Page 32 of Fly to Fury (War of the Alliance #3)
Chapter
Eighteen
F ieran positioned his aeroplane at the head of the formation, keeping his speed low to match that of the two-seater aeroplane tucked in the center.
He reached deep into his chest and unleashed his magic, casting it around his aeroplane, then shoving it backward until it latched on the aeroplanes of his squadron in a network of protective power with the otherwise unprotected two-seater shielded by the rest of them.
This was the Half-Breed Squadron’s second scouting patrol over the enemy lines.
More torrential rains had kept all squadrons grounded the day before, even if the airship with the book tour had managed to lift off to proceed on its way, but this morning the sun peeked over the horizon to a clear sky.
This early, fog curled over the ground below, obscuring its features, especially in the lowest-lying areas.
They likely wouldn’t get good quality photographs, but that didn’t matter so much as keeping up the patrols. They still had two days until the planned attack, so any photographs they took now would likely be outdated by then anyway.
Half of Capt. Kentworth’s squadron also patrolled the skies, keeping up the aerial protection over Fort Defense, even though Mongavarian aeroplanes hadn’t been seen in weeks. A few of the pilots gave Fieran and his men jaunty salutes as they sped past, but most ignored them.
The Wall and the Chibo River flashed below their aeroplanes, then Fieran and his pilots were over the Mongavarian countryside. Just like at Fort Defense, the land had been chewed into soupy mud by army vehicles, horses, and thousands of marching feet.
The gun emplacements surrounding the sprawling Mongavarian Army complex boomed, filling the air with bullets that sizzled as they struck his magic.
Fieran swung his aeroplane lower, and his squadron followed, trusting him to keep them shielded as they flew straight into the teeth of the guns.
Gathering more magic in his chest, Fieran pressed the talk button on his control column. “Ready for attack.”
He could hear both Merrik and Lt. Rothilion giving the orders to the pilots to arrange them for their attack run.
Colonel Dentley had gotten permission from headquarters for the Half-Breed Squadron to take out the gun emplacements, and they’d used the first round of scouting flights to plan this attack.
Groups of pilots peeled off to head for the various guns scattered around the Mongavarian Army encampment. A cordon of aeroplanes remained around the two-seater, protecting it higher in the sky.
Fieran let his magic crackle out of him as the distance between him and the other aeroplanes of the squadron stretched. But the wires laced with Pip’s magic helped him keep his hold on the aeroplanes without slipping, even as he expanded his net of magic over the sky .
When he was nearly right over the gun designated as his target, Fieran put his aeroplane into a steep dive. He aimed his machine gun at the far larger gun barking its shells at him and pressed the trigger.
His machine gun spat bullets, some of them pinging off his propeller, most of them streaming forward. Merrik matched his movements, his machine gun chattering.
Fieran followed both trails of bullets with his magic, pouring more power into the sky until the bullets and his magic reached the gun below.
A stack of shells and cordite charges waited on a cart next to the gun. Fieran reached for those with his magic, quickly incinerating through the canvas surrounding the cordite. The explosion tore through the shells and the gun, dirt and shrapnel pummeling upward into the sky.
The pressure wave battered Fieran’s magic, but the shield of his power kept his aeroplane from being blown out of the sky.
Pulling back on the control stick, Fieran willed his aeroplane to claw its way back into the sky, even as the others began their runs on the rest of the guns.
His concentration split, feeling as fractured as shattered glass as he unleashed his magic over all the aeroplanes and down their streams of bullets. Reaching…stretching…finding earth, metal, cordite.
More explosions rocked the camp below, and clouds of dirt and fire burst upward into the sky. The squadron peeled away, climbing higher into the sky again.
As the dirt and smoke settled, an elven voice—the pilot deemed steady enough to fly the two-seater with the army scout in the back seat—spoke over the radio. “Photographing in three…two…one…”
Fieran drew back his magic from the center of the guarding formation, providing an opening for the scout to take photographs.
He mentally counted to three before he let his magic slam back into place.
After counting to four, he opened his magic again.
He repeated the counts, varying the timing on the random pattern they’d set before taking off.
As Fieran’s aeroplane regained elevation and the rest of the squadron formed around him, Fieran peered over the side at the destruction he and his squadron had wrought.
