“Tired, and I shouldn’t use any more of my magic, but I can still fly.” The sound of Tiny’s voice filling the radio eased some of the tightness in Fieran’s chest.
“Also tired.” Merrik’s voice held that tight strain that gave away just how exhausted he was.
“You should return to Fort Defense.” Fieran wasn’t going to let Merrik and Tiny risk themselves more than they already had.
“I do not think that would do any good.” Merrik pointed his aeroplane’s nose in that direction. “Look.”
Fieran finally took a moment to scan the skies in the distance, his stomach plummeting. Without him holding the border, the Mongavarian aeroplanes had fought their way past Capt. Fleetwood’s and Lt. Hadley’s squadrons. Plumes of smoke rose from various parts of Fort Defense with a large concentration of the smoke coming from the railyard, dockyard, and warehouse section of the fort complex.
The sight confirmed that Dacha was still unconscious or otherwise out of action. For this battle, Fort Defense had been left without any kind of magical protection.
“Let us finish this.” Despite the tiredness from having his magic partially drained, Merrik’s voice rang strong and firm over the radio.
When Fieran glanced at him, their gazes met and held. There was an understanding there. The shared sense of determination and brotherhood that had carried them through everything from their first scrapes as children to basic training at Fort Linder and all the battles since.
Merrik nodded once before he flared his wings, slowing his aeroplane just enough to fall back to his usual wingman position. The thread of Fieran’s magic still connected their aeroplanes as Fieran kept both of them in the sky.
The rest of Flight B gathered behind them, falling into place to form a large wing of aeroplanes roaring across the sky. Lije and Stickyfingers took up the position at the fore above Merrik and Fieran with Tiny and Murray below. Fieran cast his magic outward, forming the protective net once again.
Below, a wavering line of carnage sprawled across the marsh and mud flats, punctuated by smoke and the flashes of the big artillery guns.
Something twisted tight in Fieran’s chest again. He’d sent Pip into that. Where was she? Was she all right?
The sooner he ended this, the sooner he could find out.
Flight B of the Half-Breed Squadron swept across the sky in a blaze of magic, and the aeroplanes of Flight A soared in to join the formation until they were a mighty force of roaring engines and spitting machine guns.
Together, they were Laesornysh, the winds of death that would clear the skies of the enemy.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
As soon as Fieran stepped down from his aeroplane, Pip was there, running toward him. Mud coated her overalls all the way past her knees while something brown and red spattered her green shirt.
But she was here. She was alive. That was all that mattered.
Ignoring his own filthy state, he swept her into his arms, holding her tight to his chest and bending to press kisses to her hair. “I’m so sorry. I never should have volunteered you for that. I’m so sorry.”
She clung to him, shaking, her face pressed into his shirt. “It was awful.”
He rubbed a hand up and down her back, his own hand shaking. “I’m sorry.” The words were so empty compared to what she must have seen and done.
When Pip pulled back, she swiped a hand over her face, the steel returning to her spine and expression. “No, you were right to send me. We got them. Two of those machines. They’re already being boxed up to go out on the first train.”
Based on the number of fires burning and wreckage piled up in the trainyard, dockyard, and warehouse section of FortDefense, who knew how soon that would be. The Mongavarians had gotten in a few good hits before they’d been chased off.
Pip reached up and traced her fingers over the back of his head. “You’re hurt. You should see the healer.”
Even that light pressure sent a stab of pain through his head. When he touched the same place she had, he felt a knot rising on the back of his skull. Right. He’d hit his head on the bridge in the magical explosion. At least only a few brown flakes of dried blood showed on his fingers. Any bleeding had stopped.
He wasn’t seeing double nor was he dizzy. His head ached a bit, but it was nothing he couldn’t ignore.
“I doubt they have healers to spare for something this mild.” Fieran lowered his hand. He’d seen the line of trucks unloading both at the field hospital at the base of the bluff and the main hospital on top of it. The healers would have their magic stretched thin.
“Still, you could have a head injury. You should at least get checked by someone.” Pip stepped farther out of his arms and plucked at his shirt, her fussing the frantic, frazzled kind, as if she fussed because it was that or break with the horror of the day. “And you really need to get cleaned up.”
Even as he stood there, he grew all the more aware of the deep chill in his bones, the aching in his head, and the sheer exhaustion in his limbs. Dried blood—none of it his except that on his head—spattered him from head to toe from the hand-to-hand battle wielding his dacha’s swords. All he wanted to do was take a scalding hot shower, then collapse into his cot to sleep.
