Page 52 of Stalk the Sky

And if the lash of his magic had stung a few fingers, that was all it had done. It hadn’t left so much as a mark on the skin.

Fieran planted his palms on the table, glaring at Lt. Rothilion. “Insult me all you want. Right now, I deserve it. Call me a half-breed; I don’t care. That’s what I am, and I’m proud of it. But don’t you dare say that about my dacha again, or I’ll do far more than sting your fingers.”

Lt. Rothilion glared right back. “I should report you for this.”

“Go ahead. Report me.” Fieran was too tired, too hungry, and too done to care. “You’ll also have to report what you said, and I’ll appeal and protest this all the way up the chain of command. Once that report lands on the desks of your commander-in-chief and mine, who do you think King Weylind and King Averett will side with? The lieutenant who insulted the brother of whom they are famously protective or their nephew?”

Lt. Rothilion’s jaw worked as he held Fieran’s glare for another moment before he finally dropped his gaze. “You will regret this, Laesornysh.”

Merrik grabbed Fieran’s arm again, and this time he succeeded in yanking Fieran away. As he all but dragged Fieran across the mess hall, he muttered so that only Fieran could hear, “He is not worth any more trouble this morning.”

That was probably true. And he had his flyboys to consider. He couldn’t shame them any more than they were already humiliated this morning.

Fieran collected his tray of food without paying much attention, plopping down in a seat at their usual table without taking in who else was there.

Next to him, Pip’s eyes were wide, dark circles smudging her face as if she’d had as rough a night as he had. She briefly rested a hand on his arm before dropping her fingers back to her lap, as if she wasn’t sure how to go about offering comfort.

Across the way, Aylia leaned forward, her voice lowering even if her eyes danced. “Good job on giving Lt. Rothilion a good smack. He deserves it. But I do have one bone to pick with you.”

“What?” Fieran wasn’t sure if he could take another scathing dressing down this morning.

“Next time you get up to something recklessly fun, make sure you invite me.” Aylia’s face twisted into an exaggerated pout. “I cannot believe you did something like penguin sliding down the stairs without me.”

Fieran gestured farther down the table at where Tiny, Stickyfingers, Pretty Face, and Lije were wearily scarfing down their food. “Are you sure you want in next time? My shenanigans tend to be a lot of fun right at first, then end in unmitigated disaster and the possibility of a formal reprimand.”

“You said it, not me,” Merrik murmured under his breath.

“So? I am still missing the reason why I should not join in the fun.” Aylia grinned before she took another bite of her pulled beef sandwich.

“Do not encourage him.” Merrik picked up his own sandwich.

After the rebuke he’d gotten that morning, Fieran agreed with Merrik on this one. No more shenanigans. He needed to be a model lieutenant from now on.

Just maybe a different model from whatever model lieutenant Lt. Rothilion was. One that came with less schmoozing and more heroic epicness.

A group of trolls strode in. They glanced toward Tiny, then bent their heads together as they said something in a low tone before chuckling.

Tiny hunched farther on the bench, pushing his food around his plate.

Fieran winced. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one getting hassled. He should have realized that Tiny—half-breed troll raised in Escarland that he was—would also find himself a target.

“I heard you had a rough night.” The large, muscled figure of Fieran’s cousin Rokyd slid onto the bench on the other side of Merrik, followed a moment later by Lucien sitting across the way next to Aylia.

Fieran blinked at them for several seconds, his mind still trying to process. “Rokyd? Lucien?”

“We finally got shore leave. Everyone is getting a little cooped up in the ships after three days of riding out this storm.” Rokyd picked up his fork. “The KAS Dominion is tied to one of the piers, but I haven’t seen Sathrah yet. Hopefully she’ll be one of those chosen to attend the fighting bouts tonight. You know how she loves those.”

“Fighting bouts?” Fieran glanced from Rokyd to the others at the table. He’d missed something. “Aren’t the fighting bouts not for another few days?”

Once a month, the trolls held their traditional fighting bouts here at Dar Goranth. Fieran and his flyboys had missed the last set of fighting bouts since they’d been held the day before they arrived.

Years ago, the fighting bouts were a way for the warriors to test their mettle and earn honor by defeating others in single combat. In the years since Uncle Rharreth and Aunt Melantha became king and queen, the fighting bouts had been toned down to be less dangerous and more entertainment than a vital peg on the social structure. Yet the trolls hadn’t dispensed with them entirely.

“Yes, but between the likelihood of an attack once the storm breaks and how stir-crazy everyone is becoming, it seems the base commanders decided to move it up a few days.” Rokyd shrugged, then waved his fork in Fieran’s direction. “Yours wasn’t the only ruckus last night.”

Lucien gave a snort. “Seamen from the KS Indefatigable stole their captain’s skivvies and flew them from the masthead. And seamen from the ES Norholdt jumped ship and swam to the ES Frielan to exchange copies of their moving picture reels. They came close to drowning.”

“The situation is getting dire.” Rokyd spoke around a bite of his beef. “The commanders needed to do something to restore order, otherwise the entire base would be in shambles by the time the storm lifts.”

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