Page 30 of Winds of Death (War of the Alliance #4)

Chapter

Seventeen

W hen Fieran climbed down from his aeroplane, he just stood there for a long moment, staring at the bright artwork painted on the nose.

The swirling flames that almost looked like red hair.

The bolts of blue magic threaded between them.

The images of some of his victories. All painted by Pretty Face.

“What’s going on?” Pip hurried up to him, her eyes wide as she took in the returning aeroplanes. “What happened?”

Of course she could tell something had happened. The squadron wasn’t buoyant, as they normally would be after a successful mission.

Fieran didn’t care that most of his men and women were still there, trudging back to the hangar. A few of them had bloody bandages wrapped around arms or legs where they had been caught in the shrapnel blasts, but none of the injuries were serious. The only pilot they’d lost had been Pretty Face.

Fieran wrapped his arms around Pip, holding her close. Who cared if everyone saw them having a moment? Today was a day for holding loved ones close because one never knew when the war would snatch someone away.

“Fieran?” Pip leaned into him, her arms coming around him.

“Pretty Face’s aeroplane was damaged, and he was forced to set down in Mongavaria,” he murmured into her hair, holding her close. “We think he escaped his aeroplane before it blew up but…”

But he was now on foot, alone, somewhere deep within Mongavaria. It would be a miracle if he evaded the enemy long enough to get back to either Escarland or Tarenhiel.

When they’d flown over the spot on their return from successfully bombing the Mongavarian airfield—with Fieran further destroying buildings, grounded aeroplanes, and airships with his magic—the Mongavarian army had already been at the crash site, combing through the wreckage.

Fieran led a small strafing run, dropping the handful of bombs he and the others of the squadron hadn’t needed to use during the attack on the target and sending the Mongavarians scattering.

He also sent his magic over the pieces of Pretty Face’s aeroplane, further incinerating it.

He couldn’t do anything about any parts that the Mongavarians had already carted away, but there looked to be little that survived the initial explosion.

There had been no sign of Pretty Face. No way to know if he’d gotten out of there before the Mongavarian army arrived.

Pip’s arms tightened around him as she buried her face against Fieran’s chest. “No. No, not Pretty Face. Not him too.”

Fieran rubbed her back, his own throat squeezing. He’d lost those under his command before. Pretty Face likely wasn’t even dead.

But with Merrik gone, losing Pretty Face hit that much harder.

Fieran let himself soak up the comfort of having Pip in his arms for another minute before he forced himself to pull back.

She glanced up at him, tear tracks glistening on her cheeks.

He swiped one of the tears from her skin. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but could you look after the squadron for me? I need to report in to Colonel Dentley.”

And reprimand a certain new pilot.

“Of course.” Pip straightened her shoulders, her jaw firming in that way that showed she was pulling herself together.

Fieran pressed a kiss to her forehead before he forced himself to release her shoulders, turn, and march away, heading toward the nearest hangar door.

But as he neared, his gaze landed on the figure standing just outside the door. His dacha, dressed in his elven armor with his swords strapped to his back.

Fieran’s feet dragged still further. He should have expected to find his dacha waiting for him, especially after a long mission like that. A little bit of hovering by his dacha was rather expected after his crash.

He halted in front of his dacha and just stood there, silent, for a long moment.

Dacha, too, didn’t break the silence, merely regarding Fieran with the too knowing gaze of a warrior who had seen too many battles and lost too many of his fellow warriors on his watch.

Finally Fieran released a breath. “We lost a pilot. A friend. Pretty Face. He isn’t dead, but…”

Dacha tipped his head, something of recognition in his eyes as he looked away from Fieran for a moment. “I am sorry, sason.”

Fieran swallowed and nodded, but he couldn’t find the words for any more than that. But this was his dacha. Communicating without words was his thing.

Was there something Fieran could have done differently that day?

Perhaps he should have sent Pretty Face after Lt.

Blair and gone to help Stickyfingers. But then Lt.

Blair and Pretty Face might have been ambushed.

Likely one or both of them would have crashed.

