Page 10 of Fly to Fury (War of the Alliance #3)

Chapter

Five

F ieran fumbled around his tent in the darkness of the morning, not yet used to the space enough to get dressed and ready for the day by feel.

His cot stretched along one canvas wall while a small table and chair were tucked against the corner on the other side.

His footlocker with his clothes and personal items sat beside it, leaving only about a foot of walking space down the center of the tent.

Even at the tent’s tallest point, he couldn’t stand fully straight.

At least he had a tent to himself, as the squadron’s captain. Strange, not to be sharing with Merrik, as he had since joining the army.

Merrik and Lt. Rothilion, as the Flight commanders, each got their own tents as well. Everyone else crammed two people into one of these tents.

Once dressed, Fieran strapped his two swords onto his back, the weight familiar and yet no longer fitting as it once did.

It didn’t help that his uniform lumped beneath the straps for his swords, no matter how he adjusted the fabric. Unlike his dacha’s uniform, his wasn’t tailored to accommodate swords.

As Fieran stepped from his tent, the flap on the tent next to his opened, and Merrik stepped out. He wore his practice sword as well with a dagger at his side.

They fell into step between the tents, and Fieran managed not to speak until they were past the tents and partway around the side of the hangar. “I see your dacha insisted on morning practice too.”

“Yes.” Merrik tugged at the end of his uniform shirt. Perhaps his weapons weren’t sitting right over his uniform either.

Once they were past the hangar, they hiked into the rolling hills that ascended into the taller Whitehurst Mountains in the distance.

As they crested the first rise, Fieran stood at the edge of a bowl formed of the surrounding hills, mostly open except for a few stands of trees.

Not surprisingly, both of their dachas already waited at the bottom, warming up by going through sword stances.

“Ready to get our butts handed to us?” Fieran flexed his fingers, then stretched his arms over his head.

“It will be good to have more consistent practices again.” Merrik strode down the hill first. Perhaps he really was eager for a practice bout.

As they neared the bottom, Dacha strode to meet Fieran, gesturing that he should head to the right. Uncle Iyrinder directed Merrik to the left, putting enough distance between them that they wouldn’t interfere with each other’s practices.

Dacha nodded to Fieran, his swords already in his hands.

Fieran drew his swords, taking a moment to stretch out a few more of his muscles before he dropped into a fighting stance facing Dacha.

Without so much as a flicker in his hard eyes and far harder expression, Dacha stepped forward, swinging his swords so quickly they were nothing but a blur.

Fieran clamped his mouth shut before he muttered one of the words he’d learned in the army and danced backwards. He’d forgotten how fast his dacha was. Fighting his cousin Rhohen and Lt. Rothilion was nothing like facing Dacha.

Barely getting his swords up in time, Fieran struggled to find the rhythm of the fight. He’d started on the wrong foot, and now it was all he could do to keep up.

This would never do. He was better than this, even out of practice. Not to mention, he was in better shape now than he’d ever been.

He dug deep into his magic, letting a little of it flood through his veins as he had during the fight with Lt. Rothilion.

Something inside him steadied. His gaze sharpened. His muscles strengthened. It felt as if the world around him slowed.

When Dacha struck again, Fieran dodged one blade, parried the other, and swung his own forward so quickly that Dacha had to throw himself to the side in a way he’d never had to before when fighting Fieran.

Dacha’s mouth twitched with a hint of a smile, a gleam cracking the otherwise hard edge to his eyes.

Then he somehow moved even faster, striking even harder.

Fieran let more of his magic fill him as he lunged and parried, struck and dodged.

He kept up with his dacha as best he could.

Magic sparked over his fingers and danced along his swords, but he didn’t lose any more control than that, even with his magic so flooding his veins that his vision went blue.

In a blur of movement, Dacha whirled past Fieran’s guard, shoving both of his swords aside. The next thing Fieran knew, he had a blade to his throat.

Fieran lowered his swords, admitting defeat. He panted for breath, sweat trickling down his face and between his shoulder blades.

Yet across the sword from him, Dacha, too, had a sheen of sweat by his hairline, and he breathed hard. For the first time in his life, Fieran had actually put up enough of a fight to be somewhat of a challenge for his dacha.

Dacha relaxed and stepped back, taking his sword away from Fieran’s neck. “Well done, sason.”

