Chapter 28
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
Fieran guided the Mongavarian aeroplane toward the pink dawn blazing around the horizon ahead, reflecting off the sparkling waves of the ocean.
He flexed his cold fingers on the control stick and wiggled his toes within his boots.
While he was flying lower than he normally would for combat, it was still chilly in the air without proper gear.
Against the blush of dawn, the white spires of a castle glowed with the same pink, its graceful silhouette rising on a bluff high above the crashing waves.
A city sprawled down the bluffs and around the harbor formed by a large river mouth.
The forms of large ships barely crested the far horizon, out of sight of land but visible here from the sky.
“There it is. Landri.” Fieran had to turn his head to shout to Dacha.
Dacha gave a nod before he turned and shouted over his shoulder to Aaruk.
Fieran scanned the ground spreading out before them.
He needed a long straight and flat field or road to land.
But this close to the city, farms and manor plots were broken into small sections rather than large fields ideal for landing.
The main street followed the curves of the river with the rest of the roads branching outward in less than straight lines.
There. At the very edge of the city itself, the road straightened enough to give him a place to land. It was hard to tell at this height, but he was pretty sure the space between the brick buildings was wide enough for the wings. At least the traffic on the road was minimal, given the early hour.
Fieran circled lower to line the nose up on the road.
Dacha leaned forward and gripped Fieran’s shoulder. “That road was not designed for an aeroplane landing. Nor does it appear spacious enough for such maneuvers.”
“I think we’ll fit. Probably. This landing might be a little interesting.” Fieran gripped the control stick more firmly, feeling the way the two fuel-powered engines shuddered through the Mongavarian aeroplane.
“As long as it is a landing.” Dacha’s tone was acerbic, and someone who didn’t know him wouldn’t have heard the trace of his humor. “You are making a habit of crashing.”
“The airship wasn’t my fault.” Fieran circled one more time, the aeroplane so low that the handful of early risers below were pausing and looking up, shading their eyes.
At least the large guns surrounding the city hadn’t yet been trained on him. He was in a Mongavarian aeroplane, after all. Perhaps they assumed his aeroplane was in distress and that was why he was doing something as crazy as landing on a city street.
The aeroplane sank lower, and he feathered the engines to as little power as he could without them entirely cutting out. The tops of the buildings appeared only inches below his wheels, as if he was about to clip them.
The straight street opened before him, and he eased the aeroplane lower, the wings only feet away from the buildings on either side.
Ahead, people dove out of the way, likely screaming, although he couldn’t hear them over the roar of the engines. Horses reared as people dragged their carriages to a halt while vehicles swerved to get out of the street, clearing the way before him.
The right wings clipped an awning, and the whole aeroplane crabbed in that direction. Fieran gave one last burst of power and yanked on the rudder and ailerons to straighten the aeroplane out before it could crash into the buildings.
Then the wheels touched down on the cobblestones, bouncing and hurtling forward at a blazing speed. He switched off both engines and hung on. The tail of the aeroplane thudded onto the road, the tailskid screeching.
He’d landed on cobblestones once before. But back then, the upward curve of the Alliance Bridge had eventually brought him to a stop.
Here the road was flat and, if anything, had a downward slope. Unlike the miles he had on the bridge, there was only a limited length before a sharp curve essentially ended the runway in a brick building.
Dacha gripped Fieran’s shoulder, his fingers tight and near bruising.
Fieran braced himself, flaring the ailerons to do whatever he could to slow the aeroplane. What he wouldn’t give for a little bit of elven plant magic to catch the wheels and halt their careening flyer.
The aeroplane hurtled down the street, rushing closer, closer, closer, toward a head-on crash with a solid brick building.
His magic crackled against his hold in his chest, and he had to swallow back the whoop of exhilaration that built inside him. He might have matured throughout this war, but there was still something about being at the brink of death that made him feel so very alive.
Ahead, the smaller shops turned into grander edifices, the street lined with tall lampposts instead of the small lamps attached to the buildings themselves.
Fieran braced himself as best he could. “We’re going to—”
Both sets of wings struck the iron posts of the first set of gaslamps. The impact jarred the whole aeroplane, flinging Fieran forward so swiftly that he bashed his forehead against the leather padding on the edge of the cockpit.
The tips of the wings ripped and splintered, letting the aeroplane roll forward. But by the time the splintered ends of the wings ran up against the next set of lampposts, the aeroplane had slowed to the point that this second impact halted it entirely.
Fieran straightened, peeled his fingers out of their death grip on the control stick, and rubbed his forehead. He’d likely get a bruise, but there wasn’t any blood. “Is everyone all right?”
Dacha released his death grip on Fieran’s shoulder. “Yes. But that was a near thing.”
Fieran just nodded as he peered around them. The few people out and about were gaping at the aeroplane now wedged across their otherwise quiet street. A carriage came around the far corner, the horses trotting smartly, before the driver jerked back on the reins.
Dacha yanked off his flight cap and goggles, grabbed his swords, and leapt down from the aeroplane, landing gracefully in the street. With a glance at the gaping crowd, he released a flicker of his magic, sweeping it around him.
Those few people who hadn’t had the sense to run screaming at the sight of an aeroplane landing in the middle of the street now took off running and screaming in terror.
Subtle surprise was out. Though, that had probably been out from the moment Fieran ditched an aeroplane in the road.
Fieran peeled off his own flight cap and goggles. Grabbing his swords from where they had been tucked next to him, he scrambled down from the aeroplane with Aaruk following.
Dacha had set his swords on the lower wing and was shrugging out of the Mongavarian uniform coat, leaving behind only the plain gray shirt beneath. At Fieran’s look, he gave a rolling shrug. “I do not wish to go into this battle dressed as the enemy.”
