automobile traffic, with one lane set aside for pedestrians and bicyclists.

The trains, both cargo and passenger, had been diverted to the eastern side of Bridgetown where tunnels beneath the Hydalla River took the trains north into Tarenhiel.

As the train swept past the outer edge of Bridgetown, Fieran all but pressed his face against the glass of the window.

In Bridgetown, everything was new and vibrant, from the fresh paint on the street signs to the pristine tarmac of the asphalt roads. Automobiles with shining chrome, sweeping fenders, and open carriages zipped up and down the streets, honking as they dodged around the few horse-drawn carriages that dared venture into Bridgetown. Red-and-white-striped awnings covered little patios where groups of people chatted as they sipped sodas and enjoyed the first pleasant day of early spring.

Trolls, elves, and humans strolled along the sidewalks or poured out of a cinema, mingling in a way that they did in no other city in any of the three kingdoms. Human women in bustled and puffed-sleeved dresses strolled through the many green spaces and parks inside of Bridgetown, passing elves in traditional silken tunics and trousers. Human men wearing bowlers paused to talk with trolls wearing trousers and shirts in the human style along with more traditional troll leather vests.

Fieran loved Bridgetown in a way that he did few other places in all three kingdoms. Estyra was stuffy and slow to change. Aldon was old and dirty.

But Bridgetown was the future, its streets paved in the peace of this golden age, its very design a testament to a modern era.

And sure, there were just a few too many monuments to his parents for Fieran's liking. One couldn't turn a street corner in Bridgetown or Calafaren without smacking into some memorial, monument, or museum dedicated to the Alliance. But Fieran was willing to overlook that one flaw in his favorite city. It came with the territory of having rather famous parents.

The train whistled and shuddered slightly as the air brakes engaged. The wheels squealed as the train slowed, finally coming to rest with a hiss of air and clang of metal at the station in Bridgetown.

No sooner had the train squealed to a rolling halt than the train's door slammed open and a well-built man wearing a drab green uniform hopped into the car. His short hair stuck straight up, and his eyes flashed with such fire that the front rows of young men quailed even before the man began shouting at a volume that rang in Fieran's ears. Fieran couldn't even make out what the man was saying besides a general impression of loud.

Next to Fieran, Merrik flinched, his hands twitching like he wanted to plug his ears.

"Move! Move! Move!" The drill sergeant—for the man yelling could only be the infamous drill sergeant Fieran had been warned to expect—stalked down the aisle as the young men on the train stumbled to their feet and rushed to bail out. "Move, you lazy slugs!"

Then Merrik, Fieran, and Lije were on their feet and hustling off the train. No steps had been lowered, so Fieran had to jump to the platform. He landed lightly, as did Merrik. But Lije nearly fell, and Fieran grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet.

On the platform, another drill sergeant was shouting and herding the recruits into straight lines while the passengers from the other cars gawked. A cordon of soldiers in uniform kept this section of the platform clear.

Fieran, Merrik, and Lije hurried to step into line, staring straight ahead lest the drill sergeant notice their straying gazes and come back to yell at them.

Once everyone from their train car had disembarked, they marched from the platform to the street, where a line of green army trucks waited. Each truck had a small cab with only enough room for a driver and passenger. Then the back bed had a canvas top and benches on either side.

Fieran, Lije, and Merrik managed to climb into one of the trucks together, and Fieran found himself smushed between Merrik and the back wall of the cab.

As the truck lurched into motion, Fieran peered between the cab and the flapping end of the tarpaulin. As the truck rumbled forward, the towering buildings gave way to rolling hills, fields, and stands of forests, the trees still stark and bare at this time of year.

Then a tall, wire fence came into view as the truck slowed. Two Escarlish soldiers barred the way, and one stepped up to the truck's cab to briefly exchange a few words and papers before he waved them through.

Fieran's knees bounced as he swiveled as much as he could on the bench to take in Fort Linder. A collection of both wooden and cement buildings were laid out in a grid even more precise than that of Bridgetown. Fifty years ago, the old, outdated outpost on the hill in what was now Bridgetown had been closed and turned into a museum. Fort Linder had been founded east of the growing town, situated along the river with the intent to provide protection for the vital rail and communication hub between Escarland and the two Alliance Kingdoms to the north.

