Page 82 of Stalk the Sky

Rushing forward, Uncle Julien took Rokyd’s other arm, supporting him, while Aunt Vriska clenched her fists, glancing between Rokyd and Lucien as if she really wanted to punch a Mongavarian or two. The faint line of a scar showed starkly on one of the fingers of her right hand.

Aunt Melantha strode from the main hospital ward, her gaze sweeping over Rokyd and Lucien with a cool assessment that someone who didn’t know her might mistake for detachment. She paused beside Aunt Vriska for a moment, speaking with a firm, almost fierce note. “I will take good care of your boys, Vriska.”

Aunt Vriska nodded, her fists still clenched. “You had better.”

From Aunt Vriska, the worry for her sons came out sounding rather pugilistic. Sathrah got it from somewhere, after all.

Aunt Melantha shouted more orders to her healers, nurses, and medics as she led the way into sick bay, as commanding as a general on a battlefield.

Fieran slumped against the wall next to the stairwell. He didn’t want to get in the way of the healers. Nor was this a moment for a cousin to be intruding.

Sliding down the wall, Fieran settled in as comfortably as he could to wait.

Fieran woke at the sound of footsteps, then someone lowering himself to sit next to him. Fieran cracked his eyes open, then straightened. “Uncle Julien.”

Uncle Julien wearily leaned his head against the wall. “I see you have gained the essential army skill of sleeping anytime, anywhere.”

Fieran would have joked right back, but now didn’t seem the time. “How are Rokyd and Lucien?”

“They’ll be fine.” Uncle Julien spoke the words on a weary sigh. “Both of them sustained burns, and Lucien suffered hypothermia. When the Vanguard exploded, Rokyd shielded the two of them as best he could with his magic, and they were blown into the water.”

“I’m glad they’ll be all right.” Fieran sagged more heavily against the wall, his muscles aching after the long hours of flying in the past two days.

It was over. Truly over. There would be another long day, another battle, sometime in the future, but for now, he could rest.

“Thank you for finding them.” Uncle Julien met Fieran’s gaze, something in his brown eyes haggard.

“I just happened to be the aeroplane patrolling that area.” Fieran shrugged, dropping his gaze to his hands. “It looked like Rokyd was doing his best to rescue both of them all on his own.”

Once Rokyd realized help wouldn’t be coming any time soon, he must have made that raft with his magic and set out for the coast. Between how far south the Vanguard had been and how the currents flowed in that area, the coast would have been a better option than Dar Goranth.

“Yes, Rokyd made a valiant effort to save Lucien.” Uncle Julien’s voice held pride, the first hint of a smile twitching beneath his thick beard. The smile faded a moment later. “But that stretch of coast is isolated. Lucien would have died long before Rokyd got him to an elven healer.”

Fieran swallowed. He couldn’t imagine being in Rokyd’s place. No help coming, his brother dying in his arms, and his only option to row toward a shoreline that likely wouldn’t even have the help his brother needed. What mental anguish he must have endured during the long night of rowing.

“I heard you made a valiant showing of your own during the battle.” The warmth returned to Uncle Julien’s voice.

“I’m a Laesornysh.” Fieran shrugged, not sure how to reply to the praise. He liked praise well enough, but somehow it was easier to take from strangers and peers than from his uncle. “I’m not sure my efforts were enough. If I could have taken out the enemy aeroplanes and airships sooner, perhaps I could have prevented some of the losses among the surface fleet. I could have done more.”

“Don’t torture yourself with what-ifs. There’s no point to it.” Uncle Julien kept his voice low, though still firm. “This is a modern, mechanized war the likes of which we have never fought before. There is no victory. Just being defeated less than the other side.”

If even Uncle Julien had that perspective, then that was…discouraging.

“Did we lose less than the other side?” Fieran gestured toward the packed sick bay.

Uncle Julien’s gaze, too, fixed on the wounded men and women waiting for treatment. “Dar Goranth didn’t fall, so the enemy didn’t achieve their objective. Thanks to you, their air fleet suffered significant losses. In that regard, we won. While we succeeded in sinking twelve of their surface ships, we also didn’t achieve our objective in making a noticeable dent in Mongavaria’s seagoing fleet. We lost more ships and men than they did. Mongavaria will probably claim this as a victory as well.”

Disheartening thought.

“Why did we lose so many ships? Do you know?” Fieran searched Uncle Julien’s face. While Uncle Julien was a general in the army, not an admiral in the navy, he was high enough ranked that he would likely be told that information.

“Some of the losses were the smaller ships built without dwarven magic. Those the Mongavarians sank the same way we sank theirs—by putting enough holes in them.” Uncle Julien heaved an even more weary breath. “But as for the others, it seems there were many among the troll captains who grew too confident in the protections of the dwarven-made ships. To prioritize a more rapid rate of fire, the blast doors were left open, and shells and cordite were stacked together. The dwarven-made ships are well-built, but there are still ways for enemy shells to penetrate from the upper decks. And when they did…”

A fire, then a catastrophic explosion.

Fieran scrubbed a hand over his face. “How do we win a war when even a victory feels like defeat?”

Uncle Julien paused, not continuing until Fieran dragged up his gaze to meet his. “All you can do is your duty.”

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