“What are your orders, Pip?” The other mechanic didn’t salute her, but he was looking at her with something almost like respect.
“We need to get these aeroplanes back into shape as soon as possible. With an attack coming, we can’t have half the squadron grounded.” Pip swept a glance over the wrecked aeroplanes. “Let’s prioritize the aeroplanes that only need new parts bolted on. Those can be fixed the quickest. We’ll then worry about the ones with more extensive structural damage.”
Focusing on the work steadied her. As long as she stayed busy with the mechanical side of things, she wasn’t thinking about the missing flyboys.
Fieran paced back and forth, too restless to sit still. Of the pilots of Flight B who had gone up into the storm, only Merrik remained in the hangar. Fieran had sent the others to hot showers, hot food, and warm beds.
A pilot each from Flight A and B, ones who hadn’t flown in the storm, kept station by the radio, monitoring it for distress calls from any of the seven missing pilots: three from Flight A and four from Flight B.
Lt. Rothilion, too, was pacing, though he marched several yards away from Fieran.
To one side of the hangar, Pip and the other mechanics were more silent than usual as they worked on the damaged aeroplanes.
Merrik stepped in front of Fieran, halting his pacing. “Go check on those in sick bay. I will stay here to wait for word.”
Fieran hesitated for a moment longer before he nodded. Neither he nor Lt. Rothilion had checked on the wounded pilots yet. While there was nothing more he could do for the missing men, he could do this for those who had made it back.
He took the lift this time, wearily leaning against the wall as he used the hand crank to lower the metal cage down the shaft. At Level 3, he halted the lift, opened the cage door, and stepped into the large central space beside the lift and winding stairs. Across the space Sick Bay was painted on the gray rock wall next to closed, metal double doors.
Crossing the entry space, Fieran pushed one open and halted just inside, letting the door swing closed behind him as he took in the long hallway, the various doors and rooms.
A male troll looked up from where he sat behind a desk beside the doors. “May I help you?”
“I’m Lt. Laesornysh. I’m here to see the injured pilots.”
“They’re all in the ward at the very end of the hall.” The troll pointed in that direction.
“Linshi.” Fieran strode the length of the hallway, then entered through another set of double doors.
Inside this room, a large hospital ward stretched in either direction. Beds lined each wall. A few seemed occupied with various trolls who had received injuries from one thing or another on the base. The two elven healers stationed here moved between their beds, a hint of green magic glowing around their fingers.
To the right, Lije, the two human pilots who had been rescued after they had crashed in the harbor, and the three elves who had been injured upon landing lay in beds next to each other.
Beside the bed of the nearest elf, an elf woman with long, straight black hair that sported various braids woven with leather in the troll style rested her hand on the elf’s arm, green magic glowing around her fingers. Behind her, a hulking young male troll shifted from foot to foot, his shoulders hunched as if he was trying to appear smaller. His face, hands, and waist still had the pudgy adolescent look of someone who still had more growing to do.
Fieran hurried down the aisle between the beds. “Aunt Melantha? Sontar? What are you doing here?”
Aunt Melantha glanced up from her work, her dark eyes warming slightly as her mouth curved in a hint of a greeting. “Healing your downed pilots, it would seem.”
“Something I greatly appreciate.” Fieran halted beside Aunt Melantha, refraining from giving her a hug as she was still finishing her healing. “I hadn’t realized you were here. When did you arrive?”
“Only a few hours ago on the last ship to make the harbor as the storm hit.” She dropped her gaze to her patient again.
Sontar gave a slight shudder, mumbling something Fieran couldn’t make out. Something about a rough ride.
One would never guess that Rhohen and Sontar were brothers. Rhohen was all pouty emotions and icy magic, looking more elf than troll. While Sontar had inherited the troll build, he was shy and gentle in the extreme. Whereas Rhohen’s magic was a combination of troll ice magic mixed with the magic of the ancient kings, Sontar had inherited the rare troll trait of having two different types of magic. He was showing signs both of his mother’s healing magic and his father’s ice magic, something that could make him a great healer, if he could develop a strong enough stomach for it.
Aunt Melantha’s magic vanished, and she gave a slight smile to the elf on the bed. “Rest your shoulder tonight as it finishes healing. The tear in the ligament will be repaired by the morning.”
“Linshi, Maresheni.” The elf gave her a respectful nod, using the elven title for queen.
Aunt Melantha turned to Fieran, though she waited to speak until the three of them had walked away from the elf’s bedside. “Your pilots will be fine. We have mended a few broken bones and staved off pneumonia and hypothermia for those two who spent more time in the water than they should have.” She gestured toward the two pilots who had been fished from the harbor.
“Linshi.” Fieran glanced from her to Sontar and back. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Not with…” He dropped his voice. “Not with an attack coming.”
He couldn’t see his Uncle Rharreth being happy about sending his wife and younger son into harm’s way. Even though they had staggered their visits to Dar Goranth to ensure that the entire troll royal family wasn’t at the place of a likely attack all at once.
“The very reason we are here.” Aunt Melantha’s tone held a grim note, even as her mouth pressed into a line, highlighting the almost sharp angles of her face. “I needed to ascertain that the healers here at Dar Goranth are prepared for such an attack. The plan was for us to leave well before an attack, but it seems we will be here at least through this storm.”