Page 37 of Wings of War

Thirteen

Fieran could barely keep himself from bouncing on his toes as he stood in the line just outside of the aeroplane hangar. He wore the fur-lined leather cap, coat, and boots needed to stay warm in the air, even though he was roasting in the warmth of the mild spring day. A set of goggles rested on his forehead, waiting to be tugged over his eyes.

Three flyers had been wheeled outside and now waited, one beside the other, to the side of the airstrip. These flyers were two-seater biplanes, which could be controlled from either seat.

He was going to fly today. Finally.

The bubbling, buzzing sensation filled him so completely that he didn’t even realize that magic sparked around his fingertips until Merrik nudged him.

Fieran clenched his fists, snuffing out his magic. He worked to stuff his magic down, clamping his control even tighter. He hadn’t realized how much those morning practice sessions with his dacha helped keep his magic steady. After so many weeks of not using his magic, the about-to-break-out-of-control feeling in his chest just kept getting worse.

Over the past few weeks, Fieran and the other pilots-in-training had sat in the flyers, familiarizing themselves with the gauges and practicing moving the ailerons and elevators—the flaps on the wings and horizontal flaps on the tail—with the stick. They controlled the rudder—a vertical flap on the tail—with a bar at their feet.

After that, they had spun the flyers up and jounced up and down the airfield, occasionally lifting off the ground, then bouncing back down to earth. Sometimes the narrow, spoked wheels would skid on wet grass, and their aeroplane would veer unexpectedly into the tall weeds. Or the wheels would catch on something, and the whole aeroplane would tip forward. Most of the time, the hooked training skids sticking out of the front caught the aeroplanes on their noses before they turned all the way over upside down. One aeroplane had tipped all the way over, crunching the upper wings. The pilot-in-training had survived with nothing worse than a few broken bones that had been healed by Fort Linder’s elf healer.

For the past few days, Capt. Arfeld and the other two flight instructors had been going on training flights with each recruit in alphabetical order. While they flew, the rest of the unit had to spend the hours in that tiny room, studying up on aerodynamics and taking quizzes.

While none of the quizzes were hard, Fieran was glad it was finally his turn to take to the sky instead of take another test.

A few of the men in the training squadron had washed out after their practice flights—and practice crashes—deciding that such danger wasn’t for them.

Capt. Arfeld nodded to the lieutenant standing by. The lieutenant stepped in front of them, then read from his clipboard. “Fieran Laesornysh, Elijah Lake, Merrik Loiatir.”

The three of them stepped forward and shouted, “Here, sir.”

The lieutenant directed each of them to one of the flyers, and Fieran found himself waved toward the flyer where Capt. Arfeld stood.

Capt. Arfeld started to reach out a hand, as if for a handshake, before he must have remembered that he was now a captain in the army’s Flying Corps instead of a civilian daredevil pilot. He withdrew his hand, but there was still something more casual in his gaze than that of an officer interacting with someone below him. “Fieran Laesornysh? Son of Prince Farrendel Laesornysh?”

“Yes, sir.” Fieran braced himself, not sure what Capt. Arfeld’s reaction would be. So far, the drill sergeants had taken particular delight in doing whatever they could to make Fieran’s life miserable because of his last name and who he was related to.

But Capt. Arfeld got that light in his eyes, more like Pip than the drill sergeants. “He’s a hero to all of us who flew in those experimental early days of flight. We would not have achieved flight without the inventions created by your father and Lance Marion.”

Dacha was a hero to a lot of people, it turned out. Fieran just nodded, hoping that Capt. Arfeld wouldn’t gesture to the aeroplane and mention the magic powering the flyer even now. Because Fieran was totally going to lie and agree that it was Dacha’s power in that flyer. He was already getting too much special attention from his captain without admitting that it was his magic currently powering the aeroplane.

Capt. Arfeld turned and grabbed one of the wing supports, using the toe step to climb easily into the rear seat of the two-seater. As he settled into the seat, he tugged his goggles down over his eyes.

Using the toe step, Fieran climbed up and over the side of the aeroplane. He had to fold his knees nearly to his nose as he wedged himself into the cockpit. He was on the tall end of the height restrictions for pilots. He shifted his legs and managed to get himself crammed into the space as comfortably as possible with his toes tucked into the toe grips on the rudder bar and his knees braced underneath the engine compartment.

The control column of the aeroplane was between his legs while the panel before him held a temperature gauge for the engine compartment. Another gauge measured the magic levels. It should stay in the green. If it jumped into yellow, the magic was burning through the wiring and would eventually send the aeroplane plummeting out of the sky. If that gauge went into red, well, an explosion might be imminent.

Fieran fixed the goggles over his eyes, adjusting the way the strap ran over the points of his ears. How he missed the goggles he had back home, which were comfortably broken in and shaped to his face and head.

Capt. Arfeld walked Fieran through flipping the correct switches and pushing the right button to start the engine while a crew member turned the propeller. Not that Fieran needed much instruction. It was essentially the same as starting the engine of his automobile back home or starting an engine for testing at the AMPC.

The magically powered rotary engine gave a crackling, high-pitched whine as it powered up. The propeller started into motion, then whirred faster and faster until it set up a deep hum. The aeroplane eased forward.

Capt. Arfeld had to shout over the hum of the propeller as he maneuvered the aeroplane to the end of the airfield, telling Fieran what he was doing as he did it. Fieran kept his hands on the stick, feeling the power and control through the column.

Then they reached the end of the airstrip, and one of the ground crew ran over and put chocks in front of the wheels, staying low to avoid the whirling propeller.

Capt. Arfeld opened the power to full, the propeller buzzing loudly, the engine whining at a pitch that made Fieran wish he had a set of elven moss earplugs. They sat there for several long minutes, held back by the wheel chocks as the aeroplane spun up to full power. The other two aeroplanes waited behind and to the side of them, also spinning up.

Finally, Capt. Arfeld waved to the ground crew, and a man dashed forward, grabbed the chocks, and raced out of the way.

The aeroplane rolled forward, faster and faster. The rubber tires on the spoked wheels bounced over the ground, and the whole wooden frame of the flyer shuddered, as if it were about to be shaken apart. Fieran was rattled from side to side in the seat, his head occasionally banging against the minimal leather padding around the lip of the cockpit and behind his head.

Fieran’s heart crawled into his throat as the aeroplane hurtled toward the end of the runaway. The grass strip had seemed so long before, but now the end was rushing toward them, the wind of their passing blasting into his face.

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