Page 39 of Winds of Death (War of the Alliance #4)

Chapter

Twenty-One

F ieran stood in his dress uniform, complete with the various medals properly placed, just behind the row of Alliance commanding officers.

The sun beat down on his head and shoulders, extra sweltering in his layers of stiff wool.

His feet were sweating so much in his perfectly polished shoes that his socks were getting damp and sticky against his skin.

Not that his shoes were all that perfectly polished anymore since he’d been standing in the dusty dirt surrounding the train station at Fort Defense.

Unlike around the hangar where the mostly dead grass made a valiant effort to cling to the earth, the train station, warehouses, and docks were surrounded by nothing but bare earth and gravel from so much traffic.

In the first row of officers, Dacha, Uncle Weylind, Uncle Julien, and Aunt Vriska had the place of prominence.

Not that Fieran minded being tucked in the second row where he could stand with Merrik and Uncle Iyrinder on one side, his cousin Myles on the other.

While Myles was only a lieutenant, he wore a red sash across his chest, marking him as an adjutant stationed at headquarters under the Escarlish generals.

Fieran probably shouldn’t even be a part of this elaborate welcome ceremony. Everyone there knew a lowly captain would only be invited because of his family ties. Colonel Dentley wasn’t even here.

Worse, Pip and Mak had been placed farther down the line, so Fieran couldn’t even stand next to her nor whisper back and forth while they waited.

So maybe it was a good thing he and Pip had been separated for something this official.

Pip looked even more uncomfortable to be included in this welcome ceremony than he did. Her face was pale, and she kept swiping her hands down the front of her good trousers. She wore a leather vest over her white shirt, the geometric pattern in the leather a hint at her dwarven heritage.

She and Mak had been invited because they were the only dwarves—well, half-dwarves—here at Fort Defense and their parents had been the ones to negotiate the new treaty with the dwarven kingdom of Dalorbor.

The result of that treaty? A regiment of dwarven warriors, sent to reinforce the Alliance.

A few of the other dwarven kingdoms had been willing to increase their trade in iron and other raw materials, as well as continue to send work crews to the Alliance. But only Dalorbor, her muka’s kingdom, had been willing to sign a treaty and join the war on the side of the Alliance.

With a whistle, the train finally chugged its way into the station, the air brakes hissing as it settled to a halt by the platform. A military band struck up a song as Uncle Weylind, Uncle Julien, Aunt Vriska, and several other assorted Escarlish, elf, and troll generals stepped forward.

The door of the first train car opened, and Uncle Rharreth strode onto the platform, his antler crown resting against his white hair and a sword buckled at his side. He wore pauldrons and chain mail, the image of a troll warrior.

Rhohen, his long black hair loose down his back, strode behind Uncle Rharreth.

Something about the set of his shoulders beneath his pauldrons and chain mail was less slouchy than the last time Fieran had seen him.

He wore a pair of swords across his back, their blades shorter and thicker than the ones Fieran wielded.

Yet these swords were not the ones he’d carried when Fieran had fought that bout against him at Dar Goranth.

Merrik’s elbow dug into Fieran’s side, as Merrik spoke in a whisper, still facing forward and not otherwise breaking his military stance. “Be the more mature cousin.”

“Of course. I am the picture of maturity,” Fieran murmured back, not breaking his at attention stance either.

Still, if their drill sergeant at Fort Linder had caught them moving their mouths even that much, they would have been in trouble.

Good thing the only senior officers close enough to hear them were Dacha and Uncle Iyrinder, and neither of them would rat them out.

Out of the corner of his eye, Fieran caught the sideways look Myles was sending him. He’d probably caught at least Fieran’s half of that conversation.

After King Rharreth and Rhohen stepped out of the way, a male dwarf marched from the train, his black beard long down the front of his chain mail. His leather bracers and pauldrons had geometric designs that Pip would probably recognize, even if Fieran didn’t.

He risked glancing her way, but he wasn’t close enough to read her expression.

After that dwarf, another dwarf stepped from the train, followed by an elf with long brown hair braided at the sides in the style common among the elves in western Tarenhiel.

This time when Fieran glanced at Pip, she was grinning, leaning forward as if it was taking all her self-discipline not to run onto the platform. Next to her, Mak, too, was grinning.

Fieran studied the elf again. That must be Pip’s dacha. And that dwarf next to him must be her muka. The dwarf’s figure was rather curvy, her black beard braided with even more elaborate braids than the male dwarf, her skin a shade darker than Pip’s.