The gun emplacements were gone, leaving nothing but craters and smoking, mangled remains behind.
Yet even more tents and bunkers filled the Mongavarian front lines than the last time Fieran had flown over. Perhaps they’d brought in more reinforcements in response to the scouting flights, knowing it meant that the Alliance was preparing for an attack.
Then again, reinforcements for the Alliance had been pouring in as well, with trainloads of men disembarking every day.
Both sides were preparing for a cataclysmic encounter, and Fieran would witness all of it from the sky.
Pip polished the tools on her cart, pretending she wasn’t listening in on the mechanic working as a radio operator as he spoke with Fieran and his squadron.
Her stomach knotted, even though destroying the guns and scouting the Mongavarian encampment was nothing too strenuous for Fieran and his magic.
But Capt. Kentworth had lost a pilot on his last scouting mission, and two of Capt. Fleetwood’s aeroplanes had been hit, the pilots currently in the hospital.
Fieran and the squadron should be safe. Yet this was war. It was always dangerous, even with the protection of the magic of the ancient kings.
As she reached for another wrench, her brother Mak appeared at her side. He picked up the wrench first, holding it out of her reach. “You’re going to polish these tools to nubs if you keep working at them like that.”
Pip rolled her eyes and flapped her polishing rag at him. “It doesn’t work like that, and you know it.”
Mak raised his eyebrows. “Well, there was that time…”
“Lose control of your power and deform a wrench one time…” Pip dropped the rag on the cart and crossed her arms. She snapped her mouth shut and turned her head to hear better as Fieran’s voice crackled over the radio.
“Mission complete. Turning for home.”
Pip released some of her pent-up tension, but she wouldn’t fully relax until Fieran and the flyboys were back on the ground.
“You need to tell him.”
She turned back to her brother to find him regarding her with a softly protective look in his deep brown eyes. “What do you mean?”
Her deflection must not have been convincing because Mak just kept studying her. “You know exactly what I mean. Do you really want Fieran to fly into battle again with things between you as they are?”
Not really. But if she had that conversation with him, he might walk away. Watching him fly into battle after that would be far worse.
Pip hugged her arms over her stomach. “I don’t want to ruin things right before battle.”
“I’ve seen the way Fieran looks at you. I don’t think you’ll ruin things if you speak up.” Mak waved the wrench at her as he spoke. “I could be wrong on that, but matters like this are always worth the risk. Especially in times like these.”
Was it worth it? There was the risk Fieran would be so convinced that he would be distracted that he would walk away, for the good of the squadron.
And he might be right. Or she’d say something, only for war to claim Fieran as it had others in the squadron during the battles at Bridgetown and Dar Goranth.
And yet she didn’t regret coming to know her flyboys. She didn’t regret the trips into Bridgetown, the donuts and ice cream in Dar Goranth, the tourist photographs in Little Aldon. If she lost one of them, she’d only regret that she hadn’t savored the time she had more.
If she felt that way about flyboys who were nothing but friends, how much more should she give her heart to Fieran, even knowing she could have it broken before the war ended?
But she wasn’t about to admit that to her brother.
Pip tightened her crossed arms as she faked a glare at her brother. “I still don’t know why I’m taking romance advice from you. You have no more courting experience than I do.”
Mak shrugged his broad shoulders, his grin obvious within his beard. “But I have more life experience than you.”
“By only a handful of years.”
“They were very formative years.” Mak rocked back on his heels before he tilted his head. “Looks like this is your chance. The squadron has returned.”
A burst of laughter came from the doorway as Fieran strode inside, surrounded by Merrik, Lije, Pretty Face, and the others.
Fieran had already removed his flight cap, leaving his red hair tousled and spiked in that way that tempted her to run her fingers through it.
He looked steady on his feet, the amount of magic he’d used not nearly enough to weary him.
She drew in a deep breath, all of her twisting tight. Surely she could do this. It was just talking with Fieran. She did it all the time. Just not about relationship stuff. Not a conversation that could solve or ruin everything.
But maybe…not right this moment. If she marched up to Fieran right now and told him she wanted to talk, everyone would see them go off together.
No, she’d get started on inspecting the aeroplanes. Fieran would find her. He always did.