Page 45 of Stalk the Sky

Hopefully the supposition that the Mongavarians would attack once the storm lifted was more rumor than based on actual intelligence. Low on the command structure as Fieran was, he wasn’t the person being told what information Escarland’s Intelligence Office was sending to the troll military leadership.

As much as Fieran would have liked to continue talking to his aunt and cousin, he edged a step away. “I’d better let you continue your work.”

Aunt Melantha nodded. As Fieran walked away, she led Sontar in the opposite direction, heading for the other two elf healers.

Fieran spoke with each of the other pilots until he reached Lije’s bed. “How are you feeling?”

Lije was sitting up, his arm in a sling. “Just a broken arm and collarbone. Your aunt said the bones would be all healed by morning. Hard to believe that, but it hurts a whole lot less than when I broke my leg falling out of a tree as a kid. We didn’t have any elven healers in Frogg’s Hollow.”

Fieran nodded. He’d always been rather spoiled, growing up. All his bumps, scrapes, and broken bones were promptly healed by an elf healer. One was never all that far away from wherever Fieran’s family happened to be staying. “I’m glad the healing magic is working quickly.”

“So they’re a few more of your relatives.” Lije gestured with his good hand, shaking his head. “And here I thought I had a bunch of cousins. I think you might have me beat.”

“I don’t have that many.” Fieran sighed, though with more fondness than exasperation. “My family just happens to be rather noticeable.”

Being related to every king in the Alliance would do that.

Lije’s gap-toothed smile vanished. “Did all of the squadron return?”

Fieran hesitated, then shook his head. “No. We’re still missing four pilots from Flight B and three from Flight A.”

Seven men were missing somewhere out in that squall. No one was quite prepared to give them up for lost just yet, but there was nothing they could do but wait. There would be no search parties until the weather lifted.

If those men were still alive, they would just have to hang on until they could be found.

Chapter

Thirteen

Fieran paced along the passageway of their assigned rooms, trying to pretend he was merely stretching his legs and not so filled with restless energy that it took all his willpower to keep his magic from dancing around his fingertips.

This deep in the cliffs of Dar Goranth, he couldn’t hear the wind howling or feel the sleet pounding the earth. But last he’d checked, the storm still raged outside, a full two days after it had begun.

He might have braved the storm anyway, if there was anything he could do to save his men.

Two of the missing elves had come trudging into the hangar during the night, soaked through and near hypothermic from the cold. They had landed farther inland on Drogenvroh Island and hiked back to Dar Goranth when they couldn’t seem to get a message through on their radios due to the storm.

At dawn—or what counted as dawn during the storm—a telephone call had come from Brenzuk Island that a pair of the missing human pilots had managed to land on that island and were now sheltering in the lighthouse with the keeper and his family.

That still left one elf and two humans unaccounted for. With each hour that passed, the likelihood that they were dead increased.

Losing men in his unit had been hard enough during basic training and the Battle over Bridgetown. But to lose men under his command? That ached in a way he couldn’t describe and just couldn’t face at the moment.

Nor could he or their unit truly mourn just yet. Going down to the mess, raising a glass to their fallen comrades, would mean accepting that they were fallen. Right now, there was still a chance—a slim, nearly impossible chance—that they were still alive somewhere, riding out the storm.

He might have joined those watching the radio for any attempt to make contact or see if Pip and the mechanics needed any help repairing the damaged aeroplanes, but he’d already spent hours up there, getting underfoot.

His utter inability to do anything roiled through him until he might just combust if he didn’t do something soon.

The glimpses Fieran got through the various open doorways into the rooms showed that everyone else seemed infected by a similar restless energy. The more dedicated of his men were polishing boots, cleaning sidearms, or remaking their cots to the peak of military perfection.

Stickyfingers had taught Lije how to pick locks, and now the two of them sat across from each other as they locked and relocked the same two padlocks over and over again. Tiny and Murray were absently rolling balls of ice back and forth across their room. Pretty Face had somehow gotten his hands on a bottle of cologne and, after spending an inordinate amount of time in the shower, had duded himself up as if about to go on a date with a pretty girl and then proceeded to re-read the stack of letters he’d received from various girls pining for him in Escarland.

Fieran halted at the end of the corridor, eyeing the stairs that wound twenty-three stories downward.

Merrik planted his feet next to him and crossed his arms. “You have that look in your eye. The one that says you are about to get us all into trouble.”

“But we are going to have so much fun doing it.” Fieran spun away from the stairs to face Merrik. “Do you want to lodge an official protest to protect yourself in case this goes badly?”

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