“Linshi.” Fieran resisted the urge to brace his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Instead, he kept a hold of his swords, pacing slightly so that his muscles didn’t cramp as he cooled down. “What was that? It’s like I can fuel myself with my magic, and I get stronger and faster.”

“You discovered how to tap into your magic in a deeper way.” Dacha, too, continued moving, although he appeared to lack the restlessness that still churned inside Fieran.

“But why couldn’t I do it before?” Fieran didn’t ask the real question. Why hadn’t his dacha ever taught him this skill? It was unlike Dacha to neglect to teach a facet of their shared magic.

“I suspect it takes the forging of battle to develop the necessary oneness with your magic.” Dacha’s gaze drifted away from Fieran to stare at the mountains beyond him. “I attempted to describe the skill and sensation to you and your sisters, but you never understood until now.”

Fieran couldn’t remember Dacha’s attempts to teach him this. But he hadn’t always been the best student during morning practices. Too restless. Too cavalier about his magic and his sword skills.

He’d grown up surrounded by all the uses for his magic besides battle. He’d filled power cell after power cell. He’d experimented with engines and inventions for turning his magic into mechanical power. In his mind, his magic’s use had first and foremost been for its power to fuel machines.

But Dacha had been right, back at Bridgetown in the wake of that battle. Elves with their magic were born for battle. The magic of the ancient kings could not be fully understood or wielded outside of war.

Fieran swallowed, something raw rising inside him. He was a weapon, even if he’d never seen himself that way before. A sword could be used to cut cake or decorate a wall, but that would never take away the fact that at its heart, a sword’s purpose was to kill.

“No, I didn’t. I couldn’t.” Fieran stared down at the swords in his hands.

He’d never seen them run red with blood, but he had plenty of blood on his hands.

He’d already killed hundreds with his magic, and he’d kill more before this war was over.

“Are those with the magic of the ancient kings always doomed to war no matter what we do?”

Were his sisters doomed to follow in his and Dacha’s footsteps? Adry likely wouldn’t fight such a thing. She itched to do just that. But Fieran couldn’t picture his sister Louise on the frontlines, facing having to kill as he had.

Was she, even now, having to wield her magic to protect Aldon from bombing?

“Perhaps.” Dacha halted next to him. “But as long as evil exists, as long as there is a desire for empire and domination, the world itself is doomed to war. Someone must fight to protect others, no matter how brutal, ugly, and bloody such a duty is. ”

Fieran nodded, that weight still settled in his chest.

“Fieran, sason, we fight for those who cannot. We fight for those who remain behind.” Dacha gestured in the direction of the rest of Escarland.

Then he changed the wave of his hand to take in the sprawl of Fort Defense.

“And we fight for our fellow warriors here. Would you ask them to go into battle without you?”

No, he wouldn’t. Fieran’s stomach churned worse at the thought of sending his squadron—Lije, Pretty Face, Stickyfingers, Tiny, Aylia, and all the rest, yes, even Lt. Rothilion—into the sky to face the Mongavarian guns without the protection of his magic.

Perhaps Dacha read the hardening of determination in his expression, for his stance eased, his tone lighter. “Come. Let us continue our practice.”

Fieran released a breath and rolled his shoulders to try to release the tension there.

Instead of facing Fieran, Dacha turned toward the rest of the hollow. Uncle Iyrinder and Merrik strode toward them, both of them already covered in a sheen of sweat.

As they drew closer, Dacha gestured from them to Fieran. “Two on two?”

Uncle Iyrinder nodded, his chestnut hair the same color as Merrik’s flowing over his shoulders.

No question how they’d break out. Merrik came to stand next to Fieran as Uncle Iyrinder joined Dacha.

Fieran shared a grin with Merrik. The two of them were about to get whupped, but he didn’t care. He’d take having Merrik at his back any day.

Pip couldn’t hold back the spring in her step as she strode from the sturdy wooden building that formed the quarters for the female pilots and mechanics, across the small stretch of straggling grass, and into the door of the hangar that led to Bay 3.

Stacks of miscellaneous crates, random parts, and bolts of canvas for airships filled half the bay. The half nearest the door to Bay 4 had a few scattered aeroplane parts and pieces, including a half-disassembled engine.

Stepping into Bay 4, Pip took in the hubbub as her mechanics bustled around the aeroplanes of Flight B, finishing the last checks after the long flight from Dar Goranth to Fort Defense.