But he had far too many people and things to see to.
“Maybe in a while. I need to check on my dacha.” He rested his hands on her shoulders, not ready yet to let her go. “You should clean up and get some rest too.”
She looked away, that wide-eyed, haunted look returning. “Not yet. I should see to the aeroplanes. Some of them were shot up pretty badly.”
Right. He winced, then winced again when the movement sent another stab of pain through his head. “Start with Merrik’s, then mine. We had the magic yanked out of our magical power cells, then I kept us flying by powering the engines directly. I’m pretty sure I fried the guts out of the engines.”
“But neither of you crashed.” Pip’s voice was tight, going softer. “That’s the important thing. Engines can be replaced.”
“And I know just the mechanic for the job.” He lightly cradled her chin before he bent and kissed her. He didn’t linger, pulling back a moment later. “I’ll be back soon.”
Pip stepped all the way from his arms this time. When she met his gaze, her dark brown eyes had softened, the edge gone. “I’m sure your dacha is all right.”
Fieran nodded, but he couldn’t agree. He’d struggled to overpower just one of those machines. But Dacha had taken out who knew how many of them.
The two of them strode toward the hangar, and as soon as they were inside, Pip veered off, heading for her tools.
Fieran crossed the hangar to where Merrik was settling into his wheelchair, a grimace on his face. “How are you holding up?”
“Tired.” Merrik massaged his leg above the prosthetic, lines of weariness etched around his eyes and mouth. He tugged up his pant leg and revealed the neat bullet hole through the wood of his prosthetic ankle. “It seems the war really has it out for my right leg.”
Fieran swallowed, a shaken kind of sickness filling him. He hadn’t realized that machine gun had gotten that close to Merrik before Fieran had managed to blow it up.
He’d nearly lost all of them that day. Pip. Merrik. Dacha.
If he’d had the luxury of breaking, he might have done it right then and there. Instead, he rested his hand on Merrik’s shoulder, resisting the urge to prop himself up. “Get some rest.”
“Your dacha…”
“Is likely in no shape to want lots of people around.” Fieran sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “If you get some sleep now, you’ll be more awake later today when both of us will need you there.”
Merrik nodded, but the lines in his face didn’t ease.
Fieran turned and forced his aching legs to move from a trudge to a jog. He dashed through the hangar, waving at Lije, Stickyfingers, Tiny, Lt. Rothilion, and the others as he passed without stopping to talk, and exited on the far side. After crossing the dirt road and making his way through the tents, he reached the small rise overlooking the headquarters section.
In front of the hospital, stretchers waited in haphazard rows to be taken inside to see the healers while clusters of men and women, covered in blood and dirt, sat or lay on the ground. Some cried out in pain. Others were too still, too silent.
Fieran would just have to sleep off his own aches and pains. The healers had their hands full.
Across the way, the elven officer quarters appeared to be undamaged, as was the main headquarters building. A few wisps of smoke still curled from the Escarlish officer quarters, but even that fire had been contained. The second wave of attacks while Fieran had been busy with the airship must have concentrated on the railyard rather than up here.
Fieran hurried across the open space, his breathing tight in his chest and not just from his panting. He stumbled to a halt before the door, gasping for breath, as he took in Uncle Iyrinder standing in his usual spot. “Dacha…is he…”
“He is resting.” Uncle Iyrinder stepped aside, indicating the door. But he didn’t fully move out of Fieran’s way, his gaze searching Fieran’s face. “Merrik?”
“Tired but fine. I told him to get some sleep.” Fieran would leave it up to Merrik whether he wanted to tell his dacha how close it had been.
“Linshi.” Uncle Iyrinder’s posture eased as he briefly clasped Fieran’s shoulder.
Fieran ducked past him and hurried inside, only just managing to shut the door quietly instead of accidentally slamming it.
The outer room with its table in the center, desk to one side beneath the window, and cushioned bench along the other side was empty. The table was missing both of its chairs while the door leading to the bedchamber was only open a few inches, preventing him from seeing inside. “Dacha?”
“Come in, nirshon.” Uncle Weylind’s voice called out just as softly as Fieran had.
Uncle Weylind was still here. Fieran’s heart lurched again as he crept across the room and pushed the door. It swung without a creak.
Dacha lay on the narrow bed against the wall, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, his eyes closed. His face was turned away from Fieran while his hair was a cascade of silver-blond over the pillow. Someone had washed away all the mud, or perhaps Dacha had woken at some point long enough to do it himself. His swords leaned against the wall beside the small table, cleaned of blood.