Three flagpoles stood at the center of the military base with Escarland's red and white flag in the center and slightly higher than Kostaria's gray and white banner and Tarenhiel's green and silver flag on either side.

On the western side of the base, a field had been mown short, the dead winter grass plastered close to the earth. The stretch of shorter grass ran in a long, straight line, almost like a road.

Not a road. An airstrip. A biplane with its wood frame and canvas-stretched wings was lowering from the sky before it touched its wheels onto the ground, bumping along before the rear of the aeroplane fell onto the wooden tailskid. The tailskid dug into the earth, slowing the aeroplane.

Soon, that would be Fieran, coming in for a landing. Climbing out of the cockpit with that little extra swagger that pilots had.

Fieran's bouncing knees grew worse, so much so that Merrik nudged him with an elbow. Even then, Fieran didn't quite manage to stop his jitters. How could he when they were finally here? In a few weeks, they would take to the sky at last.

The trucks slowed, then parked in the central square beside the flagpoles.

The yelling began again, and all of them bailed out of the trucks onto the cement-paved parade ground, standing in front of a large, cement building with a rusted metal roof. All around them, more cement buildings with metal roofs spread out in neat rows in all directions. The sides of the buildings were labeled with letter and number combinations.

They were instructed to line up, then yelled at some more until they lined up to the drill sergeant's satisfaction.

Then they were left there, standing in their stiff, neat rows, their bags and packs of belongings at their feet. A cold wind swept between the concrete buildings and straight through the thin coat Fieran had worn. He hadn't bothered to dress any warmer. He hadn't realized he would be left standing outside in the early spring cold for hours, unable to do more than watch the sun set while the night breeze blew with a chill swept up from the nearby river.

After they had been standing in the cold for nearly three hours, darkness having fully descended, the drill sergeants, who had been pacing and yelling at anyone who broke into noticeable shivering, marched them into the large building and assigned numbers. Each of them was issued a clipboard with a few sheets of paper on it.

From there they were herded into a room where they were told to write down their last will and testament, along with If I Die letters for their families.

Fieran stared at the blank pieces of paper, not sure what to write. Oddly enough, he didn't have much of his own to will to anyone. If he died, his stake in the AMPC would be absorbed back into the company. Any of the estates and titles he would inherit from his parents would go to his siblings. All there was left to do was designate his savings and personal funds to one of his parents' charities, and that was that.

The If I Die letter was harder. He'd spent far more time contemplating glory and grand battles than the possibility of death.

But maybe that was the point of having all the recruits sit down to write a letter like this, right before starting their training.

Finally, Fieran wrote something cheesy about loving all of them and hoping they wouldn't mourn forever since he died doing what he loved.

It wasn't like he was in much danger of dying, even if he was sent into war. Sure, flying was a bit more dangerous even for those with magic, thanks to the propensity of aeroplanes to crash.

But Fieran wielded the magic of the ancient kings. He was about as invincible as it was possible to get.

Once the recruits were done with their wills and letters, they handed the items over to a secretary, who recorded their numbers and how many letters and so forth they had.

Once done, they were herded into the next room and ordered to strip to their undershorts. All their civilian clothes—civvies—and any items they weren't allowed to have were bundled into a wooden locker, not to be seen again until they were finished with basic training. Each item in the locker was, of course, inventoried and recorded.

Standing in their undershorts, they were sent through a series of stations for the various medical examinations, certifying that they were healthy. Then came a round of vaccines, each one meticulously checked off on the clipboard.

Fieran approached the next nurse in line. After the first few stations, he'd quickly gotten over the awkwardness of walking around in nothing but his undershorts in front of a bunch of female nurses, doctors, and even an elven healer. Behind him in line, Merrik's ears were permanently red with embarrassment.

Fieran handed the nurse his clipboard. "Sixty-six."

The nurse set his clipboard aside, reaching for the next prepared hypodermic needle. This one held some kind of brown, sludgy substance, and that needle looked suspiciously larger than those of the previous vaccines that had been jammed into Fieran's arms. In a nasally monotone, the nurse gestured to him. "Turn around, drop your shorts, and bend over."

