Page 50 of Stalk the Sky

With a few orders, Commander Druindar had them dump all the sand off their mattresses and sweep it into a pile in the center of the room while all the mattresses were stacked to one side. Once they were finished, they lined up at attention once again with Merrik and Fieran standing in the middle of the row.

“You men…” Commander Druindar swept his hand to indicate Merrik and the half of the Flight to the left. “Return the mattresses and helmets and set your rooms to military standards. You may not use the lifts. Only the stairs.”

Fieran internally winced on Merrik’s behalf. He and the others would have to traverse twenty-two flights of stairs carrying the mattresses, and they’d have to do it twice since only half the Flight had been assigned to that job.

“The rest of you…” Commander Druindar indicated Fieran and the men standing on the right. “You will return all of the sand outside using only this one spoon.”

The commander held out the basic metal spoon used in the mess hall. He set it on the floor at the front of the room.

Fieran gave another mental wince as he surveyed the massive pile of sand without turning his head. That was going to take forever.

“Each group will have one hour to complete your task.” Commander Druindar’s tone remained hard, no hint whatsoever of the glee he’d shown the night before. “Whichever group finishes first before the hour is up will get breakfast and the other will not. If neither of you finish before the hour, neither group will receive breakfast.”

Fieran flicked a glance from the mattresses to the five-foot-tall mound of sand. Sure, they would move as quickly as they could in the hope of getting breakfast, but he might as well face it now. There was no possible way any of them were eating that morning.

With that, Commander Druindar dismissed them to their tasks.

Fieran lunged for the spoon even as Merrik raced toward the mattresses. Ignoring the orders Merrik was giving to his half of the men, Fieran gestured to the men assigned to him. “Form a line. We’ll pass the spoon back and forth. Every fifteen minutes we will rotate those stationed inside and those outside.”

Perhaps sooner, if the men outside seemed to grow too chilled too quickly. While fifteen minutes might only seem like three or four rotations, it would be many more than that, given that this would take much longer than an hour to clean up.

Tiny and Stickyfingers, who had ended up with Fieran, flung the doors open. While the outdoors appeared a marginally brighter gray than it had the night before, the gusting wind and driving rain hadn’t let up.

Fieran handed the spoon to Murray, the first man in line, before he headed outside to take a place at the end of the line in the downpour, standing next to the spot that had become a puddle-filled pit thanks to all the sand and gravel they’d shoveled out of it the night before. He had to rapidly blink to see through the deluge.

Within a few moments, the spoon appeared, oh-so-carefully passed from hand to hand to avoid spilling even a grain of the sand resting on it. As the spoon reached the downpour outside, the flyboys bent over and used one hand to shield the spoonful.

Fieran took the spoon from Tiny next to him, then dumped the spoonful into the puddle beside him. The teaspoon of sand barely made a plop amid all the ripples and splashes of the rain.

He handed the spoon back to Tiny, and it was passed back the way it had come.

Forget breakfast. They’d be lucky if they finished before lunch. His men hadn’t mutinied over the humiliation the night before, but if his reckless idea cost them two meals, they just might.

With the uncanny knack of officers, Commander Druindar reappeared just as Fieran and his flyboys swept the last of the sand onto the spoon, using their fingers to capture the last few grains.

“Lt. Laesornysh, a word.” Commander Druindar spun on his heel and marched toward his office set to one side of the parade ground.

Fieran paused just long enough to tell the others, “Dump that spoonful outside, then go get cleaned up. Well done.”

The others nodded, solemnly escorting Stickyfingers—the one with the steadiest hands—outside to dispose of the last of the sand.

Fieran trudged after Commander Druindar, his heart already lodged somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

As he stepped inside the office, Commander Druindar barked, “Close the door behind you.”

This really wasn’t going to be good if the door needed to be closed.

Fieran closed the door, then took his place at attention before the commander’s large desk formed of what appeared to be a single slab of stone molded into a table shape.

For a long moment, Commander Druindar sat in his large, leather-padded chair and regarded Fieran with cold, dark brown eyes set in his hard, gray-skinned face. While he wore a modern military uniform with a sidearm at his hip, a traditional Kostarian sword—heavy-bladed and honed—hung on a rack on the wall next to a broad shield behind Commander Druindar’s chair.

Finally, the commander leaned forward. “Given the glowing report I received from your previous commander and who your father is—not to mention your relation to my King Rharreth, my Queen Melantha, and the Generals Julien and Vriska Ardon—I expected better of you, Lt. Laesornysh.”

It took every scrap of steel Fieran still possessed not to openly flinch at that. Commander Druindar certainly knew how to hit Fieran where it hurt.

Whatever tales Lt. Rothilion had been spinning to Commander Druindar, this would just confirm them.

“We are at war, Lt. Laesornysh.” Commander Druindar might as well have been flaying Fieran with knives for the sharpness to his tone and gaze. “I trust you will not forget it again, and there will be no more similar shenanigans.”

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