Page 42 of Stalk the Sky

“We need to land. Now.” Merrik’s voice cut sharply over the headset.

“We should wait…” Fieran didn’t want to cut in front of the others. He should stay up here until the last of his men had landed.

“No. We land. Now.” Merrik’s tone left no room for argument. “If you lose any more of that wing, you will crash. Now, land.”

He couldn’t really argue with that. Already, some of the other wing supports were moving in a way that they weren’t designed to move. If more cracked, the rest of the right wings would rip off entirely, and he’d go down.

Fieran dropped lower and took the next place lining up for a landing, Merrik far too close behind him, considering the likelihood that this landing wasn’t going to be smooth.

Already, the airfield was littered with crashed or stuck aeroplanes that the ground crews hadn’t had a chance to move out of the way.

Fieran tried to line up on a spot that was still clear, but the squall made his aeroplane nigh impossible to control. As the gale shoved him over Dar Goranth harbor onto the cliffs above, he was slammed down to earth to the left of the designated airfield.

His wheels skidded on the slick grass a moment before his right wing clipped a boulder and disintegrated the rest of the way. With the greater weight of the intact left wing, his aeroplane tipped sideways, and he came to a grinding halt against the hillside.

For a moment, Fieran just sat there, water streaming down his face, his breath making wet, silvery puffs before his mouth. Water pooled in his lap and sloshed in the cockpit by his feet. His heart still hammering in his chest, he couldn’t seem to make himself move, not even to peel his fingers off the control stick.

That might have been the first time he’d ever been truly terrified while flying. He’d never considered he could be killed, not even in the Battle over Bridgetown.

But that just now…that had been worse. So much worse.

Another aeroplane flashed past before jouncing to a stop fifty yards away, also to the left of the airfield.

Merrik, completing a much better landing than Fieran had.

Something about the sight of his friend also safely on the ground finally jolted energy back into his limbs.

Fieran shakily disconnected the lap belt, yanked out the headset wire, and levered himself out of the cockpit. He stumbled to the ground, then jogged toward Merrik’s aeroplane.

Merrik scrambled out of his aeroplane, slipping on the waterlogged grass as he ran toward Fieran. Merrik’s hair—grown past his ears—was plastered to his neck beneath his cap. But Fieran didn’t see any injuries or hesitation in the way Merrik moved.

Merrik must have done a similar assessment of Fieran for injuries because as one, they turned and sprinted toward the hangar. They had to halt and wait beside a crashed elven aeroplane as another two aeroplanes landed—both from Flight B, though Fieran couldn’t make out the nose art—before they could make the final dash for the hangar.

The shock of stumbling from the whipping wind and freezing rain into the dry hangar nearly sent Fieran to his knees. His waterlogged goggles instantly fogged.

Hands were there, peeling off his soaked flight jacket and easing his goggles and cap from his head. He shivered violently, aware of just how sodden and chilled he was now that he was out of the storm.

Then Pip was before him, steering him farther into the hangar as someone else draped a blanket over his shoulders.

“I didn’t bring your aeroplane back in one piece.” His words came out strange between his numb, wind-chapped lips. “The right wing broke.”

“I don’t care about that.” Pip all but shoved him to a seat next to the wall. “I’m just glad you’re back safe.”

Stickyfingers approached, his eyes wide, his jaw set in a line Fieran had never seen on him before. He held out a steaming mug. “Coffee to warm you up.”

Fieran took it with shaking fingers, wrapping both hands around the mug, the heat searing to the point of nearly painful. “Linshi. I mean, thanks.”

Merrik sagged against the wall next to Fieran, and Stickyfingers handed him a mug as well, though the color was far lighter than the dark brew in Fieran’s mug. Rather thoughtful of Stickyfingers to remember that Merrik preferred tea over coffee.

Fieran leaned forward, peering down the line of sodden pilots. Aylia was there, her hair straggling over her shoulders. Tiny curled over his stomach, his gray pallor tinged a bit green. The buffeting winds must have made him airsick, something he usually didn’t get while flying.

Fieran counted six of his men sitting there, including Merrik, Pretty Face, Tiny, and Murray. Even as he counted, two more raced inside. They must have been piloting the aeroplanes that had landed just after Merrik and Fieran.

The members of Flight B who hadn’t gone up converged on them, helping them out of their sodden flight jackets and giving them blankets just as they had Fieran.

Fieran glanced down the line again, his stomach sinking. “Sticky, where’s Lije?”

Lije and Pretty Face had been paired together. Unless they had gotten separated in the storm, they should have landed together. But while Pretty Face was slumped next to Tiny, Lije was nowhere in sight.

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