"Pardon?" Fieran froze as he tried to process the order. Was she telling him what he thought she was saying?

The nurse eyed him with utter boredom. "By order of all three kings of the Alliance, all soldiers, warriors, and civilian contractors stationed on base are to receive vaccinations so that in the case of war the elven healers can focus on healing wounds rather than staving off disease. You are not exempt even as an elf."

Fieran could only imagine the resistance there must have been among the elven warriors for this particular vaccine, if it involved getting the shot in the rear end rather than the arm. "I know, and I'm only—"

"The vaccines have been tested and certified by a team of elven healers." The nurse spoke as if she'd said the same speech multiple times.

This was what he'd signed up for. All bodily autonomy went out the window the moment he signed that enlistment paper. The army owned him—body and vaccines and all—until his enlistment was up.

One of the drill sergeants was headed in their direction. Fieran hurriedly turned his back to the nurse, dropped his shorts, and presented his rear end to her.

A moment later, the needle the size of a sword stabbed into his butt cheek with such force it seemed the nurse was trying to jab all the way to his hip bone. The viscous substance hurt as it pushed into him, and Fieran gritted his teeth against the pain.

Finally, the nurse withdrew the needle. Fieran yanked up his shorts, telling himself that he was not going to rub his butt no matter how much his stab wound hurt.

The nurse initialed the clipboard, then handed it back to him. "Next."

Merrik had gone white, though his ears were burning red. He handed over his clipboard, mumbled "Sixty-Seven", turned around, dropped his shorts, and bent over as if he had to get it over with before he could chicken out.

Fieran didn't see Merrik actually get jabbed as he stepped into a hallway. He waited in a short line before he was ushered into another room where three chairs stood, barbers with clippers waiting behind each.

He sat in the first chair, and the barber set to work on his red hair. As Fieran already kept his hair short, it wouldn't take much to get it to regulation buzz cut length.

Merrik stepped into the room, and somehow his face paled further. He straightened his shoulders, marched to the chair next to Fieran's, and sat down rigidly, his long, elven style hair flowing over his bare shoulders and back.

Fieran tried to tilt his head and catch Merrik's eye, but the barber grabbed the top of his head and forced him to look forward.

Out of the corner of his eye, Fieran could only watch as Merrik gripped the armrests of the chair with white knuckles, his jaw set, and stared straight ahead as, snip by snip, the barber cut off the warrior-long hair Merrik had worn all his life.

Fieran couldn't quite swallow back the sour taste rising in his throat. This struck home far harder even than writing that If I Die letter. Flying was his dream, but Merrik was the one sacrificing for it.

It was far too late for Fieran to tell Merrik not to follow him, not this time. It had been selfish of him to leap into this, just expecting Merrik to follow, without even stopping to think of the cost Merrik would pay to do so.

The barber working on Fieran's hair finished far faster than the one hacking away at Merrik's hair, so Fieran was rousted from his chair, told to brush off, then sent on to the next room long before Merrik was finished.

In the next room, Fieran joined a cluster of some of the other recruits. There, he was issued his uniforms and could finally dress. He was given two sets of uniform fatigues, matching drab green undershirts and undershorts, socks, and two pairs of boots.

The sergeant had him unlace one pair of boots, put a knot in the middle of the laces, then re-lace so that the knot was visible. Fieran was to wear the Knot Boots and the Not-Knot Boots every other day so that the other pair would have a chance to dry out. The sergeant would be checking that they wore the correct pair of boots on the right day.

Fieran packed his rucksack with the gear he'd been issued, following the barked instructions.

No sooner had he finished packing than the drill sergeant grabbed the rucksack and dumped it out, yelling out orders to repack the rucksack in between profanities that Fieran would have been squirming to hear, if he hadn't been so busy scrambling to repack the bag.

Fieran stumbled as the man next to him bumped him in his scramble to stuff his items back into his bag. Dodging the others, Fieran repacked his rucksack, only to have the drill sergeant dump it all out again amid yelled curses and insults.

