Page 13 of Stalk the Sky

Sathrah faced Fieran and gave Pretty Face a light shake. “Does this belong to you?”

“Sadly, yes.” Fieran sighed and shook his head. “Let me guess. He said something inappropriate.”

“Yes, he did.” Sathrah plunked Pretty Face onto the bench none too gently, eliciting a whimper. “You really need to teach him a few manners.”

“We’ve been trying. It hasn’t stuck yet.” Fieran picked up a napkin and passed it to Pretty Face.

Pretty Face took it and pressed it to his nose, leaning his head back. “I’m fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.”

“Of course you are. If I’d wanted to hurt you, I would have.” Sathrah strolled around the table and plopped onto the bench next to Lucien. “You’re lucky all I did was give you a bloody nose. Since you’re a fragile human, I held back and didn’t even break the bone.”

“I appreciate that. I rather like my nose.” Pretty Face spoke into the napkin.

“If you want to keep your face intact, then don’t go around insulting troll warriors and making inappropriate comments.” Sathrah rested a hand on the dagger belted to the waist of her lieutenant commander’s uniform.

“We’re on a Kostarian base now. Trolls punch first and ask questions later.” Fieran leaned over and retrieved another napkin, handing it to Pretty Face.

“You’re right, we do.” Sathrah planted her hands on the table.

“Their rules about punching fellow officers are far more lax than the Escarlish military’s.” Fieran glanced between his assembled flyboys. He might need to make a speech about this to everyone tomorrow morning. “As long as no bones are broken—and even then, it depends on the bone—a few punches and bruises aren’t against regulations. There won’t be any disciplinary action unless a severe beating is given or the fight happened in a dishonorable manner. So keep that in mind, all of you. Especially you, Pretty Face.”

“Understood.” Pretty Face finally lowered the napkins, giving a few experimental sniffs and exploring his nose with his fingers. “Does it look bad? Is it crooked? Please tell me it isn’t crooked.”

Pip rolled her eyes. “Your nose is fine.”

“Though…” Lije squinted. “I think you might have a black eye starting already.”

Pretty Face groaned. “How am I”—he shot a glance at Sathrah—“uh…going to see to shave if my eyes swell shut?”

“At least we don’t have to fly anytime soon.” Stickyfingers grimaced. “When I broke my nose, it hurt just bending over. I can’t imagine flying would feel too good, even if your nose isn’t broken.”

Flying. How Fieran already missed it. Escarland had better ship their aeroplanes soon. If he thought placing a phone call to his Uncle Averett, or perhaps Uncle Lance, would speed up the shipping, he’d almost be tempted to use his family connections.

“So how did you join the family?” Pip gestured at Rokyd and Lucien. “They were just telling us.”

Sathrah smirked, grabbed Sticky’s plate, and plucked a bite of the roast potato from it. “Like Rokyd, my family died in the poisonings. Unlike Rokyd, I was from a tiny village in the far western reaches of Kostaria. I was taken in by a family who just wanted an extra hand for mining, and no matter how many times I appealed to the local warrior family to be trained as a warrior at the stronghold, I was refused. Eventually, I ran away.”

Sticky’s mouth pressed into a tight line. “So the exploitation of orphans and those on the streets isn’t only a problem for Escarland.”

“No.” Sathrah clenched and unclenched her fists. “I spent years living on the streets before I heard rumors that Akarak Stronghold was the place for common trolls to go if they wanted to be trained, not just as guards but as warriors in a shield band. I hitched a ride to Akarak, marched up to the stronghold, and demanded to be trained as a warrior. As you might imagine, Ma took one look at me and saw something of herself. It wasn’t long before I was not just in training to be a warrior but also adopted into the family.”

“And our little band wouldn’t have been complete without you.” Lucien threw an arm around the shoulders of each of his siblings sitting on either side of him. “Though you just had to choose the airborne navy instead of seaborne.”

“Much to Ma’s fond annoyance.” Sathrah grinned and gave Lucien a backslap that was part punch. She glanced at the rest of them. “Da and Ma are both army. If we picked either the Escarlish or Kostarian Army, we’d have either our da or our ma as our commanding officer. All three of us jumped ship as it were and picked navy instead.”

“I understand that.” Fieran gestured at his green army uniform. “I joined the Escarlish Flying Corps for similar reasons.”

For a moment, he shared a look with Rokyd, Lucien, and Sathrah. Only his cousins—in their sprawling, interconnected, rather royal family—could understand what it was like growing up as they had, related to the kings of the Alliance Kingdoms and so many highly placed people.

“Speaking of commanding officers…” Fieran leaned a bit closer. “Is—”

A whistle piped from the doorway. “King on deck.”

Everyone in the room shot to their feet, spinning toward the doorway. Kings were the exception to the no saluting or standing at attention rule in the mess hall.

Well, that answered the question Fieran had been about to ask. He climbed to his feet and faced the door as a regal troll with an antler crown tucked in his white hair strolled through the doorway. He wore crisp white trousers and a white shirt in a semblance of a naval uniform, but his was cut in an older style that worked with the sword strapped to his waist. The sense of power surrounding him came not just from his muscular arms and sword at his side but also his confident stride and set to his head and shoulders.

Uncle Rharreth, King of Kostaria.

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