Her parents. Fieran swallowed hard, his chest squeezing tight. They were here. Right here.

Yes, he wanted to meet them. They were Pip’s parents. And he wanted to court her properly.

But still, they were her parents . Meeting them was a big deal. A big step.

Merrik gave him another elbow to the side.

Right. Focus. He needed to remain at attention for a while longer.

A few more dwarves exited the train car. A round of handshaking between the various dignitaries commenced, followed by a round of speeches about a new era of cooperation and victory and stuff Fieran couldn’t care about while standing there, baking in the sun.

Finally, the speeches finished. The black-haired dwarf who had exited first clapped his hands together twice.

The doors on the rest of the train cars opened.

The pounding of a drum—deep and resonant—sounded, and dwarves marched from the train carriages.

They formed up in the space next to the platform, ranks upon ranks of the stout, bearded warriors with glints in their eyes and huge weapons in their hands.

As soon as the last dwarf stepped from the train, the drum beat changed. The dwarves marched forward with a pounding step, their faces as hard as their glinting weapons.

Aunt Vriska and several other of the senior army officers fell into step on one side of the marching column of dwarves. Pip and Mak’s parents, too, strode at the head of the dwarves.

“That’s my cue.” Myles shot a grin at Fieran before he hurried to join the senior officers, trailing after them along with the other various adjutants and aides.

Fieran glanced without moving his head at Pip once again. She and Mak were hugging their parents, even as their parents were tugging them to join the line of marching dwarves.

Pip met Fieran’s gaze over her muka’s shoulder.

Fieran broke his stance enough to give her a small “go on” wave with his hand.

As much as he wanted to meet her parents, he didn’t mind putting it off a while longer.

Besides, she and her parents should have a few minutes to catch up before he was introduced.

Once the last of the dwarves had marched by, headed for their new billets in what used to be Little Aldon, Dacha took a step forward, although he glanced over his shoulder. “Come, sason.”

Fieran trailed after Dacha, Uncle Iyrinder and Merrik with him, as they crossed the dirt road and climbed onto the platform to join Uncle Weylind, Uncle Julien, Uncle Rharreth, Rhohen, and the black-haired dwarf.

While Dacha was introduced to the dwarf commander, Fieran faced his cousin. He could sense Merrik hovering just behind him, as if prepared to yank him out of there if things got out of hand. “Rhohen.”

“Fieran.” Rhohen’s shoulders went stiff, though his gaze flicked away toward the retreating dwarves as if he had somewhere he’d rather be. But it was only a moment before he met Fieran’s gaze again with flashing dark eyes and a tick to his jaw.

Yet as Fieran held his cousin’s gaze, he couldn’t call up the bristling annoyance he usually felt around him. He had nothing to prove. Not to Rhohen. Not to anyone.

Besides, there was more than enough blood and death and war to go around. If Rhohen wanted a piece of it, he could have it.

Fieran stuck out a hand. “Welcome to Fort Defense.”

For a moment, Rhohen eyed Fieran’s hand, as if he expected Fieran was tricking him somehow. Then he grasped Fieran’s hand, squeezing tightly, and gave it one firm shake. “Linsh.”

The abbreviated, troll version of the elvish thank-you was brief and sulky. But even that much was an improvement in their cousinly relationship.

“Rhohen.” Uncle Rharreth called for him with a sharpness in his tone, as if he expected Rhohen and Fieran would come to blows if left unattended for too long.

Rhohen stalked to his father’s side without another glance at Fieran.

Merrik took his place at Fieran’s side. “That was…surprisingly mature of you.”

“My feud with Rhohen just seems kind of trivial now.” Fieran shrugged before he sent Merrik a smile.

“Besides, it isn’t like I’ll even have to see him much, if at all.

He will be at headquarters or up in the mountains with the troll warriors; I’ll be at the hangar.

Fort Defense is big enough for the two of us. ”

“I will believe that when I see it.” Merrik matched Fieran’s lopsided smile.

Fieran resisted the urge to grimace. He wouldn’t have believed himself so easily either, not with his and Rhohen’s record of fighting whenever they were in the same room together. “Yes, it’s a stretch. But I’ll behave.”

After all, he had a set of parents to impress, and getting into a childish brawl with his cousin wasn’t likely to do that.