Page 65 of Fly to Fury
He peeled his eyes open again to peer up at his dacha. Dacha’s hand on his shoulder was wreathed with magic. Had he…shocked Fieran with it?
“No, do not, sason.” Dacha gave Fieran’s shoulder a tighter squeeze. “Sink into your magic. Let it fill you. It will sustain you until the healers arrive.”
With fading senses, Fieran reached within himself. His magic was still there, still a well of power so deep he might just drown if he unleashed it fully.
But today was a day for drowning. He sank into those depths, his magic flooding through his veins, crackling in his chest. His vision cleared, his mind sharpened, and even some of the pain faded. He managed to tip his head into the closest thing to a nod that he could make.
A larger shell exploded against Dacha’s magic, the shrapnel shattering before the bolts of power incinerated them.
Dacha looked away from Fieran, and the shield of magic surrounding them strengthened.
More shells slammed into Dacha’s magic, as if the fleeing Mongavarian Army had managed to turn their big guns attheir own former encampment in an effort to stave off the elven warrior coming for them.
Magic poured down Dacha’s body, across the ground, and into the shield over their heads, consuming the artillery shells, machine gun fire, and whatever else the Mongavarians sent at them. Dacha’s grip remained on Fieran’s shoulder, his magic flowing from his hand and over Fieran in a strangely comforting sensation. The world reduced to just the two of them in the shelter of Dacha’s magic.
Then the shelling paused, leaving a strange stillness behind. Had the Mongavarians given up?
A whooshing sound whistled through the air before there was an explosion more like a pop. A cloud of yellow-green smoke burst above Dacha and Fieran, spreading across the sky. The cloud drifted downward, only partially incinerated by the bolts of Dacha’s magic.
More pops exploded overhead, filling the sky with that strange yellowish-green smoke. As more of it filtered down into their sheltered spot beneath the magic, Dacha coughed.
A burning filled Fieran’s eyes, his nose, his throat. He struggled to draw in another already labored breath, a fierce scorching filling his chest.
What was this? It burned worse than the lye soapsuds he’d once had to do PT in, and amid the stringent chemical smell was something that reminded him almost of pepper and pineapple.
His eyes streaming, Dacha turned to Fieran. With magic still lacing his fingers, Dacha drew his dagger and sliced off one of his sleeves. He tucked the fabric over Fieran’s nose and mouth before he sheathed the dagger and returned to gripping Fieran’s shoulder with one hand. He coughed again and covered his mouth and nose with his elbow.
Fieran sucked in another searing breath through thefabric, not sure if it did any good. Tears streamed from his eyes, his vision blurring even with his magic coursing through him.
The air clouded with the strange smoke as more and more shells exploded overhead. Dacha’s magic shrank into a smaller dome around them, trying to protect them even though he was fighting a gas instead of something he could easily incinerate.
“You…should go.” Fieran struggled to get the words out, his lungs struggling to suck in enough air for even those three syllables.
Fieran was dying. They both knew it. Dacha should save himself so that he could be there for Mama, Adry, Louise, Ellie, and Tryndar. They were going to lose Fieran; they shouldn’t have to lose Dacha too.
Dacha coughed, the sound wetter than it had been before, and shook his head. “No. Help is coming.”
There was nothing Fieran could do to force Dacha to leave. Except for hurrying up and dying already.
But Fieran had fought so hard, and he wasn’t about to just give up and die now.
Dacha needed even more magic. They needed to fill the air with so much magic that even a vapor couldn’t survive.
Fieran gathered his strength, lifted his hand out of the mud, and clasped his fingers around Dacha’s arm. He had no strength to fight. Not enough willpower to keep his magic controlled. Instead, he unleashed his magic as he had as a child, trusting in Dacha’s far greater power to keep his contained.
As Fieran’s bolts climbed over Dacha’s arm, Dacha’s power wrapped around it with a sense of vastness, directing and shaping it into controlled paths. The two magics sparked against each other even as Dacha’s crafted Fieran’sinto shape, coating the sky with a near solid layer of magic and filling the air with the taste of a lightning storm.
Fieran’s eyes closed as he let his magic pour from him, unrestricted, uncontrolled except where it was held in place by Dacha’s greater power. He might have let himself drift farther into the ocean of magic and waves of pain if his dacha’s grip on his shoulder hadn’t grounded him.
With supreme effort, Fieran dragged his eyes open again, just as a wave of green elven magic swept across the sky, shoving the yellow-green smoke ahead of it.
Then more people were there. Uncle Weylind shouted orders as green magic lit his hands and his black hair flowed over the leaves of his armor. Elves poured forward to form ranks around them. Somewhere, distantly, Aunt Vriska’s voice also yelled commands.
More elves fell to their knees on the other side of Fieran. One sliced open Fieran’s shirt but paused short of pressing a hand to Fieran’s chest. Instead, the healer glanced at Dacha. “Laesornysh, his magic…”
“Fieran, sason.” Dacha’s grip flexed on Fieran’s shoulder as Dacha turned to him. “It is time to withdraw your magic so the healer can work. Pull it back within yourself.”
Could he? Fieran’s control felt so tenuous, his magic so fully unleashed, that he didn’t know if he had the strength—physical and mental—to wrest it back under his control.
