Page 60 of Wings of War

Two more explosions erupted, even as shouting poured through the broken window. A bugle call cut through the din, one Pip had only heard during drills to teach all of them on base the meaning of the bugle calls.

Red alert. The signal of an attack.

A darker shadow passed over the window, black and sinister where there should be open sky, lit only by Fort Linder’s one searchlight. The moon hadn’t yet risen, a thick cloud cover creating a black, starless night.

For a moment, they all froze, too uncomprehending of the shadow, the bugle call. They’d all been living on this army base for weeks—months, in some cases—yet the possibility of war was just a figment of newspapers and hypothetical conversations.

Another boom tore through the night. The pressure of it pounded into Pip’s chest so forcefully that she struggled to breathe for a moment. Her ears rang, even as something thunked against the outer cement wall of the barracks.

All she wanted to do was curl into a ball under the flimsy protection of her bunk, wishing with everything in her that she’d never come and instead remained safe at the western rail terminal, oblivious and sheltered.

But Pip forced herself to her feet. She called up her magic and pushed it outward, forming a protective shield around the small huddle of wide-eyed women.

Would her magic be enough? She was strong. Thirteen on the Marion Scale. But would that magical strength be enough in the face of whatever was causing those explosions?

Chelsea—the talkative, flirtatious nurse—clapped her hands together. “All right, ladies. This is what we’ve trained for. Hurry and get dressed. We need to get to our stations. There will be wounded to care for, orders to take in dictation, telephone calls to get out so that the rest of the kingdom knows what is happening.”

Her words galvanized the others, as if being given direction broke the paralysis fear and uncertainty had on them.

Pip leapt to tug on her coveralls, throwing on clothes as quickly as she could while still holding that shield over their heads. The cement floor vibrated beneath their feet as the explosions blended one into the other, almost constant.

As she stuffed her feet into her boots, the laces tucked inside rather than taking the time to tie them, she faced Chelsea. “I’m holding a shield of magic over us at the moment. But…”

Chelsea nodded, a light of understanding in her eyes. “You need to get to the hangar. Get our flyers into the air. We’ll be all right.”

The words were an empty promise. As soon as they ran into the night, going their separate ways, there was no guarantee that any of them would be all right.

Pip still hesitated, her stomach twisting at the thought of leaving this group of women unprotected. How could she walk away, knowing they would be utterly vulnerable the moment she did?

Chelsea gave her a small push toward the door. “Go.”

Pip turned and raced for the door, shrinking her shield so that it protected just herself.

As soon as she opened the door, she was nearly shoved back inside under the wave of noise and smoke and shouts that hurled at her through the night.

Silhouetted in the beam of the searchlight, the black shapes of six airships glided overhead. A brief flare of light came from one, then a faint whistling sound. Seconds later, a flash of orange erupted on the far side of Fort Linder near the river fortifications. The ground, the air, everything shook and heaved under the blast.

Bombs. Those airships were dropping bombs, likely rolling them out of an open cargo door.

As tempted as she was to try to extend her shield farther than just her own head, Pip held the shield in close as she sprinted through the fort, dodging around piles of rubble and other people also racing for their stations. She needed to save her magical strength to shield the hangar, assuming the Mongavarians—she could only assume those were Mongavarian airships overhead—hadn’t hit it already.

Fieran bolted upright at the blast pummeling his ears and chest. He gripped the bedframe as the bunk swayed beneath him. His magic sparked along his fingers, sizzling against his blanket until he yanked his magic back into his chest.

Voices came from the others in the barracks, even as another explosion nearly tumbled Fieran out of the bunk. He swung down, landing on his feet between the bunks, even as he reached for his gun. He already wore a set of fatigues, as army life didn’t exactly lend itself to lounging around in pajamas, even for sleep. One never knew when a drill sergeant would wake the unit in the middle of the night for a surprise inspection or ruck march.

Or someone would set off bombs in the middle of the night.

Merrik dropped down next to him, poised and ready, looking to him as if he expected Fieran to give the orders.

Another explosion tore through the night, so close the pressure wave battered the building, popping against Fieran’s ears.

Across the room, one of the recruits curled on the floor, whimpering, arms over his head. Others stood around in various states of shock, terror, or a strange sort of calm as they laced up their boots and reached for their guns.

Tiny and Stickyfingers appeared at Fieran’s side, joining him and Merrik. Lije and Pretty Face both rolled off their bunks, stuffing their feet into their boots and grabbing their rifles. All of them, from Merrik to Pretty Face, turned to Fieran.

“We need to get to the flyers.” Fieran sprinted for the rear door of the barracks, not having to look back to sense the others following at his heels.

As he opened the door, a blast of air hit him with the tang of gunpowder and the acrid scent of burned wood and melted metal. A bugle call rose into the night, piping out the red alert, even as Fieran jumped the stairs, landing lightly on the dirt.

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