Fieran caught up with the last of the bombers, and he dove once again to provide protection from below.
Moments later, a large burst of static filled the radio.
“Stickyfingers, did he get out? Did he get far enough away?” Fieran took up his position at the head of the Flight below the bombers, his heart hammering even as it ached.
“He got out, but I can’t see him.” Stickyfingers almost sounded like he was crying. “I can’t see him.”
“I think he found cover in those trees.” Lije’s voice, too, rang roughly over the radio. “The aeroplane is destroyed.”
Those were the new orders, which had come down from headquarters. If they set down behind enemy lines, they needed to overload the engine to blow up the aeroplane to keep the new synchronization gear and the magical power cell from falling into Mongavarian hands.
“Good. Rejoin the squadron.” Fieran worked to keep his voice steady. He needed to be strong. Be the squadron’s leader. Finish the mission.
Chapter
Seventeen
When Fieran climbed down from his aeroplane, he just stood there for a long moment, staring at the bright artwork painted on the nose. The swirling flames that almost looked like red hair. The bolts of blue magic threaded between them. The images of some of his victories. All painted by Pretty Face.
“What’s going on?” Pip hurried up to him, her eyes wide as she took in the returning aeroplanes. “What happened?”
Of course she could tell something had happened. The squadron wasn’t buoyant, as they normally would be after a successful mission.
Fieran didn’t care that most of his men and women were still there, trudging back to the hangar. A few of them had bloody bandages wrapped around arms or legs where they had been caught in the shrapnel blasts, but none of the injuries were serious. The only pilot they’d lost had been Pretty Face.
Fieran wrapped his arms around Pip, holding her close. Who cared if everyone saw them having a moment? Today was a dayfor holding loved ones close because one never knew when the war would snatch someone away.
“Fieran?” Pip leaned into him, her arms coming around him.
“Pretty Face’s aeroplane was damaged, and he was forced to set down in Mongavaria,” he murmured into her hair, holding her close. “We think he escaped his aeroplane before it blew up but…”
But he was now on foot, alone, somewhere deep within Mongavaria. It would be a miracle if he evaded the enemy long enough to get back to either Escarland or Tarenhiel.
When they’d flown over the spot on their return from successfully bombing the Mongavarian airfield—with Fieran further destroying buildings, grounded aeroplanes, and airships with his magic—the Mongavarian army had already been at the crash site, combing through the wreckage.
Fieran led a small strafing run, dropping the handful of bombs he and the others of the squadron hadn’t needed to use during the attack on the target and sending the Mongavarians scattering. He also sent his magic over the pieces of Pretty Face’s aeroplane, further incinerating it. He couldn’t do anything about any parts that the Mongavarians had already carted away, but there looked to be little that survived the initial explosion.
There had been no sign of Pretty Face. No way to know if he’d gotten out of there before the Mongavarian army arrived.
Pip’s arms tightened around him as she buried her face against Fieran’s chest. “No. No, not Pretty Face. Not him too.”
Fieran rubbed her back, his own throat squeezing. He’d lost those under his command before. Pretty Face likely wasn’t even dead.
But with Merrik gone, losing Pretty Face hit that much harder.
Fieran let himself soak up the comfort of having Pip in his arms for another minute before he forced himself to pull back.
She glanced up at him, tear tracks glistening on her cheeks.
He swiped one of the tears from her skin. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but could you look after the squadron for me? I need to report in to Colonel Dentley.”
And reprimand a certain new pilot.
“Of course.” Pip straightened her shoulders, her jaw firming in that way that showed she was pulling herself together.
Fieran pressed a kiss to her forehead before he forced himself to release her shoulders, turn, and march away, heading toward the nearest hangar door.
But as he neared, his gaze landed on the figure standing just outside the door. His dacha, dressed in his elven armor with his swords strapped to his back.
