Page 55 of Wings of War

Over the past two days, three pilots had crashed. Two had died while one had been injured and currently lay in the base hospital in the care of the elven healer. Acceptable losses, according to the army. In fact, only three crashes so far was considered fewer than expected.

Yet two men in his unit had died, and he couldn’t even tell his parents that.

“Sason?” Dacha’s voice joined his mama’s on the line. Mama hadn’t called him over out loud, so either she’d motioned for him or she’d called him through their heart bond.

Fieran would have given anything for his mama’s hug or his dacha’s shoulder grip right about then. He switched to elvish, and there was something comforting about the graceful language flowing from his tongue. “I am all right, Dacha. It has just been…a long few days.”

There was a pause, and he didn’t know how much his parents could guess from his tone or how much of his burdened weariness came through the lines.

“I am sorry, sason.” Dacha’s voice held far too much understanding. Perhaps he could guess some of what must have happened.

“We’re here for you, Fieran. Always.” Mama’s words were as warm as a hug.

“Linshi.” Fieran sucked in a shuddering breath, blinking rapidly, before he forced a cheery note into his voice. “Happy 175th birthday, Dacha. I was sad to miss it, but I hope Adry did a good job picking out the gift.”

Fieran had no idea what it was. He’d simply wired her his portion of the money for whatever gift all the siblings decided to buy together. With how long mail took to reach him and the limited number of phone calls he was allowed, taking part in the gift arranging had been impossible.

“She did.” Dacha’s tone warmed, a sign that whatever the gift had been, he had appreciated it greatly.

Mama launched into a description of the birthday celebrations. They’d stayed at Treehaven this year instead of celebrating in Estyra as usual, and it remained unspoken that the tensions between Escarland and Mongavaria had something to do with it.

Despite the way the stories added to the lump in his throat as he heard about everything he’d missed, Fieran soaked up the comfort of the words and stories until the nearby sergeant indicated his time was done and he had to hang up.

Fieran leaned heavily on the wood countertop in the tavern in Bridgetown. He didn’t often drink alcohol, but after this past week, something stronger than soda seemed appropriate. The entire unit—including Murray, who had recovered enough to leave the infirmary—along with Pip and the other mechanics and many members of the ground crew had gathered in the tavern on the leave Capt. Arfeld had given them, filling the room nearly to capacity.

All along the wooden bar, each of the men held a glass filled with beer. But at the center of the bar, two filled glasses of beer remained untouched, a glass for each of their fallen comrades.

Fieran hadn’t known those who’d died very well, but that didn’t matter. They had been in his unit.

Stickyfingers lifted his glass, his voice rough. “To Baker and Stevens.”

“To Baker and Stevens,” Fieran echoed as he held up his glass. They didn’t clink glasses this time. Simply drank their beer and remembered.

Fieran managed to swallow a few sips of his beer, the bitter taste coating his tongue. He set the mug on the bar, just staring at it for a long moment while those in the unit who’d known Baker and Stevens better shared stories about them.

After several minutes, Merrik nudged Fieran, then pointed down at Fieran’s hands.

Fieran glanced down and grimaced. His magic had broken loose with the force of his emotions, twining around his fingers and threatening to start scorching the wooden bar in a moment.

Merrik tipped his head to the door, then pushed to his feet. Fieran followed, clenching his fists and pressing those fists against his body to attempt to suppress his magic.

Stickyfingers, Lije, and Pretty Face didn’t even look up as Fieran and Merrik made their way through the crowded tavern. Tiny spotted them, nodded, and ordered another beer for himself.

Pip pushed out of her seat from where she had been wedged against the far wall. She joined Merrik and Fieran just as they stepped outside into the crisp air and twilight gray of the spring evening.

The bustle of Bridgetown closed around them, gratingly loud and far too cheery compared to the moments of mourning Fieran had left behind him.

Up and down the street, a few decorations formed from the various flags and colors of the Alliance Kingdoms were already going up in preparation for the Alliance Day festivities in a few weeks. The parade in Bridgetown was always nearly as flamboyant as the one in Aldon, though if his unit was given leave to attend, Fieran would be inundated with teasing at the celebrations for a national holiday to commemorate the first treaty signing—and his parents’ anniversary.

Next to him, Pip rubbed at her fingers, grimacing. “I’m such a lightweight that my fingers are already tingling after just those few sips.”

“Aren’t dwarves supposed to be able to consume prodigious amounts of alcohol?” Fieran had to work to put a light note into his voice, but the humor helped soothe the roil inside him.

“Maybe. But I’m only half dwarf, and apparently my elf side is a family of lightweights.” Pip gave a slight shrug before her gaze dropped to Fieran’s hands. “Are you all right? Your magic is crackling loose again.”

“I was just taking him somewhere quiet before he combusts.” Merrik waved at the busy street. “Perhaps we should make our way across the bridge to Calafaren? We’ll have enough time to get there and back before the truck leaves to return to Fort Linder.”

Fieran nodded. While he normally didn’t need the peace and quiet of a forest the way Dacha or Merrik did, something deep in his soul craved trees surrounding him after this past week.

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