Page 50 of Fly to Fury
The gray skies arched overhead, gathering clouds at the horizon threatening more rain. At least the waves of thunderstorms had broken long enough for them to get a practice in and for Capt. Fleetwood’s squadron to take to the skies for a few hours.
Dacha’s second blade stabbed toward him, and Fieran dodged, though he stumbled on the slick and squishy ground.
Giving Fieran no time to gather himself, Dacha whirled into that opening, his swords and magic sweeping Fieran’s away. Before Fieran could even take a breath, Dacha’s swords were at his throat and across his chest.
Fieran lowered his swords in surrender. Not that he’dexpected any other result. The only person he knew who had defeated Dacha in single combat was Uncle Julien, and even then Uncle Julien disputed whether that defeat counted.
Dacha withdrew and sheathed his swords across his back. “Well done, sason.”
Fieran nodded and sheathed his own swords, his chest warming at his dacha’s words. In sword practice, Dacha never gave words that weren’t earned, whether critiques or praise.
To one side, Merrik’s and Uncle Iyrinder’s bout must have ended for the two of them had their weapons sheathed, though Fieran hadn’t seen the outcome. As they started toward Fieran and Dacha, Uncle Iyrinder’s gaze caught on something to the side, and he straightened.
Dacha whirled, though he relaxed a moment later, something close to a smile creasing his face.
Fieran turned. Then he grinned as he saw who dared approach their practice session.
Uncle Weylind strolled toward them with the graceful lethality of an elven warrior, his black hair flowing over his shoulders and down his back. Faint silver embroidery edged his green tunic, the only nod to his status, while he wore a sword at his hip and a knife at his other side. A cadre of elven guards trailed him, all of them wearing more traditional elven armor and leathers, armed to the teeth with swords, knives, and bows and arrows.
Dacha strode forward to meet Uncle Weylind, his smile broadening still further until something closer to a grin lightened his eyes and eased the hard lines of his face. He clasped Uncle Weylind’s shoulders in the elven hug. “Shashon.”
Uncle Weylind clasped Dacha’s shoulders in return and echoed Dacha’s greeting, the elvish word forbrotherused asmuch as a welcome and endearment as it was a statement of their relationship.
The sight twisted something inside Fieran. Would he ever share the closeness that Dacha shared with his brother with Tryndar? Fieran was so much older than his little brother. Old enough that he could be his father, if he’d gotten married as young as Dacha had.
Yet Uncle Weylind and Dacha had even more of an age gap between them, and they were close, their relationship honed through battle.
Fieran glanced over his shoulder to where Merrik stood beside Uncle Iyrinder. It wasn’t like Fieran had ever lacked for a brother. Long before Tryndar had been born, he’d had Merrik.
Uncle Weylind’s gaze swung past Dacha to Fieran, and his mouth tipped with a hint of humor on his face that could be hard to read unless one knew where to look. “I see I interrupted morning practice.”
That was Fieran’s cue to stroll forward. “And I got my butt whupped, as usual.”
Dacha seemed to sigh at Fieran’s use of the wordbuttin public while the elven guards gave a collective gasp at even that much coarseness around the elven king.
But Uncle Weylind’s hint of a smile almost seemed to widen, as if in fond tolerance. “It is good to see you,nirshon.”
His uncle used the elvish word fornephewthe same way he and Dacha had saidshashonmoments earlier.
“And you too, Uncle Weylind.” Fieran exchanged shoulder hugs as well, tempting as it was to give Uncle Weylind a human hug. But the elven guards were looking horrified enough as it was, and Fieran might as well spare his uncle the proximity to his sweat and grime.
As Uncle Iyrinder and Merrik approached, Uncle Weylind gave each of them a nod. “Iyrinder. Merrik.”
The two of them gave deeper nods that were the respectful elven greeting to their king.
“Is everything well in the eastern forests?” Dacha’s smile faded, his stance returning to something more poised once again.
“Yes. The fires have been contained, and the bombings have ceased, at least for now.” Uncle Weylind’s mouth pressed into a tight line, emphasizing his severe features in a way his earlier smile had not. “Ryfon has the defense of the border well in hand.”
Ryfon, Fieran’s cousin and the heir to the elven throne, had been nearly grown when Fieran was born. Because of that, they hadn’t been close until recently as Fieran caught up to Ryfon in age.
“Then it is time to turn our focus to defense here.” Dacha’s tone held a grim note as he clenched his fists at his sides, transforming from a sibling glad to see his brother to the warrior Laesornysh.
“Yes.” Uncle Weylind faced the way he’d come, and his bodyguards hurried to step aside to clear his path.
Standing on the crest of the hill as they were and with the wall of bodyguards no longer blocking the view, the cluster of people waiting at the base of the hill came into sight. Uncle Julien and Aunt Vriska stood beside the hangar as if waiting to greet Dacha. Various adjutants buzzed around them, likely arranging all the meetings that would begin now that two of Escarland’s and Kostaria’s top generals were here.
If Uncle Julien, Aunt Vriska, and Uncle Weylind were all converging here at Fort Defense, something major was about to go down.
