Fieran released his magic, turned, and dashed the few yards back to where Dacha lay.
Uncle Weylind knelt next to him and was prying Dacha’s limp form from the mud. As Fieran crashed to his knees next to him, Uncle Weylind glanced up, his mouth in a grim line bracketed by deep grooves. “He is alive, nirshon.”
Alive. Fieran released a breath that came out with a shudder. “Then why hasn’t he woken yet?”
Fieran had only been out for a few seconds. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed—likely not that long, despite how it had felt to him—but it seemed like too long if Dacha had been merely knocked out by the explosion.
“I do not know. But magical backlash can be tricky.” Uncle Weylind hefted Dacha’s limp form, pulling him up and over to drape across Uncle Weylind’s shoulders. Mud smeared Uncle Weylind’s uniform and into his hair, but he did not seem to notice as he stood, carrying Dacha. “Come. We must get your dacha to the healers.”
Still holding Dacha’s bloody swords, Fieran trotted after Uncle Weylind, his boots squishing in mud that was now even more churned and soupy from many boots. They passed more ranks of elves, trolls, and humans rushing onto the battlefield to reinforce the first wave of warriors.
Uncle Weylind climbed up the shallow bank, and Fieran jumped up after him to stand on the somewhat firmer ground of what had once been the riverbank. Here the bank was now clogged with various trucks, some abandoned and some with drivers working to turn them around to transport more troops to the growing battle in the riverbed.
His uncle tilted his head toward a nearby small, open-topped army truck identical to the one Fieran and his dacha had takento the Wall. The truck they’d driven was now lying on its side in the mud, blown off its wheels and over the side of the half bridge in the magical explosion. “You will need to drive, nirshon.”
Right. Unlike Dacha, Uncle Weylind hadn’t learned. Tarenhiel hadn’t embraced motorized vehicles the way Escarland had, and when Uncle Weylind visited Escarland, he always had someone on hand to drive him around, if needed. After all, he was a king. Even Uncle Averett didn’t drive himself.
Fieran numbly settled into the driver’s seat, resting Dacha’s swords in the footwell of the passenger side. Uncle Weylind eased Dacha down so that he sprawled across the back seat before climbing into the back, propping himself under Dacha’s head and shoulders to keep him steady.
Mechanically, Fieran turned on the engine, worked the gear shift and clutch, and sent the vehicle rolling and bumping along the road. Behind him, artillery guns boomed, men shouted, and machine guns chattered as the violence of war unleashed its carnage.
Chapter
Twenty-Five
Fieran braked, halting the truck in a cloud of dust only feet from Dacha’s door. Shattering explosions rang behind him, the sirens for red alert and gas attack blaring from all the nearby buildings. As he flung himself from the truck, a boom shook the ground, and he braced himself against the truck’s side.
Below the bluff, Mongavarian aeroplanes dropped bombs and canisters of gas onto the Alliance soldiers. Only the hangar was safe beneath the shimmer of Pip’s shield. Clouds of gun smoke and gas billowed over the riverbed where Fieran had been only moments ago. Alliance aeroplanes chased after the enemy, firing in bursts.
More Alliance aeroplanes roared overhead, rushing to reinforce the beleaguered pilots battling in the sky.
Uncle Julien dashed out of the lingering dust cloud, glancing from Fieran to Uncle Weylind, who was hefting Dacha’s limp body from the back seat of the truck. “What happened?”
“There were these machines with that foreign magic.” Fieran braced both hands on the side of the truck as another series of explosions shook the ground. Gouts of dirt and flame burst among the trees where the elven infantry was stationed. Fieran swallowed and forced himself to focus. “They seemed tocatch Dacha’s magic, and the Wall exploded. Dacha has been unconscious ever since.”
“I will send a team to retrieve one of those machines. We need to figure out exactly what they are and how they work.” While his tone remained calm and steady, Uncle Julien’s gaze locked on Dacha, sprawled across Uncle Weylind’s shoulders.
As Uncle Julien’s words registered, Fieran resisted the urge to swear under his breath before he heaved a sigh. “From what it looked like, the machines were mostly destroyed in the magical explosion. You’ll need a mechanic with magic to know if the one the team is retrieving has enough magic and mechanics left to study.”
“Do you have someone in mind?” Uncle Julien’s gaze tore from Dacha and Uncle Weylind to settle squarely on Fieran.
Fieran bit back the words he wanted to spit out again. He didn’t know of any mechanics with magic in the airship crews, and even if there were, Uncle Julien—as a general in the army—wouldn’t be able to quickly requisition them for a retrieval mission since they would officially be under the navy.
No, the best person for the job was Pip. But if Fieran mentioned her, he would send his girlfriend off into that inferno of bombs and gas and bullets engulfing the riverbed.
Fieran swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”
“Send the mechanic to headquarters.” Uncle Julien glanced at Dacha one last time before he whirled and dashed back toward the headquarters building.
Fieran turned to go as well, though he hesitated, glancing over his shoulder to where Uncle Weylind was navigating through the door into Dacha’s quarters with Dacha on his shoulders. “Should I…”
Uncle Weylind gestured to him. “Go, nirshon. You need to get into the sky.”
Fieran shot one last glance at his dacha’s unconscious form, something inside him tearing at having to leave Dacha like this.
But his duty was in the sky, and he couldn’t shirk it. Not even for Dacha.
He turned and sprinted for the hangar higher on the ridge and shielded by Pip’s magic. As he skidded through the hangar door, he found himself in a nearly empty space. Only a handful of aeroplanes remained here in Bay 4 with their mechanics rushing to fix whatever was wrong and keeping the aeroplanes from the air.
