Page 19 of Wings of War

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible. The only one rated that high is a permanent installation at the Alliance Magical Power Company in Aldon. It can’t be moved.”

Fieran had to work hard to keep his face blank. The last thing he wanted to do was smile in vindication, only to find himself doing another hundred push-ups.

A hundred push-ups wasn’t anything too strenuous for him. His half-elf blood and training with his dacha every morning saw to that. But two hundred might be a stretch.

For a moment, the sergeant just glared at the technician, as if he wasn’t sure how to handle this situation. Then he spun back to Fieran. “Red, what is your magical power level?”

“Nineteen, Drill Sergeant.” Fieran didn’t pause in his push-ups.

The clerk’s eyes bugged at that. After all, the scale only went up to twenty—a power level reserved solely for Fieran’s dacha.

But the technician quickly scribbled that down, as if to get it recorded before either the clerk or the sergeant came up with any objections. “I can verify that is correct. As part of the training for certification in magical testing, we visited the AMPC and used their magical testing device. I didn’t personally test Fieran Laesornysh’s magic, but I was present. I tested his sister’s, and she is also rated at 19 on the Marion Scale.”

Fieran’s stomach dropped. Up until this point, he had just been a number on a clipboard. Once everyone put it together who he was…

The sergeant crossed his arms with a grunt, his brows lowering as something in his eyes flashed with understanding. He glared down at Fieran. “Make that a hundred and fifty.”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant,” Fieran said between counting out his push-ups. He would be a target for the drill sergeants as word spread that he was special because of his famous parents and family.

Merrik finished his push-ups first, meekly handed over his clipboard to the technician, and stepped into the testing bubble. It was a familiar routine, and Merrik probably could have just told the technician his rating as well. But he didn’t have Fieran’s excuse and wouldn’t want to risk another round of push-ups.

Fieran finished his hundred and fifty push-ups as Merrik stepped from the testing bubble, his magic rating a 9.2. It wasn’t hugely powerful by elf standards, but he wasn’t incredibly weak either. A perfectly average amount of plant growing magic.

The technician held out Fieran’s clipboard with a slight nod.

Fieran didn’t recognize him, but AMPC had visitors all the time for various reasons, from internships for magical engineering to the certifications for the magical testing devices. He had helped run the magical testing simulations several times so that the trainees could get a taste of what testing powerful magic was like—important so that they knew the warning signs if the machine was about to be overpowered by the magic they were testing and, hopefully, they could shut it down before anything exploded.

As Fieran retrieved his clipboard, he glanced down at it. Underneath the checkmark for Other, the technician had written: Magic of the Ancient Kings.

At least Fieran’s magical designation was now accurate. Not sure if it had been worth a hundred and fifty push-ups, but oh, well. It wasn’t like he’d had much of a choice about protesting. He would have blown up their machine if he’d obeyed the order, and he probably would have gotten even more push-ups for that.

Or, perhaps, that had been the point. He was supposed to blindly follow orders, even if it led to a bad outcome. Like blowing up a highly expensive magical testing device.

Fieran and Merrik stepped into the next room, joining the end of the rather long line. For a moment, they were far enough back to avoid the drill sergeants.

Merrik elbowed Fieran, though he kept his voice low. “Not even through processing yet, and you already got us extra physical training.”

Fieran shrugged, stretching out his arm muscles before they tightened up after all that exercise. “I’m beginning to understand why my dacha laughed when I told him I joined the army. What did your dacha do?”

“Warned me that my friendship with you was going to be hazardous to my health,” Merrik muttered as the line shuffled forward.

Fieran didn’t have a chance to respond since a drill sergeant was patrolling the line, and he and Merrik had to go back to blank-faced silence.

Chapter

Seven

Fieran levered himself onto the top bunk and collapsed onto the hard, flat mattress, too tired to care if it wasn’t nearly as soft as what he was used to back home. After the day of travel and the long night of processing into the army, his eyes were gritty, his body sagging with the urge to sleep.

But his butt cheek still throbbed from that shot, as did both of his arms from those vaccines and push-ups.

At least with the last names of Laesornysh and Loiatir, he and Merrik had gotten top bunks side by side in the barracks. It turned out their new friend Lije’s last name was Lake, so he was assigned the bed below Fieran’s.

“Would anyone like some ice?”

At the high-pitched tenor, Fieran rolled onto an elbow to peer across the barracks.

A troll stood almost directly across the barracks from Fieran’s bunk. He was unusually short for a troll, his head barely level with the bunk next to him, yet he retained the broad shoulders and brawny arms, making him look a little bit like a bulldog. Despite his huge chest, he had the highest pitched tenor voice Fieran had heard, a surprising sound coming from such a well-built troll.

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