Page 8 of Stalk the Sky

“Yes, sir.” Fieran spoke at the same time as Lt. Rothilion, and it grated on him.

After going through a few more rules of the base—and specifying the all-important meal times for their unit—Commander Druindar dismissed them.

Fieran dismissed his flyboys to get settled into their rooms. Pip and the other mechanics scattered to find their own rooms and check in with the head mechanic.

Instead of leaving, Fieran squared his shoulders and faced Lt. Rothilion, his new commanding officer. Merrik remained at Fieran’s back, as if he doubted Fieran’s ability to stay calm.

Fieran was perfectly calm. He wasn’t about to go starting trouble. Instead, he plastered on that perfectly pleasant smile he’d learned from his mother and stuck out his hand. “I look forward to working with you, Lt. Rothilion.”

His words were as sugared as spoiled milk laced with honey to attempt to make it palatable.

Lt. Rothilion stared down his nose at Fieran’s hand and didn’t shake. He didn’t even offer the elven forehead to mouth greeting gesture. His mouth curled as if he did indeed taste the spoiled milk in Fieran’s words.

Still giving them that nose-in-the-air look, complete with the faintest disdainful sniff, Lt. Rothilion glanced from Fieran to Merrik and back. “You do realize that as an Alliance Flying Corps unit, long hair is now permitted.”

Behind Fieran, Merrik stiffened, going so still Fieran could sense it without having to turn around to look.

That hadn’t occurred to him yet, nor, it seemed, had it dawned on Merrik either.

As Alliance units would be made up of a mix of trolls, elves, and humans, certain Escarlish military regulations no longer applied. Such as the rule on keeping one’s hair a regulation length.

Merrik could re-grow his hair. Well, Fieran could too, but he wouldn’t. He supposed even the humans in his unit could grow their hair long if they liked, but he doubted any of them would let it get too shaggy. Some of them might opt for facial hair, which would also now be allowed. A concession specifically added so that Fieran’s Uncle Julien could keep his beard once beards were no longer allowed in the Escarlish Army.

“No proper elf would allow his honor to be stripped away in such a fashion.” Lt. Rothilion somehow managed to stare even more down his nose at them. “But I suppose neither of you are true elves.”

With that, Lt. Rothilion spun on his heel and strode briskly away.

For elves, long hair was a symbol of honor. When elves committed crimes, their hair was often shorn as a sign of dishonor. For that reason, when the trolls had wanted to humiliate Fieran’s dacha when they’d captured him during the wars, they’d cut his hair.

Fieran clenched his fists at his side, his magic burning in his chest and down into his hands. But he didn’t let so much as a single bolt curl around his fingers. It would be too tempting to zap Lt. Rothilion’s posterior as he sauntered away in that self-satisfied manner.

That had been a dig not only at Fieran and Merrik, but also their human mothers. Probably even Fieran’s father, given what the trolls had done to him back then.

Merrik joined Fieran, his own fists clenched, his jaw hard. “I almost want to keep my hair short just to protest.”

“Don’t. The only one that would hurt would be you.” Fieran lightly bumped Merrik’s shoulder, forcing a grin back onto his face. “I’ll be the improper elf for both of us. I’m good at that.”

Merrik’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, and he sighed. “And here I thought Prince Rhohen was the most likely one to drive you to brawling. Just keep in mind, punching our acting commanding officer is just as bad as punching a prince. Probably worse. King Rharreth would let you off lightly. The military will not be so forgiving.”

All too true. Fieran wasn’t quite sure how he was going to get through his time stationed here at Dar Goranth without punching that pouty smirk off Lt. Rothilion’s face.

He wasn’t normally the type of person to resort to punching as a way to solve problems. But there was just something about an attitude like Lt. Rothilion’s—or his cousin Rhohen’s, for that matter—that just brought out the temper Fieran was supposed to have because of his red hair.

Or maybe it was Dar Goranth and the more punchy culture of the trolls that made Fieran want to throw a few punches of his own.

Chapter

Three

Pip wound her way through the underground hangar until she found the corner that seemed to be the mechanics’ headquarters. A male troll with broad shoulders, white hair, and grease-smeared coveralls was fussing over a partially disassembled engine on a stand, his back to her.

Beyond him, six elves—two females and four males—cleaned tools, talking in elvish among themselves. They must be the mechanics who had come with the elven half of the squadron.

Pip adjusted the straps of her bag where they were digging into her shoulders. Perhaps she should have settled into her quarters first before finding the head mechanic. But most of the weight in her bag was her tools, and she’d rather unload those first before climbing back down the steps to find her room. “Excuse me. Are you the head mechanic for the aerodrome?”

The troll turned around, then his face split in a wide grin. “Pippak! You’ve arrived! It’s great to see you again.”

Pip blinked at the troll before her, craning her neck to look up into his face as he strode toward her. “Baragh! I haven’t seen you since we graduated. How have you been?”

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