Page 15 of Wings of War

Beside Fieran, Merrik dragged in a breath, his shoulders relaxing, in that sure sign that he had warmed up to Lije enough to finally join the conversation.

That was Fieran’s cue to stop talking long enough for Merrik to get a word in edgewise. It often took Merrik a few extra moments to get comfortable with new people, and Fieran was more than happy to do all the talking until that point.

Merrik’s tone was low, barely carrying over the clacking of the train wheels on the tracks. “I hope for the ogres’ sakes that the papers are simply fear-mongering. The Mongavarian Empire is not known for treating races other than human very well. They don’t even treat all human races that well, if the rumors about their march through the kingdoms south of Groyria are to be believed.”

Fieran squirmed on the grimy, ill-padded bench. He probably should be thinking more about the consequences of war rather than his own eagerness to take to the skies and prove himself in battle.

It wasn’t like his attitude was rare. The Kostarian papers were just as filled with calls for war as the Escarlish ones were. The trolls had never forgotten how, sixty-nine years ago, Mongavaria had sent poisoned grain into that kingdom, killing many men, women, and children before the poison was discovered. With how long-lived trolls were, most of those who had lived through that poisoning were still alive and young enough to go into battle to avenge those they lost all those years ago.

If Mongavaria invaded Groyria, they would not treat the ogres any better than they’d treated the trolls all those years ago.

“Yeah, me too. The ogres keep to themselves, but they’re good folks.” Lije’s somber expression was swept away with a grin. “But if the Mongavarians do invade Groyria, we’ll be ready, and we’ll beat the stuffing out of them.”

Fieran smirked, resting his head against the hard top of the bench and resisting the urge to let his magic play over his fingers. “Yes, we will.”

Chapter

Six

After eight hours, Fieran was ready to climb onto the top of the train to get some fresh air and stretch his legs.

But that was something he could only do on his parents’ private train. Public train conductors got a little nervous when their passengers wandered about on the roof.

At last, the train sped toward the city of Bridgetown as the setting sun cast long, orange beams across the rippling water of the Hydalla River, which formed the border between Escarland and Tarenhiel.

On the Escarlish side of the river, the nearly flat, open plains gave way to tall brick buildings clustered in the tight, neat grid of a city that had only sprung into existence in the past seventy years.

On the northern side of the river, the dense Tarenhieli forest grew right up to the water’s edge for as far as anyone could see. Directly across the Hydalla, the elven city of Calafaren—which meant Bridgetown in elvish—was grown into the trees. Unlike most elven cities, this city was designed with human tourists in mind, so everything had handrails and was kept far closer to the ground.

Between these two sister cities, the graceful stone arches of the Alliance Bridge spanned the Hydalla River, as it had for the past sixty-nine years, a monument to the close friendship between the three kingdoms.

When it had been built, the Alliance Bridge had been intended for train traffic. It had served that purpose for forty years before it was converted into lanes for automobile traffic, with one lane set aside for pedestrians and bicyclists.

The trains, both cargo and passenger, had been diverted to the eastern side of Bridgetown where tunnels beneath the Hydalla River took the trains north into Tarenhiel.

As the train swept past the outer edge of Bridgetown, Fieran all but pressed his face against the glass of the window.

In Bridgetown, everything was new and vibrant, from the fresh paint on the street signs to the pristine tarmac of the asphalt roads. Automobiles with shining chrome, sweeping fenders, and open carriages zipped up and down the streets, honking as they dodged around the few horse-drawn carriages that dared venture into Bridgetown. Red-and-white-striped awnings covered little patios where groups of people chatted as they sipped sodas and enjoyed the first pleasant day of early spring.

Trolls, elves, and humans strolled along the sidewalks or poured out of a cinema, mingling in a way that they did in no other city in any of the three kingdoms. Human women in bustled and puffed-sleeved dresses strolled through the many green spaces and parks inside of Bridgetown, passing elves in traditional silken tunics and trousers. Human men wearing bowlers paused to talk with trolls wearing trousers and shirts in the human style along with more traditional troll leather vests.

Fieran loved Bridgetown in a way that he did few other places in all three kingdoms. Estyra was stuffy and slow to change. Aldon was old and dirty.

But Bridgetown was the future, its streets paved in the peace of this golden age, its very design a testament to a modern era.

And sure, there were just a few too many monuments to his parents for Fieran’s liking. One couldn’t turn a street corner in Bridgetown or Calafaren without smacking into some memorial, monument, or museum dedicated to the Alliance. But Fieran was willing to overlook that one flaw in his favorite city. It came with the territory of having rather famous parents.

The train whistled and shuddered slightly as the air brakes engaged. The wheels squealed as the train slowed, finally coming to rest with a hiss of air and clang of metal at the station in Bridgetown.

No sooner had the train squealed to a rolling halt than the train’s door slammed open and a well-built man wearing a drab green uniform hopped into the car. His short hair stuck straight up, and his eyes flashed with such fire that the front rows of young men quailed even before the man began shouting at a volume that rang in Fieran’s ears. Fieran couldn’t even make out what the man was saying besides a general impression of loud.

Next to Fieran, Merrik flinched, his hands twitching like he wanted to plug his ears.

“Move! Move! Move!” The drill sergeant—for the man yelling could only be the infamous drill sergeant Fieran had been warned to expect—stalked down the aisle as the young men on the train stumbled to their feet and rushed to bail out. “Move, you lazy slugs!”

Then Merrik, Fieran, and Lije were on their feet and hustling off the train. No steps had been lowered, so Fieran had to jump to the platform. He landed lightly, as did Merrik. But Lije nearly fell, and Fieran grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet.

On the platform, another drill sergeant was shouting and herding the recruits into straight lines while the passengers from the other cars gawked. A cordon of soldiers in uniform kept this section of the platform clear.

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