Merrik joined him, and soon the two of them were packing and re-packing their rucksacks until the drill sergeant was finally satisfied.

Sweating and prickling with pieces of hair still stuck to him, Fieran lugged his rucksack down the hall, Merrik just behind him.

At the end of the hall, a sergeant barked orders, directing everyone without magic to the left and those with magic to the right. A recruit who must have been half-troll entered the room, followed by one human who must be some kind of magician.

Inside the room, part of the room was walled off by protective glass. Inside the protective bubble sat a complicated apparatus of wires and machinery. In front of the bubble, a technician stood before an array of dials, buttons, levers, and flashing lights.

Fieran grimaced, recognizing the device. Uncle Lance developed it as a way to measure a person's magic level. Uncle Lance had been obsessed with coming up with a way to quantify Dacha's otherwise unquantifiable magic, and he'd finally figured out a magical scale that was exponential rather than linear. That scale—the Marion Scale—became the universal way to judge magical power levels in the three Alliance Kingdoms.

The problem was that the device before him wasn't designed to test magic as powerful as Fieran's.

It wouldn't have to be, normally. Most human magicians rated only a 1 to 5 at the highest. Even less powerful elves or trolls were 6 to 10. The more powerful elves and trolls were often up to 13. Only trolls or elves like Fieran's uncles Rharreth and Weylind could get up to a 15. Anything beyond that was a range only shared by Fieran, his dacha, and his siblings. Oh, and one of his cousins.

The half-troll stepped into the protective bubble. When the technician nodded, the half-troll called up his white ice magic that swirled around his hands before spreading along the wires. Some of the lights flashed, beeps sounded, and something whirred. The technician made a few notes before he gestured to the half-troll and shut down the magical sensor.

A clerk by the door handed the human recruit's clipboard back to him, then turned to Fieran. "Number?"

"Sixty-six." Fieran handed over his clipboard. "I—"

"Type of magic?" The clerk wasn't even looking up at him.

"Magic of the ancient kings."

The clerk's gaze snapped up to Fieran, even as he scowled. "That is not listed as an option. Please give your correct magical designation."

"Magic of the ancient kings. It's what the elves call it."

"Hmm." The clerk checked the box listed as Other. He waved Fieran into the room as the technician was finishing the test for the human. "Proceed."

"I can't. That testing device isn't rated for my power level." Fieran gestured to the device.

The clerk rolled his eyes. "There's no need to lie to avoid having your magic tested. There's no embarrassment in having a low level of power."

"I'm not lying. I'm telling you, I will destroy the device if you try to test my magic." Fieran jabbed a finger at the machine. "That magical testing device isn't built to accommodate my type of magic, much less my level of power."

"You are required to submit to having your magic tested." The clerk was speaking through his teeth now. "Are you refusing an order?"

"No, I'm not. I'll go blow up your machine if you want me to." Fieran couldn't help the note of frustration in his voice.

"Is there a problem here?" The sergeant's voice boomed from behind Fieran.

The clerk pointed at Fieran. "This recruit is refusing to submit to the magical testing."

"No, I'm not, Drill Sergeant. I'm just—"

"Did I give you permission to speak, knucklehead?" The sergeant marched over to Fieran, yelling into his face. Or as much as he could since he stood several inches shorter than Fieran.

"No, Drill Sergeant." Fieran kept his eyes focused above the sergeant's head.

"Drop and give me fifty."

"Drill Sergeant?"

"Are you hard of hearing, elf? I said fifty. Push-ups, Red, push-ups. Better make that a hundred, you dunderheaded elf. Do you want me to make it two hundred?"

"No, Drill Sergeant." Fieran dropped to his hands and feet. It took several tries before he had his back, toes, and hands all positioned to the sergeant's satisfaction. Only then could Fieran begin his count of a hundred.

When he sneaked a peek, he found Merrik standing just inside the doorway, unable to hide a smirk.

The sergeant must have caught Fieran's glance because he whipped around to face Merrik.

Merrik didn't wipe the smirk off his face fast enough.

The sergeant jabbed a finger at him. "You. Fifty."

