Page 20 of Winds of Death (War of the Alliance #4)

Chapter

Eleven

H is aeroplane’s wheels touched down on the familiar airfield on the bluff, the grass so dead and brown that clouds of dust billowed behind him and coated the pristine paint of his new aeroplane. When he turned his aeroplane, he had to steer it into the dust cloud to head toward the hangar.

The bombers were already parked in a long line beside the hangar, their wings too wide to fit inside the double doors. Along the right side of the airfield and perpendicular to the current hangar, the frame of a new building was going up. Probably a hangar for the new bombers.

Fieran let his aeroplane roll to a stop before the door to Bay 4. The ground crew dashed forward to claim his aeroplane even before he unbuckled himself and his swords.

He started to lever himself out of the aeroplane, but a spasm seized his leg muscles. He gritted his teeth and fell back into the aeroplane seat.

Bother. He’d known that long flight was going to be hard, but it turned out he wasn’t nearly as back to full strength as he’d hoped.

“Captain?” Lije appeared at his side, balancing on the footstep. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Fieran sucked in a breath as he kneaded first one calf muscle, then the other. “Muscles locked up. That’s all.”

With another steadying breath, Fieran braced his hands on the sides of the cockpit and levered himself upright.

Once Lije stepped down from the aeroplane, giving Fieran room, Fieran swung his leg over the side.

His toes found the step, and he grabbed his swords before he lowered himself from the aeroplane to the ground.

If he kept a hand on the wing to keep himself steady, hopefully no one would notice.

The heat from the summer sun beat down on him, almost instantly roasting him within his layers of flight clothing. He peeled his goggles and cap off as a mob of flyboys rushed from the hangar.

They halted before him, pausing to give him a proper salute. The elves followed at a slower, more orderly pace before they, too, saluted.

Fieran leaned against the aeroplane behind him so that he could lift his hand from the wing to return the salute.

He took in the familiar faces, something in his gut easing at the sight of each one.

Lije with his gap-toothed grin. Pretty Face with a smirk twitching his thin mustache.

Tiny with hints of his ice magic playing around his fingers.

Stickyfingers standing on tiptoes to see past the others. Aylia, Murray, and more.

Except…

“Where’s Lt. Rothilion?” Fieran glanced over the assembled squadron, even as he peeled off his far-too-warm flight jacket. Lt. Rothilion and a handful of elven pilots were missing. “And the others?”

“They’re on patrol.” Lije grinned, as if there was something humorous about that.

After shucking his flight boots and setting his gear on the wing, Fieran slung the straps of his swords over his shoulders and buckled them in place with a few practiced moves. The weight settled against his shoulders, familiar yet not comfortable.

He eyed his grinning flyboys. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing too important.” Pretty Face smirked, as if he and the others shared an inside joke. He pointed upward. “Actually, looks like Lt. Rothilion is coming in for a landing. You can see for yourself.”

An aeroplane soared overhead, the engine humming, the propeller setting up that deeper thrum, as it lined up on the airfield, which was now cleared of bombers and other aeroplanes.

Fieran turned to get a better look, squinting into the setting sun. That was a two-seater, not Lt. Rothilion’s normal aeroplane.

The aeroplane touched down lightly, then rolled with its momentum. As it slowed, it turned and coasted back to the hangar until it finally came to a halt only a few yards away.

The aeroplane’s pilot climbed out, revealing Lt. Rothilion’s honey-blond hair as he removed his cap and goggles. His long hair was tied back and tucked underneath his flight jacket to keep it from tangling.

Rather than stroll toward Fieran, Lt. Rothilion waited beside the aeroplane as the passenger in the second seat climbed smoothly down, the grace of the movements proving that his passenger was an elf.

There was something familiar about those movements. Yet it wasn’t until the passenger pulled off his flight cap and goggles and revealed silver-blond hair, similarly tied back and stuffed beneath the flight jacket, that Fieran started. “What’s my dacha doing flying with Lt. Rothilion?”

“Pretending to be you.” Pretty Face shrugged, as if that was a perfectly normal set of words. “He volunteered, and we conducted our first flight only a few days after you’d been sent back to Aldon.”

“First flight?” Fieran braced himself more firmly against his aeroplane behind him, his legs going even more wobbly.

“Yeah, we’ve done five or six of these.” Lije gestured to where Dacha and Lt.

Rothilion were striding toward the rest of them.

Both elves were busy freeing their hair from the ties.

