Page 63 of Wings of War
After an agonizing moment, Capt. Arfeld’s chin tipped, his shoulders straightening. “You’ll take off last. Keep things organized down here in the meantime.”
“Yes, sir.” Fieran let that weight settle on his shoulders. Orders, finally.
Capt. Arfeld had chosen the option that would protect the fort and the civilian contractors like Pip for as long as possible, putting only the pilots at risk.
With a final glance at Fieran, Capt. Arfeld spun on a heel, shouting orders even as he ran to catch up with the flyers waiting outside, their engines and propellers spinning up.
Fieran mentally peeled back the part of his shield by the end of the airstrip, creating an open space for the flyers to take off without being incinerated. Then he hurried to join Merrik and Pip by a flyer. “How is arming going?”
“As well as could be expected.” Pip’s mouth twisted with her concentration as she melded a piece of metal to a rifle’s action, creating a swivel. “It’ll be better than trying to take out an airship with a pistol, but not by much.”
Merrik folded the flyer’s wooden side over the base of her swivel, affixing the gun to the aeroplane’s side. As he finished, he flicked a glance at Fieran. “But guns will not be all that necessary, will they?”
“Probably not. I think I can take out the airships. But Capt. Arfeld has ordered me to go up last so I can protect the fort as long as possible.” Fieran gestured upward to indicate his magical shield. “So you’ll need to keep the airships busy until I join you.”
Merrik nodded as he and Pip moved to the next flyer in line. The pilot scrambled into the aeroplane they’d finished, and the ground crew wheeled it out to join the others spinning up at the end of the airfield. An aeroplane roared down the airstrip, taking off into the night sky, its wings lit by Fieran’s blue magic.
Stickyfingers tottered out of the gloom of the rest of the hangar, toting a machine gun that must weigh nearly as much as he did. His grin gleamed almost manically in his eyes. “I’m keeping this bad boy for me. Pip, Merrik, think you can install it on one of the two-seaters? Lije will fly it; I’m going to man this puppy.” Stickyfingers patted the machine gun lovingly.
“Sure.” Pip’s magic elongated a part of a rifle’s action to attach it to the flyer, even as Merrik melded his magic with hers to keep the mounting in place. As soon as they finished, that waiting pilot climbed in.
As they turned toward the two-seaters waiting at the rear of the line of flyers, a commotion came from outside. Some of the ground crew were shouting and pointing, even as two more flyers roared into the sky. Someone cursed.
Fieran halted, checking his magical senses. His magical shield was holding. Yet, come to think of it, it had been a few minutes since the Mongavarians had tested the magic with a bomb. Were they leaving? Yet that didn’t match with the pointing, cursing, and staring of those gathering by the doors.
Fieran dashed a few steps in that direction, then froze as he took in the view outlined by the broad hangar doors.
One of the airships remained almost directly over the airstrip, as if it poised to pounce on the next flyers that dared launch themselves into the sky. A few biplanes danced around the ship’s black bulk and, even as they watched, a burst of flames erupted from one of the flyers as it spiraled toward the river.
But the flight crew weren’t watching the falling flyer, the dying pilot. They were pointing at the five airships that had drifted farther upriver, coming to a stop directly over Bridgetown and Calafaren.
Fieran’s stomach dropped to his toes, even as he pressed a hand to the hangar’s wall to steady himself.
Capt. Arfeld had forgotten one important thing when giving his orders. They all had.
Fort Linder wasn’t the only nearby target.
Chapter
Twenty
Even as Fieran stood there, shaking at the sight, a stream of tiny black specks dribbled out of one of the airships. Explosions flared among the distant, black buildings. One bomb must have struck the Alliance Bridge for it flared with his dacha’s bright blue magic. At this distance, Fieran couldn’t see if the magic in the stone had been enough to spare the bridge destruction.
The Mongavarian airships were bombing Bridgetown. A town full of innocent civilians. Women. Children.
Fieran sagged against the hangar’s wall, chest heaving, head whirling.
Had he caused this? Had the Mongavarian airships decided to move on to a new target once they realized Fort Linder was protected?
Could Fieran stretch his magic that far? He’d never used it at such a distance, but his dacha had done so to create the Wall.
But Dacha had more power than Fieran. Far more experience. By the time he’d been Fieran’s age, he’d already fought two wars. Been tortured twice. Used his magic in ways Fieran had never encountered.
Until joining the army, Fieran had never faced anything scarier than his dacha with the light of battle in his eyes.
Fieran raced outside, knelt, and pressed a hand to the ground. At this distance, he needed the firmness of the ground to guide his magic. He dug deep within himself, sinking into the unknown depths of his magic in a way he never had before.
He poured his magic into the ground, pushing it toward the distant city. He could sense the stone, the foundations of homes and buildings. He shoved his magic high into the air over the city. His control stretched thin and slick in his mind. If he’d been holding a wall around the city, anchored into the ground while he stood inside, he could have done it easily enough. But stretching his magic into the sky from that far away left it too untethered.