Or he could have simply let Lt. Blair fly to her death and focused on protecting the rest of the squadron.

No matter what choice he’d made, he would have lost someone that day.

Dacha reached out and rested his hand on Fieran’s shoulder briefly before he turned and strode away through the hangar.

After gathering himself, Fieran stepped into the hangar as well. Lt. Rothilion stood only a few feet inside, as if waiting for him. When Fieran headed for where Lt. Blair stood, alone, in the empty space of the hangar, Lt. Rothilion followed, not speaking.

Fieran halted before Lt. Blair, and her shoulders remained somewhat hunched even as she came to attention. “Lt. Blair, you left your wingman in the middle of a battle and because of that action, one of our own is now fighting to survive somewhere in Mongavaria.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I was so focused, and the enemy was right there, and I thought if I could just chase them down for another minute, but then…” She shuddered, and tears welled in her dark eyes, spilling down her cheeks.

Great. Now she was crying. How was he supposed to give her a proper reprimand when she was crying?

She sniffled and seemed to be trying to pull herself together. “I understand what you meant about being green. I didn’t think I would react like that. But then…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t let it happen again.” Fieran waited one more moment before he let his tone and posture soften. He waved to where Stickyfingers, Tiny, Murray, Lije, and many of the others had gathered. “Go on. Join the rest of the squadron.”

“They won’t want to talk to me. They’ll blame me for…for what happened.” Now that he’d essentially dismissed her to stand at ease, she wrapped her arms over her stomach. Her straight, dark brown hair had partially fallen from its bun to straggle around her face.

“They might. For a few minutes. But we’ve all done something reckless our first few battles.” Fieran didn’t think she would’ve been able to hear the soft snort Lt. Rothilion gave behind him at that.

Lt. Blair hesitated another moment before she bobbed her head to him and made her shuffling way over to the others. They parted for her, but the moment she began speaking with more tears pouring down her face, Stickyfingers and Lije stepped closer, likely saying something comforting.

Lt. Rothilion strode to Fieran’s side. “You have come a long way, Capt. Laesornysh.”

“It used to be you giving me a dressing down for being reckless.” Fieran sighed and shook his head. Perhaps if he’d learned his lesson sooner, Merrik wouldn’t have crashed and lost his leg.

“Yes.” Lt. Rothilion tilted his head. “Your arrogance was in your own abilities and your belief that you and only you had the capacity to gain the victory. You were reckless when you believed that recklessness would save lives. Neither your arrogance nor your recklessness was for your own advancement but rather for the good of others. That made it understandable, even if it needed to be tempered with wisdom.”

The words settled deep inside him. He hadn’t liked the parallels he saw between himself and Lt. Blair, but at least he could depend on Lt. Rothilion to tell him the truth.

Fieran worked up a smile, even though it still felt out of place after the events of the day. “That almost sounded like a compliment, Rothilion.”

“Do not let it go to your head.” Lt. Rothilion gave another tip of his head, even as his mouth curved with a hint of a smile. “You are finally becoming tolerable.”

“Tolerable. Really. I knew we were friends.” Fieran clapped Lt. Rothilion on the back.

Rothilion stiffened, though he didn’t shy away from the gesture. It was more as if he didn’t know how to respond to the very human gesture. “Do not push it, Laesornysh.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Fieran gave Rothilion one more slap on the back before he stepped away.

The joking words weren’t like Rothilion, but perhaps he’d known Fieran had needed the bit of levity after Pretty Face’s crash.

His smile faded a moment later as he made his way through the hangar to report to Colonel Dentley. After that, he’d have to face the rest of the squadron as they processed Pretty Face’s loss.

Pip meandered between the various clusters of flyboys, flygirls, and elves sitting on chairs or on the floor of Hangar Bay 4. She paused at each group to ask if they needed anything.

It was the least she could do, even as an ache settled deep within her own chest.

Pretty Face had been part of the core of the Half-Breed Squadron. Generally liked by everyone and a leader among them, especially in the past two weeks when Fieran had been absent. A gaping hole had been left, now that he was gone.

