Page 54 of Winds of Death (War of the Alliance #4)

Chapter

Twenty-Nine

A s soon as Fieran stepped down from his aeroplane, Pip was there, running toward him. Mud coated her overalls all the way past her knees while something brown and red spattered her green shirt.

But she was here. She was alive. That was all that mattered.

Ignoring his own filthy state, he swept her into his arms, holding her tight to his chest and bending to press kisses to her hair. “I’m so sorry. I never should have volunteered you for that. I’m so sorry.”

She clung to him, shaking, her face pressed into his shirt. “It was awful.”

He rubbed a hand up and down her back, his own hand shaking. “I’m sorry.” The words were so empty compared to what she must have seen and done.

When Pip pulled back, she swiped a hand over her face, the steel returning to her spine and expression. “No, you were right to send me. We got them. Two of those machines. They’re already being boxed up to go out on the first train.”

Based on the number of fires burning and wreckage piled up in the trainyard, dockyard, and warehouse section of Fort Defense, who knew how soon that would be. The Mongavarians had gotten in a few good hits before they’d been chased off.

Pip reached up and traced her fingers over the back of his head. “You’re hurt. You should see the healer.”

Even that light pressure sent a stab of pain through his head.

When he touched the same place she had, he felt a knot rising on the back of his skull.

Right. He’d hit his head on the bridge in the magical explosion.

At least only a few brown flakes of dried blood showed on his fingers. Any bleeding had stopped.

He wasn’t seeing double nor was he dizzy. His head ached a bit, but it was nothing he couldn’t ignore.

“I doubt they have healers to spare for something this mild.” Fieran lowered his hand. He’d seen the line of trucks unloading both at the field hospital at the base of the bluff and the main hospital on top of it. The healers would have their magic stretched thin.

“Still, you could have a head injury. You should at least get checked by someone.” Pip stepped farther out of his arms and plucked at his shirt, her fussing the frantic, frazzled kind, as if she fussed because it was that or break with the horror of the day. “And you really need to get cleaned up.”

Even as he stood there, he grew all the more aware of the deep chill in his bones, the aching in his head, and the sheer exhaustion in his limbs.

Dried blood—none of it his except that on his head—spattered him from head to toe from the hand-to-hand battle wielding his dacha’s swords.

All he wanted to do was take a scalding hot shower, then collapse into his cot to sleep.

But he had far too many people and things to see to.

“Maybe in a while. I need to check on my dacha.” He rested his hands on her shoulders, not ready yet to let her go. “You should clean up and get some rest too.”

She looked away, that wide-eyed, haunted look returning. “Not yet. I should see to the aeroplanes. Some of them were shot up pretty badly.”

Right. He winced, then winced again when the movement sent another stab of pain through his head. “Start with Merrik’s, then mine. We had the magic yanked out of our magical power cells, then I kept us flying by powering the engines directly. I’m pretty sure I fried the guts out of the engines.”

“But neither of you crashed.” Pip’s voice was tight, going softer. “That’s the important thing. Engines can be replaced.”

“And I know just the mechanic for the job.” He lightly cradled her chin before he bent and kissed her. He didn’t linger, pulling back a moment later. “I’ll be back soon.”

Pip stepped all the way from his arms this time. When she met his gaze, her dark brown eyes had softened, the edge gone. “I’m sure your dacha is all right.”

Fieran nodded, but he couldn’t agree. He’d struggled to overpower just one of those machines. But Dacha had taken out who knew how many of them.

The two of them strode toward the hangar, and as soon as they were inside, Pip veered off, heading for her tools.

Fieran crossed the hangar to where Merrik was settling into his wheelchair, a grimace on his face. “How are you holding up?”

“Tired.” Merrik massaged his leg above the prosthetic, lines of weariness etched around his eyes and mouth. He tugged up his pant leg and revealed the neat bullet hole through the wood of his prosthetic ankle. “It seems the war really has it out for my right leg.”

Fieran swallowed, a shaken kind of sickness filling him. He hadn’t realized that machine gun had gotten that close to Merrik before Fieran had managed to blow it up.

He’d nearly lost all of them that day. Pip. Merrik. Dacha.

