Page 50 of Wings of War

Dacha crouched, then unleashed his magic, the crackling blue bolts bursting around him, filling the air with the power of the ancient kings.

With a deep breath, Fieran crouched. He’d had his magic clamped so tightly in his chest for so long that it took a heartbeat longer than it should have to release his control.

When he wrenched away the tight feeling in his chest and freed his magic, it lashed around him, surging out of his control.

Dacha glanced at him, his eyebrows lifting. Dacha’s magic kept Fieran’s from getting anywhere close to hurting him or lashing too far out of control, the two magics sparking against each other wherever they touched.

Fieran grimaced, hearing Dacha’s reproof without him having to say it out loud. Fieran should have known better than to keep his magic tightly repressed for so long, even if he’d had little choice in doing so.

The magic of the ancient kings never responded well to being restricted. Dacha had always told them growing up that they should regularly practice with their magic for their own physical, mental, and magical health.

After letting his magic rage for another heartbeat, Fieran reined it in as best he could, directing his magic to twine around him in a protective barrier.

With a boom that shivered through the ground, the farthest of the artillery guns belched smoke. Moments later, the ground shook as an explosion kicked up a spray of dirt behind them.

Fieran flinched, unable to suppress the instinctual reaction. Even after six weeks of army training, this was a step beyond anything he’d experienced. Those guns were aimed well above his and Dacha’s heads, but it still felt precarious, facing down that menacing line of guns.

Dacha, of course, didn’t flinch, his eyes flinty, his jaw hard. In that moment, he was more the legendary warrior Laesornysh than Fieran’s dacha.

This was what it meant to be Laesornysh. How many times had Dacha walked onto a battlefield just like this, except the guns he faced were truly aimed at him? He’d done it alone, no one else capable of standing with him.

More of the guns boomed. The machine guns at the end—including the one manned by Fieran’s unit—spat a line of lead into the air.

The bullets whined disconcertingly close over Fieran’s head, and he ducked again. He barely bit back one of the crude words he’d learned in the past few weeks. He wasn’t about to speak that kind of language in front of his dacha.

Dacha lifted his hands, though he kept his magic tight around him. “Expand the shield of your magic, sason, and incinerate the machine gun bullets.”

Fieran unleashed more of his magic, creating a wall of magic in front of him and Dacha. The machine gun bullets punched through the magic, traveling so fast with such quantity that a stream of them got through.

Biting back a few more crude words, Fieran adjusted his magic, spreading it so that his magic formed a wall a good ten inches deep. This time, the bullets were sparking lights as he incinerated them.

“Now the artillery shells.” Dacha remained poised as another gun boomed. Instead of letting the shell fall behind them, Dacha lashed out with his magic. Somehow, he seemed to catch the projectile with his magic, redirecting it and slamming it into the ground off to the side. The earth beneath Fieran’s feet lurched with the explosion.

Dacha caught the next shell the same way, meeting Fieran’s gaze rather than look at the shell as he slammed it too into the ground with an explosion of gunpowder and magic. “You can catch the shells with your magic, then change the trajectory to direct it to explode in the location of your choice.”

Fieran nodded. The magically powered engines functioned because of the properties of magi-magnetism the magic of the ancient kings had. But right now, his dacha was teaching him to use his magic to turn an enemy’s shells against them.

He spread his magic higher, not trusting himself to be able to snag one of the shells as easily as Dacha had.

Another gun boomed, and Fieran felt the shell as it flew into his magic. He wrapped his magic around it, but he couldn’t get his magic moving around the shell quickly enough before the shell hit the ground, exploding on impact.

Fieran tried again, this time reacting more quickly and shifting the shell from its trajectory enough to slam it straight down on one of the old boats placed on the bomb range as a target.

“Yes!” He pumped his fist.

“Well done, sason.” Dacha nodded, then tilted his head. “You have neglected the machine guns.”

Some of the bullets from the machine guns were once again whizzing through Fieran’s thinning magical barrier without being fully incinerated.

Fieran grimaced and strengthened the shield, even as he fumbled to grab the next artillery shell with his magic.

He had plenty of magic. That wasn’t the problem. But it was harder than it looked to split his focus to both shield himself from the machine gun fire while re-directing the shells.

In a real battle, he would’ve been dead if he’d let his shield slip. But those standing behind him would be dead if he let shells through.

The rhythm of the booming guns changed, firing the shells even faster.

Fieran drew on his magic and let it surge from him in a way he’d never done before, not even in those morning practice sessions. There was nothing anywhere close to him that he had to worry about destroying.

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