Page 17 of Stalk the Sky

Uncle Rharreth shook himself, then clapped Fieran on the shoulder, the gesture firm enough that Fieran nearly stumbled under the force of it. “Well done at Bridgetown. I trust that you will protect Dar Goranth just as competently. I do not need to remind you of how leery the trolls are to trust the protection of their base to a squadron of humans and elves, including the son of Farrendel Laesornysh.”

Fieran shifted, clenching his fists to keep his magic contained. “I’ve gathered as much. I doubt most of the trolls here put much stock in the protection of the Flying Corps.”

“No, they don’t. They believe the seaborne and airborne navies will be enough.” Uncle Rharreth rested a hand on his sword’s hilt as he strolled down the gully toward the base.

“They won’t be.” Fieran fell into step with Uncle Rharreth. “Bridgetown was a warning. The next attack will have much more force behind it.”

As bad as the attack at Bridgetown and Calafaren had been, Mongavaria had sent a mere six airships. More than enough to take on an unprepared army base and unprotected town if Fieran hadn’t been there.

But six airships were a drop in the bucket compared to Mongavaria’s military might.

“Will the Alliance stick with the original plan?” Fieran was tall, but he still had to lengthen his stride to keep up with Uncle Rharreth.

Last Fieran had heard, the Alliance planned to hold a strong front at the Wall. As long as they countered whatever airborne units Mongavaria sent over, the Alliance could simply weather the war behind the Wall, forcing Mongavaria to exhaust their resources until they were eventually forced to ask for peace. If needed, the Alliance would invade, but only once Mongavaria was weakened from trying to fight a war over the Wall.

“I believe so, though there is some talk about what we can do as a retaliatory strike.” Uncle Rharreth clenched his fists. “But if Mongavaria keeps targeting civilians, your Escarlish generals and politicians will experience great pressure to end the attacks. The trolls and elves are much more used to war, and they are far more pragmatic about how many civilians will get killed than the Escarlish are.”

“Except for those older than seventy, the Escarlish people have never experienced a war.” Fieran didn’t add that, up until the little taste of it he’d gotten less than a week ago, he hadn’t either.

He and Uncle Rharreth hiked up the ridge out of the gully, headed for the edge of the airfield. Fieran worked to keep his breathing even, not wanting to sound out of breath in front of his troll warrior-king uncle.

“The current Escarlish population might not have faced a war before, but after Bridgetown, they are out for blood.” Uncle Rharreth’s smile was that of a wolf on the hunt. “Something we trolls understand quite well. We’ve been eager for this war for nearly seventy years. We are not about to be denied now.”

“The poisonings.” Fieran resisted a shudder. He’d rather face a bullet than poison. He could incinerate a bullet, but he had no defense against poison.

“Yes, but not only that. We fight this war not just for revenge but also to prove our true honor.” Uncle Rharreth halted at the edge of the airfield. “Kostaria might be a part of the Alliance, but we trolls have never forgotten that we became a part of the Alliance because we lost a war to the humans and elves. Worse, we were the ones in the wrong in that war. We have more to prove in this war—to Mongavaria, to the other Alliance Kingdoms, and to ourselves—than any of the other kingdoms.”

Fieran felt that deep in his chest. Perhaps a need to prove oneself was more universal than one might think.

Chapter

Six

Tapping her pencil on her notepad, Pip swung her legs as she sat at the end of a table in the first row of tables in a small room off the large underground aeroplane hangar. As the chairs had been designed for adult trolls, her feet didn’t touch the floor, even when she sat slightly forward.

A common problem. Elven chairs catered toward height as well, and even in Escarland where the chairs were shorter, her feet still didn’t touch flat when she sat in a normal chair.

The other mechanics had taken seats near the back of the room. As their commander, Pip probably should have sat with them. But she’d never be able to see if she were in the back. Instead, she sat here, more fully highlighting the divide between her and the others.

Some of the flyboys began to file in, and Pretty Face plopped into the seat at the other end of the table. A dark purple ring surrounded one of his eyes, and his nose was an interesting shade of yellow-green. At least it was still straight.

Pretty Face gave her a smile, then winced. “Ugh. My face is broken.”

“Doesn’t Dar Goranth have an elven healer?” Pip winced on his behalf. Though knowing Pretty Face as she did, he deserved the punch Fieran’s cousin Sathrah had given him. “I thought all important military bases had at least one.”

“It does.” Pretty Face grimaced and touched his nose. “It turns out this is considered a minor injury and not worthy of direct healing. After confirming that my nose isn’t broken, the healer gave me a flask of juice with stored healing magic and sent me on my way.”

Stored healing magic like that wasn’t as powerful or fast as a direct healing. But Pretty Face’s bruise would still heal quicker than it would have otherwise.

Stickyfingers and Tiny took the seats next to Pretty Face. Stickyfingers smirked at Pretty Face and gave him a nudge with an elbow while Tiny nodded a greeting at Pip. Lije slipped into the seat beside Stickyfingers, leaving only one seat between Pip and Lije free at their table.

When Merrik quietly took that seat with a murmured greeting, Pip’s heart sank. As much as she liked Merrik as one of the guys, he wasn’t the one she’d wanted to sit there.

But as Fieran strolled past the tables to stand at the front of the room, her disappointment vanished. Right. Fieran was leading this meeting. He wouldn’t be sitting at all.

Instead, he leaned against a small desk positioned at the front of the room, his hands braced on either side of him with his legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. Utterly nonchalant, even in his olive-green uniform that contrasted sharply with the bright red of his hair.

And utterly handsome, standing there so casual and confident.

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