Page 64 of Wings of War

A bomb sliced through his magic, plummeting into the innocent people below before Fieran had a chance to stop it. More bombs tore straight through his magic, too heavy, too big, for him to snatch away at this distance.

His dacha likely could have done it. Maybe Fieran could have, given more time. More practice.

His shield around Fort Linder faltered, and a chattering filled the air as the airship above unleashed its machine guns at the airfield below, trying to destroy the aeroplanes before they had a chance to take to the sky.

Fieran switched the focus of his magic, consuming the streams of machine gun bullets before they could pierce through his magic and strike the flyers. But doing so just weakened the magic he’d stretched out to Bridgetown, and another stream of bombs poured through his shield as if his magic was gossamer silk instead of the magic of the ancient kings.

Fieran pounded his fists into the dirt and yelled, a hot wetness trickling down his cheek. People were dying, and Fieran was too far away to stop it.

Pip handed the roll of machine gun ammunition up to Stickyfingers where he perched in the rear seat of one of the two-seaters, caressing the machine gun as if it were a pet, testing out the crude swivel she’d fashioned. “This is the last of it.”

Unless they wanted to try to throw wrenches at the airships, it was the last weapon or ammunition she had left to hand out.

“Thanks.” Stickyfingers grinned at her, his gaze only darting away from the machine gun briefly as he stowed the ammunition by his feet.

Lije climbed into the front seat, placing his goggles over his eyes. “Don’t shoot me in the back of the head with that thing.”

“I won’t.” Stickyfingers didn’t even look up from the machine gun.

While it might have made more sense to place Stickyfingers in the front seat, the wing struts and propeller would have impeded the large machine gun too much.

Instead, Pip had mounted the gun to the left side of the rear seat so Stickyfingers could shoot as Lije paralleled the airship’s bulk.

Actually, she’d mounted all of the rifles and guns in similar fashion. They’d be awkward for the pilot to shoot, but if she attached them facing forward, the pilots would have shot their own propellers off, shattering the wood.

Pip stepped back as the ground crew took charge of the two-seater, wheeling it toward the door.

In one of the other two-seaters, Pretty Face adjusted the goggles on his face as Tiny wedged himself into the rear seat, the entire space around him piled with every canteen and bucket they could get their hands on. The water would act as a fuel for Tiny’s ice magic. Hopefully the two-seater would still be able to get off the ground, weighed down as it would be.

Only two single-seat biplanes remained, waiting for Merrik and Fieran. She’d scrounged a rifle for Merrik, but Fieran’s flyer was entirely weaponless. Then again, it wasn’t like Fieran would need a gun.

Merrik glanced around, then he reached out, gripping Pip’s arm. “Pip.”

“What? What’s wrong?” She glanced around. Where was Fieran? He’d been right there a moment ago.

Merrik just pointed ahead of them, toward the growing blue glow that lit the night.

Pip gasped, then broke into a run. Fieran.

Merrik matched her pace, and together they raced across the hangar. As they sprinted outside, Pip jumped at the jolt of power that shocked her even through her rubber-soled boots. A faint blue glow crackled over the ground, brighter and sparking around a figure that knelt on the ground a few yards outside of the hangar.

“He is going to take out the flyers if he is not careful.” Merrik waved from Fieran to Pip. “You are the only one with magic strong enough to get close to him right now.”

Pip swallowed, taking in the raw power that poured down Fieran’s body and into the ground. Most of it seemed to be directed at the distant Bridgetown, a hazy glow surrounding the city. Five of the airships hovered over the city, bombs falling, the city below burning, despite Fieran’s magic.

So much magic spilled out of Fieran that it pooled around him in a crackling tide, spreading outward until it threatened to engulf the airstrip and the hangar.

Pip swallowed, her mouth and throat dry. Could her magic withstand the might of the magic of the ancient kings fully unleashed like this? She’d been able to provide a shield when they’d practiced together, but Fieran had been holding back then. No, not just holding back. She could see that now, beholding his true power. He’d been using a mere fraction of his magic, like a faucet only turned on enough to drip. Now his magic was a torrent, a river raging with spring rains and snowmelt.

Calling on her own magic, Pip coated herself with a layer of magic, much like one of the ancient Escarlish knights suited up in armor.

Then she forced herself to take a step forward. The magic in the ground sparked against her magic, both drawn to and repulsed by the iron properties of her magic. Little bolts of blue magic sparked up her legs, but they didn’t hurt as they slithered over her shield.

As she drew closer to him, more of his magic fizzled around her, crackling over her shield in dancing blue bolts. They didn’t hurt, and the effect might have almost been beautiful, if not for the falling bombs, exploding shells, and the withering crack of gunfire as the airship overhead opened up with machine guns, aiming deadly fire at the darting flyers.

“Fieran.” Pip knelt in front of him, a film of her magic coating her skin so thoroughly that he looked a strange shade of blue-gray through the layers of both of their magics flickering over her.

He raised his head, meeting her gaze. Bolts of blue magic flickered across his eyes and danced in the trails that tears had left streaked over his face. “I can’t save them. I’m too far away, and I can’t save them.”

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