If he’d had the luxury of breaking, he might have done it right then and there. Instead, he rested his hand on Merrik’s shoulder, resisting the urge to prop himself up. “Get some rest.”

“Your dacha…”

“Is likely in no shape to want lots of people around.” Fieran sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “If you get some sleep now, you’ll be more awake later today when both of us will need you there.”

Merrik nodded, but the lines in his face didn’t ease.

Fieran turned and forced his aching legs to move from a trudge to a jog.

He dashed through the hangar, waving at Lije, Stickyfingers, Tiny, Lt.

Rothilion, and the others as he passed without stopping to talk, and exited on the far side.

After crossing the dirt road and making his way through the tents, he reached the small rise overlooking the headquarters section.

In front of the hospital, stretchers waited in haphazard rows to be taken inside to see the healers while clusters of men and women, covered in blood and dirt, sat or lay on the ground. Some cried out in pain. Others were too still, too silent.

Fieran would just have to sleep off his own aches and pains. The healers had their hands full.

Across the way, the elven officer quarters appeared to be undamaged, as was the main headquarters building.

A few wisps of smoke still curled from the Escarlish officer quarters, but even that fire had been contained.

The second wave of attacks while Fieran had been busy with the airship must have concentrated on the railyard rather than up here.

Fieran hurried across the open space, his breathing tight in his chest and not just from his panting. He stumbled to a halt before the door, gasping for breath, as he took in Uncle Iyrinder standing in his usual spot. “Dacha…is he…”

“He is resting.” Uncle Iyrinder stepped aside, indicating the door. But he didn’t fully move out of Fieran’s way, his gaze searching Fieran’s face. “Merrik?”

“Tired but fine. I told him to get some sleep.” Fieran would leave it up to Merrik whether he wanted to tell his dacha how close it had been.

“Linshi.” Uncle Iyrinder’s posture eased as he briefly clasped Fieran’s shoulder.

Fieran ducked past him and hurried inside, only just managing to shut the door quietly instead of accidentally slamming it.

The outer room with its table in the center, desk to one side beneath the window, and cushioned bench along the other side was empty. The table was missing both of its chairs while the door leading to the bedchamber was only open a few inches, preventing him from seeing inside. “Dacha?”

“Come in, nirshon.” Uncle Weylind’s voice called out just as softly as Fieran had.

Uncle Weylind was still here. Fieran’s heart lurched again as he crept across the room and pushed the door. It swung without a creak.

Dacha lay on the narrow bed against the wall, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, his eyes closed.

His face was turned away from Fieran while his hair was a cascade of silver-blond over the pillow.

Someone had washed away all the mud, or perhaps Dacha had woken at some point long enough to do it himself.

His swords leaned against the wall beside the small table, cleaned of blood.

Uncle Weylind sat in a chair at the foot of the bed, stacks of paperwork arranged neatly on top of the blanket over Dacha’s legs.

A lap desk rested on Uncle Weylind’s knees, and he scrawled his signature on a piece of paper with a pen before he added the paper to one of the stacks.

He glanced up long enough to indicate the empty chair beside the head of the bed.

Fieran slid into it. His memories after his crash were hazy, but this moment was all too familiar. Only a few weeks ago, that had been him on the bed with Dacha in this chair, waiting for him to wake. Uncle Weylind had been in that chair at the foot of the bed both times.

“What’s wrong with him?” Fieran crossed his arms, then uncrossed them to rest his hands at his sides. But that didn’t feel natural either.

Uncle Weylind sighed, set down his pen, and met Fieran’s gaze. “Beyond the magical backlash, he was nearly drained of his magic.”

Dacha was…what? That wasn’t possible. Dacha had the highest levels of magic of any living person. He couldn’t be drained .

But there he lay on the bed, even paler than usual, still sleeping even with Uncle Weylind and Fieran talking right next to him.

And Fieran had the evidence of his own depleted magic.

One machine had drained enough for him to actually feel the loss—even if he still had plenty left.

How many of those machines had Dacha faced?

From the sky, there was no sign of the Wall as far as Fieran could see along the Mongavarian-Escarlish border.

“But other elves use their magic close to their limits, and they don’t end up…like this…” Fieran gestured toward Dacha. He’d seen Merrik and Uncle Iyrinder get tired a time or two when they used too much of their magic. But never Dacha.