Page 30 of Fly to Fury (War of the Alliance #3)
Chapter
Seventeen
F ieran whipped one of his swords up to block Dacha’s strike.
His magic hummed through his veins, coursing through him even as he let some twine around his fingers and down his swords.
As his blade clashed with Dacha’s, their magic sparked against each other, a point of white-hot power that could explode outward if he and Dacha didn’t hold their magic in check.
The gray skies arched overhead, gathering clouds at the horizon threatening more rain. At least the waves of thunderstorms had broken long enough for them to get a practice in and for Capt. Fleetwood’s squadron to take to the skies for a few hours.
Dacha’s second blade stabbed toward him, and Fieran dodged, though he stumbled on the slick and squishy ground.
Giving Fieran no time to gather himself, Dacha whirled into that opening, his swords and magic sweeping Fieran’s away. Before Fieran could even take a breath, Dacha’s swords were at his throat and across his chest.
Fieran lowered his swords in surrender. Not that he’d expected any other result. The only person he knew who had defeated Dacha in single combat was Uncle Julien, and even then Uncle Julien disputed whether that defeat counted.
Dacha withdrew and sheathed his swords across his back. “Well done, sason.”
Fieran nodded and sheathed his own swords, his chest warming at his dacha’s words. In sword practice, Dacha never gave words that weren’t earned, whether critiques or praise.
To one side, Merrik’s and Uncle Iyrinder’s bout must have ended for the two of them had their weapons sheathed, though Fieran hadn’t seen the outcome. As they started toward Fieran and Dacha, Uncle Iyrinder’s gaze caught on something to the side, and he straightened.
Dacha whirled, though he relaxed a moment later, something close to a smile creasing his face.
Fieran turned. Then he grinned as he saw who dared approach their practice session.
Uncle Weylind strolled toward them with the graceful lethality of an elven warrior, his black hair flowing over his shoulders and down his back.
Faint silver embroidery edged his green tunic, the only nod to his status, while he wore a sword at his hip and a knife at his other side.
A cadre of elven guards trailed him, all of them wearing more traditional elven armor and leathers, armed to the teeth with swords, knives, and bows and arrows.
Dacha strode forward to meet Uncle Weylind, his smile broadening still further until something closer to a grin lightened his eyes and eased the hard lines of his face. He clasped Uncle Weylind’s shoulders in the elven hug. “Shashon.”
Uncle Weylind clasped Dacha’s shoulders in return and echoed Dacha’s greeting, the elvish word for brother used as much as a welcome and endearment as it was a statement of their relationship.
The sight twisted something inside Fieran. Would he ever share the closeness that Dacha shared with his brother with Tryndar? Fieran was so much older than his little brother. Old enough that he could be his father, if he’d gotten married as young as Dacha had.
Yet Uncle Weylind and Dacha had even more of an age gap between them, and they were close, their relationship honed through battle.
Fieran glanced over his shoulder to where Merrik stood beside Uncle Iyrinder. It wasn’t like Fieran had ever lacked for a brother. Long before Tryndar had been born, he’d had Merrik.
Uncle Weylind’s gaze swung past Dacha to Fieran, and his mouth tipped with a hint of humor on his face that could be hard to read unless one knew where to look. “I see I interrupted morning practice.”
That was Fieran’s cue to stroll forward. “And I got my butt whupped, as usual.”
Dacha seemed to sigh at Fieran’s use of the word butt in public while the elven guards gave a collective gasp at even that much coarseness around the elven king.
But Uncle Weylind’s hint of a smile almost seemed to widen, as if in fond tolerance. “It is good to see you, nirshon .”
His uncle used the elvish word for nephew the same way he and Dacha had said shashon moments earlier.
“And you too, Uncle Weylind.” Fieran exchanged shoulder hugs as well, tempting as it was to give Uncle Weylind a human hug. But the elven guards were looking horrified enough as it was, and Fieran might as well spare his uncle the proximity to his sweat and grime .
As Uncle Iyrinder and Merrik approached, Uncle Weylind gave each of them a nod. “Iyrinder. Merrik.”
The two of them gave deeper nods that were the respectful elven greeting to their king.
“Is everything well in the eastern forests?” Dacha’s smile faded, his stance returning to something more poised once again.
“Yes. The fires have been contained, and the bombings have ceased, at least for now.” Uncle Weylind’s mouth pressed into a tight line, emphasizing his severe features in a way his earlier smile had not. “Ryfon has the defense of the border well in hand.”
