Page 72 of Wings of War

Together, she and Fieran trudged through the streets of Bridgetown. Occasionally, they’d come across a block of buildings that stood virtually untouched, only for the next street over to be demolished into nothing but piles of bricks and shattered wood.

Finally, they reached the base of Museum Hill. Her shoulders slumped in relief at seeing that the outpost remained untouched, though a bomb had cratered into one of the surrounding streets. At least something had survived the night.

To one side of the hill, the University Hospital—one of the two hospitals in Bridgetown—was a blaze of light and hive of activity. Men, women, and children were laid out on the street, waiting for the nurses and the handful of elven healers present to tend to them.

More bustle filled the green before the museum than Pip would have expected. Tents had already been set up while men in army uniforms hustled between them.

To one side of the temporary headquarters, long tables had been set up, providing food to the weary, hungry people of Bridgetown. A smaller set of tables had been set up farther up the hill, where the exhausted, grimy men of Fort Linder were lining up to get food.

Pip dragged her feet in that direction, the steepness of the hill feeling nearly insurmountable in her exhaustion.

“Pip? Fieran?”

She turned at the sound of the voice, her eyes already prickling with tears, her throat choking. Lije stood there, his beanpole frame seeming even skinnier with the way his uniform hung dirty and torn. Ash smeared across his face and into his hair while dried blood coated one leg. A white bandage was tied around his calf.

“You’re alive.” Pip blinked, then gave him a quick hug. She’d already known that, since Fieran had reassured her as they’d worked throughout the night. But it was different seeing for herself.

“What about a hug for me?” Pretty Face strode up to them, holding out his arms for a hug, though he winced at the movement. A bloodstained bandage was taped to his chin. Despite his joking words, his tone held that weary quality they all had after this night. Dried tracks carved through the dirt on his face, showing that he’d shed a few tears of his own during the night.

“Just this once.” Pip gave him a hug as well. He kept the hug short.

As she stepped out of the brief hug, she glanced around. “Where are Tiny, Stickyfingers, and Merrik?”

“Tiny and Stickyfingers are back in the air.” Lije gestured upward at the black shapes of the flyers maintaining a patrol over Bridgetown and Fort Linder. “Capt. Arfeld has all of us rotating through patrols.”

“Except for me and Merrik. Our magic is more useful on the ground.” Fieran gave a tired, rolling shrug of his shoulders. “Is Merrik still in Calafaren?”

“I’d assume so. I haven’t seen him.” Lije tipped his head along with his own exhausted shrug. “The commander sent a detail over the bridge to offer aid to the elves, if they need it or want it.”

Even with the close alliance, the Escarlish soldiers wouldn’t be able to operate on Tarenhieli soil without permission. Perhaps Merrik, half-elf that he was, would be able to smooth their way.

“After they moved the flyers you and Merrik parked in the middle of the bridge out of the way.” Pretty Face waggled his eyebrows, a strained edge to the humor as if he had to work up the energy to joke. Both the humor and the strain couldn’t hide the edge of awe in his voice.

Pip whirled to face Fieran, her own eyebrows shooting up. “You landed on the Alliance Bridge?”

Fieran shrugged, as if landing a flyer on a bridge—a national monument, no less—at night with no brakes and a great risk of skidding out and smashing into the stone walls on either side was no big deal. “It was the only lit, straight, and open spot last night. There was plenty of room.”

Not really, but Pip didn’t have the energy to banter back. Not this morning.

They were all alive. That was the main thing. All of her flyboys had survived the night.

Pip turned to the east, the morning sunlight warm on her face.

Before, she hadn’t truly known what she wanted. She’d joined the Auxiliaries because she was searching for a purpose.

But now she had one. She wasn’t the fighter that Fieran and the other flyboys were. Yet she would fight this war in her own way, maintaining the aeroplanes to keep her boys safe in the sky. Last night had burned a steely resolve through her. She would do her part in this war no matter what it took and where she was sent after this.

Hopefully she was sent to the same place as Fieran and the rest of her flyboys.

Her flyboys. No matter what happened in this war, she could face it as long as they were together.

Chapter

Twenty-Four

Fieran sat with his back to the wooden stockade wall of the Outpost Museum, a bowl of soup in his hands. He stirred the soup, but he couldn’t bring himself to eat despite the fact that he hadn’t eaten in eighteen hours. Perhaps longer. He wasn’t even sure what time it was.

The rays of the morning sun perforated the smoke and shadows of the destroyed city sprawling before him. In the distance, a train whistle pierced the morning. Perhaps reinforcements from the nearest army base to relieve the weary soldiers of Fort Linder. Maybe more elven healers from Tarenhiel to save those who could be saved.

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