Page 18 of Wings of War

A clerk by the door handed the human recruit’s clipboard back to him, then turned to Fieran. “Number?”

“Sixty-six.” Fieran handed over his clipboard. “I—”

“Type of magic?” The clerk wasn’t even looking up at him.

“Magic of the ancient kings.”

The clerk’s gaze snapped up to Fieran, even as he scowled. “That is not listed as an option. Please give your correct magical designation.”

“Magic of the ancient kings. It’s what the elves call it.”

“Hmm.” The clerk checked the box listed as Other. He waved Fieran into the room as the technician was finishing the test for the human. “Proceed.”

“I can’t. That testing device isn’t rated for my power level.” Fieran gestured to the device.

The clerk rolled his eyes. “There’s no need to lie to avoid having your magic tested. There’s no embarrassment in having a low level of power.”

“I’m not lying. I’m telling you, I will destroy the device if you try to test my magic.” Fieran jabbed a finger at the machine. “That magical testing device isn’t built to accommodate my type of magic, much less my level of power.”

“You are required to submit to having your magic tested.” The clerk was speaking through his teeth now. “Are you refusing an order?”

“No, I’m not. I’ll go blow up your machine if you want me to.” Fieran couldn’t help the note of frustration in his voice.

“Is there a problem here?” The sergeant’s voice boomed from behind Fieran.

The clerk pointed at Fieran. “This recruit is refusing to submit to the magical testing.”

“No, I’m not, Drill Sergeant. I’m just—”

“Did I give you permission to speak, knucklehead?” The sergeant marched over to Fieran, yelling into his face. Or as much as he could since he stood several inches shorter than Fieran.

“No, Drill Sergeant.” Fieran kept his eyes focused above the sergeant’s head.

“Drop and give me fifty.”

“Drill Sergeant?”

“Are you hard of hearing, elf? I said fifty. Push-ups, Red, push-ups. Better make that a hundred, you dunderheaded elf. Do you want me to make it two hundred?”

“No, Drill Sergeant.” Fieran dropped to his hands and feet. It took several tries before he had his back, toes, and hands all positioned to the sergeant’s satisfaction. Only then could Fieran begin his count of a hundred.

When he sneaked a peek, he found Merrik standing just inside the doorway, unable to hide a smirk.

The sergeant must have caught Fieran’s glance because he whipped around to face Merrik.

Merrik didn’t wipe the smirk off his face fast enough.

The sergeant jabbed a finger at him. “You. Fifty.”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant.” Merrik dropped to the ground and began his own set of push-ups. He must have been paying attention when the sergeant was yelling at Fieran because he got his hands, toes, and back in proper posture almost right away.

“Drill Sergeant?” The technician was holding a clipboard, glancing from it to the clerk, then to Fieran.

“What?” The sergeant glared at the technician.

The technician quailed, clearing his throat. But he didn’t step back. “He’s correct. Our testing device is not rated for his power level.”

“Then get your hands on one that is rated for him.”

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