Ryfon, Fieran’s cousin and the heir to the elven throne, had been nearly grown when Fieran was born. Because of that, they hadn’t been close until recently as Fieran caught up to Ryfon in age.
“Then it is time to turn our focus to defense here.” Dacha’s tone held a grim note as he clenched his fists at his sides, transforming from a sibling glad to see his brother to the warrior Laesornysh.
“Yes.” Uncle Weylind faced the way he’d come, and his bodyguards hurried to step aside to clear his path.
Standing on the crest of the hill as they were and with the wall of bodyguards no longer blocking the view, the cluster of people waiting at the base of the hill came into sight.
Uncle Julien and Aunt Vriska stood beside the hangar as if waiting to greet Dacha.
Various adjutants buzzed around them, likely arranging all the meetings that would begin now that two of Escarland’s and Kostaria’s top generals were here.
If Uncle Julien, Aunt Vriska, and Uncle Weylind were all converging here at Fort Defense, something major was about to go down .
Fieran crossed his arms and shared a glance with Merrik. Whatever battle was about to commence, the Half-Breed Squadron would likely be called on to lead the charge.
Fieran waited in the lean-to attached to the end of the hangar, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his back pressed to the wall. Mostly to prevent himself from fidgeting.
After Uncle Weylind, Uncle Julien, and Aunt Vriska arrived yesterday, he’d been wound tight as he waited for whatever plan would soon come down the chain of command.
Dacha hadn’t even been able to get away long enough that morning for practice, leaving Fieran’s magic and nervous energy bubbling within him.
Merrik and Lt. Rothilion waited on either side of Fieran, both of them still as the trees of the forest on a quiet day.
Across the table from Fieran, Capt. Fleetwood paced while Capt. Kentworth pressed his palms to the table, studying the charts as if he could figure out the plan even before Colonel Dentley arrived. Their Flight commanders waited behind them, fidgeting more than Fieran was.
The door to the room opened, and Colonel Dentley strode inside, a grim set to his jaw. Lt. Busher hurried after him, clutching a clipboard with a rather large stack of papers.
The colonel marched straight to the table as all of them stood at attention. He almost casually dismissed them to stand at ease as he halted. “Well, gentlemen, now that it seems we have achieved something of air superiority, the time has come to finally strike back at Mongavaria.”
Air superiority caused by having Fieran and his magic in the sky, though Colonel Dentley didn’t say so. Capt. Kentworth shot Fieran a sour look, as if he resented Fieran for simply doing what was needed to win this war.
Fieran stepped away from the wall to take a spot at the table. Merrik and Lt. Rothilion matched his movement, and the three of them spread out along the side of the table across from Colonel Dentley.
Capt. Kentworth claimed the spot at Colonel Dentley’s right hand as if afraid of losing any shred of his seniority.
Capt. Fleetwood fell into place on Colonel Dentley’s other side while the four lieutenants spread out on either side and on the ends of the table.
Lt. Busher hung back, waiting to take notes.
“While the army has conducted a few small raids across the Wall into Mongavaria, they have held off recently to allow Mongavaria time to build up men and material within striking range.” Colonel Dentley tapped the map on the other side of the line that designated the Wall.
“Scouts have reported the Mongavarian Army has amassed here, protected by gun emplacements. The Alliance Armies are planning a large-scale attack to take out this army and their guns to clear the way for effective bombing runs deeper into Mongavaria once the new bomber aeroplanes arrive in a few weeks.”
Fieran swallowed as he took in the map. Dacha would be leading any major attack like that.
“Our task is to begin flying scouting missions over the Mongavarian lines to give the army the best intelligence that we can.” Colonel Dentley made a sweeping motion with his finger to indicate the whole area on the other side of the Wall from the mountains to the river.
“Won’t that alert the Mongavarians that an attack is imminent?” Fieran braced himself against the table as he studied the map.
Capt. Kentworth shot him another, even more sour look. As if he didn’t think Fieran should so much as open his mouth in a briefing like this.
But Colonel Dentley nodded, the set to his jaw even grimmer.
“It will. But headquarters has determined that knowing the lay of the land on the far side will be more beneficial than true surprise. We will vary our patrol times, as the weather allows, so that the Mongavarians might guess an attack is coming, but they will not be able to guess when it will be.”