Page 52 of Wings of War

Only Merrik didn’t appear completely overawed by what he’d just witnessed. He, after all, had grown up seeing the magic of the ancient kings all the time. Perhaps he had never personally witnessed Fieran and his dacha wield their magic quite like that, but he was not unfamiliar with their power.

Fieran gestured at himself. “I’m still me, guys. Don’t look at me like that.”

Pretty Face whooshed out an exhale, his gaze darting from Fieran to something—or someone—beyond him. Pretty Face spoke in a lowered tone, his shoulders slightly hunched. “I’m going to be beyond respectful of Fieran’s mama.”

Lije slapped Pretty Face’s back. “As you always should have been, even without the threat of incineration.”

Fieran shrugged as he sauntered closer. “It isn’t my dacha you have to worry about. Thanks to their heart bond, Mama can use Dacha’s magic. So all that incineration and exploding stuff? Yeah, my mother can do that too.”

Pretty Face gave a little shudder. “Your whole family is downright terrifying.”

Stickyfingers shook himself, then grinned as he slapped Fieran’s back. “I’m glad you’re on our side, Red.”

Exhausted, Fieran climbed down from the truck that had carried them from the train station in Bridgetown to Fort Linder. Darkness had long since fallen on the fort, and after traveling all day, his body ached to collapse on his hard bunk and sleep for the few hours that remained until reveille. He stank of body odor after a week without a shower.

He dragged his feet as he marched next to Lije, his rucksack heavy on his shoulders.

The first few people in their column opened the door to the barracks, then halted. The drill sergeant barked at them to keep moving.

As Fieran shuffled inside, he nearly halted in the doorway before the sergeant’s yelling forced him to keep moving.

The barracks in front of him looked like a whirlwind had gone through. All the wooden bunks were tipped over, the blankets and mattresses strewn about. The foot lockers were all out of place, and what appeared to be the contents of at least one footlocker joined the chaos. Items of clothing were tossed over everything, including a pair of skivvies hanging from the back door’s handle, while cream-colored flakes of something smelling faintly of oatmeal and honey had been ground into the floor, the walls, and even their blankets and mattresses.

The drill sergeant stalked into the center of the barracks. “One of your fellow knuckleheads left his footlocker unlocked. You have four minutes.” With that, he stalked out once again.

For a moment, everyone froze, staring at the disaster that was their barracks.

Then they all leapt into motion, still avoiding the center sergeant’s zone.

Fieran dropped his rucksack near where his footlocker was supposed to be. He and Lije righted their bunk, then scrambled to help the others right bunks and place mattresses in place.

Fieran located his footlocker and heaved it back into place at the end of his bunk. Everything inside would be all tossed around, no longer arranged properly. But he didn’t have time to rearrange it. Nor put the items from his rucksack away.

Lije spat a slightly naughty word, then tipped his footlocker back into place. The top was open, the green-painted wooden box entirely empty.

There was no time for recriminations or teasing. Fieran scrambled around the room, grabbing Lije’s things and tossing them at him. Several others hurled items toward Lije.

Several people rushed outside, then returned with buckets of water. They sloshed the water over the floor while others took mops and scrubbed at the cream flakes, creating a flurry of suds. A few people doused the blankets, trying to wash them off.

Lije’s mama’s goatmilk soap. The drill sergeant must have taken the bars and ground them into the cement walls and floor until the bars were all gone. Worse, Lije had just gotten a fresh care package right before they’d left so the sergeant had plenty of soap to spread all over the barracks.

The more they sloshed water and scrubbed with the mops, the more soap suds billowed and foamed.

Fieran slipped on the wet, soapy floor, catching himself on a nearby bunk. Across the way, Tiny slipped and fell on his rear on the floor. The puddle around him froze into a slick of ice, as if he’d briefly lost control of his magic.

The drill sergeant swept back inside, barking at them to get into formation and chewing them out for not having the barracks cleaned, even though it had been an impossible task in four minutes.

Fieran slid into place before his bunk, standing at attention with Lije on one side, Pretty Face on the other. Merrik stood on the other side of Pretty Face.

The sergeant gave the order, and they all dropped to the floor for push-ups.

As Fieran lowered himself toward the ground, his palms slid on the soapy floor, and he had to slide them back into place before the drill sergeant yelled at him for doing push-ups incorrectly.

When he reached the bottom of the push-up with his nose nearly touching a section of foam, his nostrils and eyes burned with the lye. He’d never known the scent of oatmeal and honey could be an overwhelming stench until then.

Up he pushed. Out his hands slid. Down he went in his push-up. Out his hands slid again. His muscles burned from the extra exertion. Each time he slid his hands back and forth, he created more soapy foam, just making the floor even slicker than it already was. His hand bumped into Lije’s, then into Pretty Face’s on the other side.

Across the way, Sticky’s hands completely slid out, and he ate it, smashing face-first into the concrete, the billowing suds doing nothing to cushion his fall. Another recruit—Stevens—also biffed it, landing with a splat.

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