Page 2 of Stalk the Sky

“Coming in toward Dar Goranth.” Fieran pointed, squinting with the rays of the rising sun beaming warm against the right side of his face. “I think that smudge is Drogenvroh Island up ahead. Remember the last time we were here? That was a fun trip.”

Merrik crossed his arms over his bare chest and eyed Fieran. “You gave your cousin Prince Rhohen a black eye.”

“In my defense, he started with the insults and threw the first punch.” Fieran gestured from himself toward the island ahead. “What else was I supposed to do but punch back?”

“Be the more mature cousin and not fight him?” Merrik waved with one of his hands without uncrossing his arms. “Just a suggestion.”

Fieran shrugged, not fighting too hard against his grin. “We were in Kostaria. Not fighting is more insulting to Rhohen than fighting him.”

“Uh-huh.” Merrik’s disapproving frown didn’t waver. “You cannot claim complete innocence in that incident. You made faces at him all through the formal treaty signing ceremony.”

Well, there was that. Fieran might have done a bit of the provoking. But silly faces trying to make his cousin stop scowling so darkly was a far cry from insulting one’s mother and father.

Not that Rhohen had truly meant what he’d said. Nor had he gotten off easy once his parents had heard what he’d said and done.

“I probably should have paid more attention to that treaty ceremony.” Fieran shrugged, peering into the morning mists to make out the craggy cliffs of Drogenvroh Island’s southern point coming into view. “It’s the reason we’re going to be stationed here, after all.”

About forty years ago when the naval base at Dar Goranth was coming into more importance, Escarland and Kostaria had signed a treaty giving Escarland not just access to the Kostarian base, but also the ability to treat it as their own—for a certain amount of funding.

While the Hydalla River was deep enough for ocean-going vessels, and Escarland had a naval base outside of the river city of Ayre, it was a long treacherous trip up the river past miles of Mongavarian shoreline. That treaty forty years ago made Dar Goranth the primary station for Escarland’s seaborne navy.

The other part of that treaty had been a deeper integration of the various branches of the armed forces of the Alliance Kingdoms. Escarlish citizens could serve in the Kostarian navy, something that was necessary since Escarland had the population and Kostaria had the fleet in need of sailors. While Kostaria had a few airships, Escarland and Tarenhiel had far more, so Kostarian citizens could serve on one of Escarland’s airships.

Since Kostaria’s army had so far forgone starting a Flying Corps in favor of focusing on their navy, Escarland’s and Tarenhiel’s Flying Corps would need to protect the skies and airships of all three kingdoms.

Merrik gave a grunt of assent, leaning back slightly to balance as the airship drifted more steeply downward. “If Prince Rhohen is there now, you will need to be more polite. Your dacha will not be there for me to fetch.”

“Do you think Rhohen will be at Dar Goranth? I haven’t heard if he’s left Osmana or not.” Fieran planted his feet wider against the downward trajectory of the airship. He and Merrik weren’t supposed to be up there, especially without safety ropes, while the airship was coming in for a landing.

The island looming on the horizon was a gray-and-green mass rising from the crashing waves of the ocean. A white lighthouse perched on the point while piles of slushy snow coated the shadows in the crags and hollows.

“Since joining the army, you have had to get your information from the press instead of your parents.” Merrik rolled his shoulders and finally uncrossed his arms enough to gesture ahead of them. “Prince Rhohen is the only warrior with a form of the magic of the ancient kings that Kostaria has. They aren’t going to advertise his whereabouts any more than Escarland tries to advertise yours.”

Good point. Fieran had assumed Rhohen would be at Osmana, shielding that city from attack.

Now that he thought about it, Osmana was in little danger, protected by the craggy peaks and buffeting winds of the Kostarian mountains.

But Dar Goranth lay outside of the magical Wall Fieran’s dacha had created with help from Uncle Rharreth and Uncle Weylind. For months, everyone had assumed it would be the location of Mongavaria’s first strike in this war. Uncle Rharreth and Rhohen had probably been camped out here for the past few months, preparing to ward off an attack if it came.

But Uncle Rharreth couldn’t stay in Dar Goranth for long. He had a kingdom to run. Yet he couldn’t leave Rhohen here alone. While Rhohen was numerically the same age as Fieran—eight months younger, if one wanted to be technical about it—Fieran had aged faster thanks to having a short-lived human for a parent instead of two longer-lived parents as Rhohen had. Rhohen was an adult, barely, still coming into the full strength and control of his power. He couldn’t be turned loose to protect Dar Goranth on his own.

While Mongavaria had chosen to strike a symbolic blow by attacking Fort Linder, Bridgetown, and Calafaren as their opening move of the war, the hammer blow would likely fall on Dar Goranth next. Rhohen might be good enough for a just-in-case measure, but they needed someone trained to defend the naval base now that the war had begun.

Fieran heaved a sigh, his breath misting slightly before his face. “Fine. I’ll do my best not to antagonize Rhohen. But I can’t promise more than that. My very presence seems to rile him.”

“True. Then again, his presence riles you, so it is mutual.” Merrik eyed Fieran in that way that had Fieran squirming. “Keep in mind, you could be court-martialed now for fighting outside of a structured fighting bout, even here on a Kostarian base where their rules about fists flying are laxer than Escarland’s. Not to mention, both you and Rhohen have come into your magic since then. You could level the base if either of you lose control.”

Another good point. Merrik was annoyingly skilled at those. There could be actual consequences this time if Fieran gave in to the temptation to wipe the pouty smirk off Rhohen’s face.

“Like I said, I’ll do my best.” Fieran turned away from the sight before them to reach for his shirt where he’d left it tucked into the dogging wheel for the hatch to enter the dirigible. “I can’t make promises for what Rhohen will do.”

“That is what worries me.” Merrik claimed his own shirt, tugging it over his head.

Once they were both dressed in their drab olive-green uniform shirts—identical except that the bar on each of Fieran’s shoulders glinted silver instead of bronze, as did the wings pinned to his chest—Fieran stepped toward the side of the airship instead of the hatch.

There, a long metal ladder clung to the side of the dirigible, curving to fit the shape. The ladder was supposed to be used for maintenance of the dirigible’s outer skin while at dock.

But it seemed like a far faster way down than taking the network of ladders and catwalks inside the dirigible that wove around and between the inner balloons, which held the helium keeping the airship aloft.

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