Gone, but not dead. She repeated that to herself yet again. Gone like Merrik was gone. But not gone like the others who were dead and gone.

She glanced around, taking in the faces who were still there, seeing all the echoes of those who were not.

Fieran’s training squadron had started with thirty-eight back in Fort Linder.

Through all the losses, they were down to twenty-one of that original group, counting Merrik and Pretty Face in those losses.

A few of those who’d been lost in the attack on Bridgetown were also alive gone and not dead gone.

Seventeen, wounded, lost, or dead. And that was only the losses of Flight B.

It wasn’t even the worst losses experienced by a squadron. The late Capt. Kentworth’s squadron had been all but gutted, only a handful of the original members still remaining.

They were only months into the war. How many more would they lose before the war was over?

She shook that thought away, pasted on a smile, and moved to the next group.

As she paused before them, she waved to the table at the other side of the hangar.

Paperboard boxes filled the table while halves of oil drums sat below the table, filled with ice created by Tiny.

“There are donuts and sodas, if you want some.”

She, Mak, and Tiny had made a trip to Defense City, and Tiny’s girlfriend had been happy to provide the donuts. Some more scrounging had located enough sodas for the squadron.

She finally made her way to where Fieran sat with Mak, Stickyfingers, Lije, Tiny, and Aylia. Lt. Rothilion sat a few feet away, not quite a part of the group but not fully alone either.

Without Merrik and Pretty Face, the group seemed small. Empty.

All of them already had sodas and donuts, although the donuts were only nibbled and the sodas were mostly full.

Pip sank to the floor next to Fieran, close enough that she could lean her head against his shoulder. “How are you holding up?”

“About as well as you are.” Fieran wrapped his arm around her shoulders, easy and loose rather than tugging tight. “Thanks for rounding up donuts and sodas for everyone. I appreciate it.”

“Mak and Tiny did most of the work.” Pip tipped her head in her brother’s direction.

Mak gave a roll of his shoulders that didn’t even slosh the root beer he held. “It was your idea. I just provided the grunt labor.”

“Still. I appreciate how you look after the squadron.” Fieran laced the fingers of his other hand with hers.

“It was the least I could do.” She could repair their aeroplanes. Scrounge up a feast of donuts and sodas. Be here for Fieran.

But she couldn’t repair the gaping hole Pretty Face left behind in the squadron.

They lapsed into silence for a moment, as if lost in thought. Stickyfingers, especially, stared sightlessly at the floor. He probably felt partially responsible.

Lije rolled his unopened soda from hand-to-hand. He probably shouldn’t open it anytime soon. “Should we…for Pretty Face?” He held up his bottle of soda.

Pip swallowed. Right. The tradition of leaving a full glass for a fallen comrade.

“No.” Stickyfingers sat up straighter, life flaring back to his eyes. “He’s not dead. He will get back to the squadron.”

“Yes, he will.” Tiny slapped Stickyfingers on the back. “Pretty Face is smart.”

Not a word Pip would have applied to the flirtatious nobleman when they first met. But he’d proved he was more than a just a pretty face, especially recently.

Aylia gave something of a snort. “This is Pretty Face we are talking about. He will charm a farmer’s daughter and probably convince her to lend him a horse or wagon so he can ride out of Mongavaria in style.”

“And thanks to our efforts, he will probably even be respectful about it.” Lije knocked Sticky’s shoulder with a fist. “Which will improve his chances of actually charming her instead of insulting her to the point of her turning him in.”

“You’re right.” Stickyfingers gave an approximation of a grin, though Pip could see even from across their little circle that the expression didn’t fully reach his eyes. “He will be back before we know it.”

“That he will.” Fieran raised his soda—the raspberry one that was his favorite. “To Pretty Face.”

“To Pretty Face,” the others echoed as they also held up their sodas.

Lije reached to twist the metal cap of his soda bottle.

Pip straightened, reaching for him even though she was too far away. “No, don’t—”

Lije twisted the cap. Soda shot upward, bubbles spraying everything and everyone nearby.