“Good call.” Fieran set his swords next to Dacha’s on the wing and began divesting himself of his own Mongavarian uniform coat.
It had served its purpose in getting them across the empire, but now it was time to fight under his true allegiance, even if he didn’t have an Alliance uniform to put on instead.
The plain gray shirt and the blue-gray uniform pants would have to do.
At least they had plenty of time. The street was now utterly deserted.
Dacha gave a sigh and reached to touch his shortened hair. “The last time I ended a war, I also had short hair.”
Fieran paused, his gaze shooting to Dacha. While he’d heard, vaguely, that the trolls had cut Dacha’s hair, he somehow had never put it together that Dacha had short hair during the events in the stories he’d heard growing up.
Dacha met Fieran’s gaze, holding it a moment before his disconsolate look disappeared into something else. A tilt of a smile banished the frown while a glint sparked in his eyes. “But it is just as well this time, I believe.”
Fieran straightened his shoulders and held his gaze. With their short hair, similar features, and identical swords, they were a matched set. More clearly father and son. Two of the warriors Laesornysh.
Grinning, Fieran tapped the tip of one of his own pointed ears. “At least the short hair makes our ears more obvious.”
“That it does.” Dacha picked up his swords, slung them over his shoulders, and buckled them in place.
Fieran matched Dacha’s movements, also buckling his own swords into their familiar place across his back.
Dacha reached out and gripped Fieran’s shoulders, holding his gaze once again. “Short hair or long, sason, we are elven warriors, and we will end this war as elves.”
If Dacha’s short hair didn’t make him less of an elven warrior, then Fieran’s short hair didn’t lessen him either.
“Yes, we will.” He straightened as he faced his dacha, the weight of that knowledge settling deep within him. He was human. And he was elf. And neither of those things made him less. He was capable and worthy of ending this war at his dacha’s side.
Dacha’s returning smile glinted in his eyes for a moment before the smile faded. “How is your magic?”
After a week of not using it, his magic simmered hot and eager beneath his skin. “It’s been a week. My magic is fine.”
“It is.” Aaruk stepped forward and held out a hand. “I can check again if it would make you feel better.”
Dacha’s flat look was answer enough. Fieran sighed and unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt, standing patiently while Aaruk went through the now familiar routine of pressing a hand over the now nearly healed spots where the machine had been hooked to him.
Aaruk had no sooner brushed his magic against Fieran’s than he yanked his hand back with a hiss, shaking his fingers. “Yeah, he’s fine. I think he will be in far more danger if he doesn’t use his magic soon and expend some of it.”
Dacha made a noise in the back of his throat, his deep frown remaining.
“See, I’m fine.” Fieran hurried to rebutton his shirt. “Where are we headed?”
Dacha waved his hand at the street ahead of them. “Landri Castle and the empire’s governmental offices are near the ocean on this side of the river. We will head there. Hopefully Edmund and Pippak are being held in one of those places. If not, then we will force someone to tell us where they are.”
Now that sounded especially good to Fieran.
The three of them marched down the street in silence for several moments before Fieran glanced at his dacha again. “What happens if we come up against one of those magic-stealing machines again? Do you think the two of us can take one out without passing out?”
“Oh, don’t worry about those.” Aaruk gave a shrug when both Fieran and Dacha looked to him. He held up his hand. “Deflecting magic, remember?”
“If you can deflect the magic-stealing magic, then how was ogre deflecting magic taken to use on their aeroplanes?” Fieran shot Aaruk a glance before he swept his gaze over the street ahead of them, looking for threats.
“One, the magic’s purpose isn’t for stealing other magic.
That’s what those scientists twisted it to do.
” Aaruk’s mouth pressed into a tight line, his eyes flashing.
“I can deflect the twisted magic coming from these machines. But that machine hooked up directly to your body was something else entirely.”
With a nod, Fieran clamped his mouth shut. He’d experienced that difference firsthand. The machine under the airship had latched onto his magic, draining it, but it hadn’t been carving the very essence of his magic out of his chest.
The tromping of boots, too rhythmic to be anything but a squad of Mongavarian soldiers marching double time, echoed from somewhere around the far corner.
Fieran glanced at Dacha, even as he reached over his shoulders for his swords. “So what’s the plan?”
Dacha faced the street and drew his swords, letting his magic twine over his hands and down the length of the blades. A smile, both grim and strangely glinting, creased his face. “We destroy stuff until they surrender.”
For a moment, Fieran could only blink at his dacha. Then he grinned as he drew his own swords. When he released his magic, it crackled down his blades and pooled around him on the street. There wasn’t so much as a hint of pain in his chest.
While Fieran couldn’t see it, Aaruk must have been using his magic because Fieran’s magic skated away from the ogre when it got too close, the taste of that familiar now-not-unknown magic filling his magical senses, although the wielded version was much stronger and deeper than the false and twisted version he’d encountered before.
As Fieran joined his dacha facing the distant, oncoming Mongavarian soldiers, he flexed his fingers on his swords, readying himself. “Was this always the plan when you and Uncle Edmund were going to be here on your own?”
“No. Your uncle’s plan was a lot more subtle. It involved far more sneaking and far fewer explosions.” As if growing tired of waiting for the enemy to come to him, Dacha stalked down the street once again, his magic crackling around his feet. “This is my version of the plan.”
“I like your plan.” Fieran hurried to catch up. “I knew my tendency for explosions didn’t come from my human side.”
Dacha’s grin was feral, blue light dancing in the depths of his eyes. Behind them, Dacha’s magic reached their abandoned aeroplane, and it went up in a concussive explosion. “No, it did not.”
Fieran smirked back and let his magic burst more powerfully from his fingertips and down his swords. Time to rescue Pip and end this war.