“Your dacha realized that the Mongavarians wouldn’t know how badly you’d been wounded, and they have no way to tell your magic apart from his.

So he’s been going up, putting on a show of his magic, to make the Mongavarians think that you’ve been here the whole time. ”

“It worked.” Pretty Face grinned again. “We’ve had a nice, quiet two weeks.”

Fieran released a breath, an ache disappearing from his chest. He’d been worried that his squadron would be in danger without him and his magic there to protect them.

Yet his dacha had stepped in to protect the squadron for him.

As Dacha reached them, the pilots all turned and saluted. Yet there was something about the way they did so, as if they weren’t quite as terrified of Dacha as they had been before.

Fieran hurried to straighten and salute as well, still reeling at the sight of his dacha in flight clothes.

“At ease.” Dacha returned their salutes, his gaze locking on Fieran.

Last time Fieran had arrived at Fort Defense, he hadn’t hugged Dacha, too mindful of all the eyes watching. This time, he didn’t hesitate. He embraced Dacha, throwing in a back slap for good measure.

After the first stiff moment, Dacha returned the embrace before he stepped back, gripping Fieran’s shoulders. His gaze flicked over Fieran, as if taking in everything from his stance to the swords on his back. “You seem to have healed well, sason.”

“Nylian worked wonders, as usual.” Fieran grinned with all the memories of past trips to Nylian when growing up. He released Dacha’s shoulders and gestured at the two-seater. “You’ve been flying with my squadron.”

He was dying to ask all about it, especially how it had come about that he was flying with Lt. Rothilion of all people. Rothilion came from a stuffy elven noble family who hated Dacha. While Rothilion had come around to respecting Fieran, that didn’t necessarily extend to Dacha.

Or did it? Fieran suspected neither Lt. Rothilion nor Dacha would own up to anything in front of the rest of the squadron.

Dacha gave that graceful elven shrug and—wonder of wonders—his mouth twitched with a hint of his smile. “I can see why you love it, sason.”

Was Dacha…bonding? Over flying? Fieran was actually going to keel over if his dacha kept surprising him like this.

With one more nod, Dacha stepped back, his gaze swinging to someone out of Fieran’s sight.

Uncle Iyrinder strode between the ranks of flyboys and elven pilots, setting off another round of salutes.

As he approached, Fieran met his gaze. “How is Merrik? Have you heard from him?”

He hated how much his question betrayed. Perhaps Fieran should respect Merrik’s wish for silence, but he had to know how Merrik was doing. He was still Fieran’s best friend.

Uncle Iyrinder dipped his head. He had weary lines creasing his face and a slump to his posture. “He seems to be doing better these past few days. He has started the process of strengthening his leg to learn to walk again.”

“And the healers think he will? Walk again?” Fieran clenched his fists at his sides. He should have been there at Merrik’s side. He should have known exactly what Merrik was going through and how to help. There shouldn’t have been this silence between them. Not during a time like this.

At least Adry was there in Estyra. Merrik wouldn’t be alone. Sure, he had his mama, sister, and elven aunt, uncle, and cousins there. But he’d have a friend as well, even if that friend wasn’t Fieran.

“Yes, they do.” Uncle Iyrinder’s smile was forced, not reaching his eyes. “But it will take work and time.”

Not unexpected. But that gnawing need to be there ached inside Fieran again.

“General Laesornysh!” A huffing clerk dashed between the crowd of pilots.

Dacha gave just the slightest sigh before he and Uncle Iyrinder strode after the clerk, headed back for headquarters and whatever crisis of paperwork awaited them.

With the higher-ups gone, everyone seemed to release a collective breath as shoulders sagged, postures relaxed, and grins returned.

Fieran pushed away from the aeroplane and clasped Lt. Rothilion’s shoulders. “Thank you for looking after the squadron.”

Lt. Rothilion dipped his head. “It is good to have you back, Captain.”

“Good to be back.” Fieran strode between his pilots, accepting the various back slaps as he passed. He jabbed a thumb at the line of new bomber aeroplanes. “My footlocker was loaded in the second seat of one of the bombers.”

“We’ll fetch it and see that it’s brought to your tent.” Several of the flyboys rushed off. Since it would only take one or two to tote the footlocker, Fieran wasn’t sure how all the others planned to assist.

Fieran passed the stack of his flight gear to another eager flyboy, who rushed away to put it in his tent as well.

As Fieran headed for the hangar, the rest of his squadron trailed after him as if they were ducklings who had lost their mother and they weren’t sure what to do about it. “What else did I miss?”