Page 28 of Fly to Fury
A morning with just her, Fieran, Merrik, and a magical machine? Sign her up.
“Yes!” Pip blurted the word before she could squash her bubbling excitement. At least the wing shielded her from view, giving her a moment to get her enthusiasm under control. When she spoke again, her voice had steadied. “I’d like that.”
From where she was crouched beneath the wing, she had a view of Merrik, Mak, and Pretty Face’s aeroplane. Merrik shot a look at Fieran, but Mak was looking at her, his eyebrows raised.
Bother. He was starting to suspect. She’d have to be more careful about how she interacted with Fieran. Otherwise, she’d activate Mak’s protective big brother mode, and she wasn’t sure what would happen then.
Chapter
Ten
Fieran strode down the hill toward the hangar, his swords on his back and his arms aching from sword practice with Dacha.
At his side, Merrik too carried his sword, his clothes showing a few spots of dirt and sweat.
After cutting through the hangar, where most of the mechanics were hard at work cutting out rubber insulators, Fieran and Merrik stepped out the other side where their tents were arrayed beside the road.
The flyboys and elven pilots bustled around the tents, moving their cots and footlockers outside, then disassembling the canvas and poles. A few of the elves clustered around a sapling, using their magic to coax it to grow while some of the flyboys hauled various broken shipping pallets and crates from the hangar. Mak worked on one of the crates, using his magic to easily take it apart into usable planks. To one side, Lt. Rothilion barked orders, preventing the work from devolving into chaos.
As much as Fieran had chafed under Lt. Rothilion’s command while at Dar Goranth, the elf lieutenant couldkeep the squadron organized and focused better than Fieran could. He had been the perfect person to entrust with overseeing this task.
Only Merrik’s and Fieran’s tents remained unaffected. As Fieran strode to his tent, he nodded to Lt. Rothilion. “I’ll clear my things out before I leave.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll take care of it.” Stickyfingers hustled past, his arms laden with a footlocker.
Lt. Rothilion met Fieran’s gaze and gave a nod of his own, his mouth lacking any sign of that curling disgust.
“Thanks.” Fieran ducked into his tent, took off his swords, and set them on his footlocker. He washed as best he could with the tepid water in a pitcher and basin before he changed into fresh clothing.
Once done, he made sure everything in his tent was properly stowed so it could be easily hauled out. After grabbing his rifle, he stepped outside again into the early morning sunlight.
“All set?” Stickyfingers and Tiny trotted up. They were nearly the same height, but Tiny’s muscles and broad chest made Stickyfingers appear small beside him.
“Yes. Go ahead.” Fieran gestured at his tent behind him.
Even in the few minutes he’d been inside, the foot-high saplings had grown into ten-foot small trees. Mak had joined Lt. Rothilion, and the two of them were consulting with one of the other elven pilots on how best to turn the discarded lumber, trees, and canvas into snug shelters. It seemed that particular elf had worked in tree-growing construction in Estyra before joining the Tarenhieli Flying Corps.
Merrik strode from his tent, and Fieran moved to join him.
Not a moment too soon. No sooner had he gotten out ofthe way than Tiny and Stickyfingers barreled out of his tent, carrying his cot piled high with everything in his tent.
“We had best leave them to it.” Fieran had to dodge out of the way as two more flyboys descended on Merrik’s tent.
“Lt. Rothilion seems to have things well in hand.” Merrik hurried to one side, his mouth pressing into a thin line as a few thunks echoed from inside his tent.
As the two of them strolled beside the hangar, footsteps scuffed behind them before a throat cleared.
Fieran halted and turned, finding Pretty Face standing there. “Do you need something?”
Pretty Face glanced around before he lowered his voice so that it wouldn’t carry to the bustle behind him. “Lije, Stickyfingers, and I are planning an activity for the whole squadron. But the activity is on the more expensive end. For those who are sending most of their pay home, like Stickyfingers and Lije, it’s a stretch. I’m collecting a fund so that some of the costs can be deferred for those in the squadron who need it.”
“Dare I ask what you’re planning?” Fieran crossed his arms and eyed Pretty Face. For once, Pretty Face’s closely cropped beard and thin mustache framed a mouth pressed in a line rather than curved in his cavalier smile.
“All innocent fun. Promise.” Pretty Face pressed a hand over his heart, all wide-eyed affrontery. “You know Lije and Stickyfingers wouldn’t allow anything else.”
“True.” Fieran relaxed his stance. For someone who used to act like he had the depth of a puddle on a hot day, organizing a fund like this was surprisingly thoughtful of Pretty Face. Probably a character growth Fieran should encourage. “Find me before we turn in. I’ll be happy to donate to your collection.”
“As will I.” Merrik’s quiet voice barely carried over the noise of all the working flyboys on the other side of the road.
