Page 15 of Fly to Fury
At least he had a tent to himself, as the squadron’s captain. Strange, not to be sharing with Merrik, as he had since joining the army.
Merrik and Lt. Rothilion, as the Flight commanders, each got their own tents as well. Everyone else crammed two people into one of these tents.
Once dressed, Fieran strapped his two swords onto his back, the weight familiar and yet no longer fitting as it once did.
It didn’t help that his uniform lumped beneath the straps for his swords, no matter how he adjusted the fabric. Unlikehis dacha’s uniform, his wasn’t tailored to accommodate swords.
As Fieran stepped from his tent, the flap on the tent next to his opened, and Merrik stepped out. He wore his practice sword as well with a dagger at his side.
They fell into step between the tents, and Fieran managed not to speak until they were past the tents and partway around the side of the hangar. “I see your dacha insisted on morning practice too.”
“Yes.” Merrik tugged at the end of his uniform shirt. Perhaps his weapons weren’t sitting right over his uniform either.
Once they were past the hangar, they hiked into the rolling hills that ascended into the taller Whitehurst Mountains in the distance.
As they crested the first rise, Fieran stood at the edge of a bowl formed of the surrounding hills, mostly open except for a few stands of trees.
Not surprisingly, both of their dachas already waited at the bottom, warming up by going through sword stances.
“Ready to get our butts handed to us?” Fieran flexed his fingers, then stretched his arms over his head.
“It will be good to have more consistent practices again.” Merrik strode down the hill first. Perhaps he really was eager for a practice bout.
As they neared the bottom, Dacha strode to meet Fieran, gesturing that he should head to the right. Uncle Iyrinder directed Merrik to the left, putting enough distance between them that they wouldn’t interfere with each other’s practices.
Dacha nodded to Fieran, his swords already in his hands.
Fieran drew his swords, taking a moment to stretch out afew more of his muscles before he dropped into a fighting stance facing Dacha.
Without so much as a flicker in his hard eyes and far harder expression, Dacha stepped forward, swinging his swords so quickly they were nothing but a blur.
Fieran clamped his mouth shut before he muttered one of the words he’d learned in the army and danced backwards. He’d forgotten how fast his dacha was. Fighting his cousin Rhohen and Lt. Rothilion was nothing like facing Dacha.
Barely getting his swords up in time, Fieran struggled to find the rhythm of the fight. He’d started on the wrong foot, and now it was all he could do to keep up.
This would never do. He was better than this, even out of practice. Not to mention, he was in better shape now than he’d ever been.
He dug deep into his magic, letting a little of it flood through his veins as he had during the fight with Lt. Rothilion.
Something inside him steadied. His gaze sharpened. His muscles strengthened. It felt as if the world around him slowed.
When Dacha struck again, Fieran dodged one blade, parried the other, and swung his own forward so quickly that Dacha had to throw himself to the side in a way he’d never had to before when fighting Fieran.
Dacha’s mouth twitched with a hint of a smile, a gleam cracking the otherwise hard edge to his eyes.
Then he somehow moved even faster, striking even harder.
Fieran let more of his magic fill him as he lunged and parried, struck and dodged. He kept up with his dacha as best he could. Magic sparked over his fingers and danced along his swords, but he didn’t lose any more control thanthat, even with his magic so flooding his veins that his vision went blue.
In a blur of movement, Dacha whirled past Fieran’s guard, shoving both of his swords aside. The next thing Fieran knew, he had a blade to his throat.
Fieran lowered his swords, admitting defeat. He panted for breath, sweat trickling down his face and between his shoulder blades.
Yet across the sword from him, Dacha, too, had a sheen of sweat by his hairline, and he breathed hard. For the first time in his life, Fieran had actually put up enough of a fight to be somewhat of a challenge for his dacha.
Dacha relaxed and stepped back, taking his sword away from Fieran’s neck. “Well done, sason.”
“Linshi.” Fieran resisted the urge to brace his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Instead, he kept a hold of his swords, pacing slightly so that his muscles didn’t cramp as he cooled down. “Whatwasthat? It’s like I can fuel myself with my magic, and I get stronger and faster.”