"Yes, Drill Sergeant." Merrik dropped to the ground and began his own set of push-ups. He must have been paying attention when the sergeant was yelling at Fieran because he got his hands, toes, and back in proper posture almost right away.

"Drill Sergeant?" The technician was holding a clipboard, glancing from it to the clerk, then to Fieran.

"What?" The sergeant glared at the technician.

The technician quailed, clearing his throat. But he didn't step back. "He's correct. Our testing device is not rated for his power level."

"Then get your hands on one that is rated for him."

"I'm afraid that isn't possible. The only one rated that high is a permanent installation at the Alliance Magical Power Company in Aldon. It can't be moved."

Fieran had to work hard to keep his face blank. The last thing he wanted to do was smile in vindication, only to find himself doing another hundred push-ups.

A hundred push-ups wasn't anything too strenuous for him. His half-elf blood and training with his dacha every morning saw to that. But two hundred might be a stretch.

For a moment, the sergeant just glared at the technician, as if he wasn't sure how to handle this situation. Then he spun back to Fieran. "Red, what is your magical power level?"

"Nineteen, Drill Sergeant." Fieran didn't pause in his push-ups.

The clerk's eyes bugged at that. After all, the scale only went up to twenty—a power level reserved solely for Fieran's dacha.

But the technician quickly scribbled that down, as if to get it recorded before either the clerk or the sergeant came up with any objections. "I can verify that is correct. As part of the training for certification in magical testing, we visited the AMPC and used their magical testing device. I didn't personally test Fieran Laesornysh's magic, but I was present. I tested his sister's, and she is also rated at 19 on the Marion Scale."

Fieran's stomach dropped. Up until this point, he had just been a number on a clipboard. Once everyone put it together who he was…

The sergeant crossed his arms with a grunt, his brows lowering as something in his eyes flashed with understanding. He glared down at Fieran. "Make that a hundred and fifty."

"Yes, Drill Sergeant," Fieran said between counting out his push-ups. He would be a target for the drill sergeants as word spread that he was special because of his famous parents and family.

Merrik finished his push-ups first, meekly handed over his clipboard to the technician, and stepped into the testing bubble. It was a familiar routine, and Merrik probably could have just told the technician his rating as well. But he didn't have Fieran's excuse and wouldn't want to risk another round of push-ups.

Fieran finished his hundred and fifty push-ups as Merrik stepped from the testing bubble, his magic rating a 9.2. It wasn't hugely powerful by elf standards, but he wasn't incredibly weak either. A perfectly average amount of plant growing magic.

The technician held out Fieran's clipboard with a slight nod.

Fieran didn't recognize him, but AMPC had visitors all the time for various reasons, from internships for magical engineering to the certifications for the magical testing devices. He had helped run the magical testing simulations several times so that the trainees could get a taste of what testing powerful magic was like—important so that they knew the warning signs if the machine was about to be overpowered by the magic they were testing and, hopefully, they could shut it down before anything exploded.

As Fieran retrieved his clipboard, he glanced down at it. Underneath the checkmark for Other, the technician had written: Magic of the Ancient Kings.

At least Fieran's magical designation was now accurate. Not sure if it had been worth a hundred and fifty push-ups, but oh, well. It wasn't like he'd had much of a choice about protesting. He would have blown up their machine if he'd obeyed the order, and he probably would have gotten even more push-ups for that.

Or, perhaps, that had been the point. He was supposed to blindly follow orders, even if it led to a bad outcome. Like blowing up a highly expensive magical testing device.

Fieran and Merrik stepped into the next room, joining the end of the rather long line. For a moment, they were far enough back to avoid the drill sergeants.

Merrik elbowed Fieran, though he kept his voice low. "Not even through processing yet, and you already got us extra physical training."

Fieran shrugged, stretching out his arm muscles before they tightened up after all that exercise. "I'm beginning to understand why my dacha laughed when I told him I joined the army. What did your dacha do?"

"Warned me that my friendship with you was going to be hazardous to my health," Merrik muttered as the line shuffled forward.

Fieran didn't have a chance to respond since a drill sergeant was patrolling the line, and he and Merrik had to go back to blank-faced silence.