Page 14 of Stalk the Sky

Everyone in the room snapped to salute, and Fieran’s hand was nearly to his forehead when a second person trudged into the room behind Uncle Rharreth. His shoulders were slightly hunched, his whole posture slouchy. His long black hair flowed down his back, blending with his gray skin to give him an overall dark and brooding look, emphasized by the pouty expression curling his lips. Like Fieran, his shoulders were broader than the slim build of the elves, but compared to the stocky trolls, he appeared scrawny.

Cousin Rhohen.

Fieran fumbled his salute.

Merrik swayed slightly closer and whispered, “Remember. Be the more mature cousin.”

All well and good, but Fieran could only be as mature as Rhohen let him be.

Uncle Rharreth, trailed by Rhohen, worked his way around the room. Despite the rocky start to his reign, the trolls in this room revered him to the point of near hero-worship. He had brought Kostaria out of the poverty of the previous wars into a thriving kingdom as forward-thinking as any of the other kingdoms in the Alliance.

As Uncle Rharreth reached their table, his smile broadened as he stepped in for a hug. “Fieran. Good to see you.”

“Uncle Rharreth.” Fieran returned his uncle’s hug and backslap. Unlike with Uncle Julien and the Escarlish Army where any recognition would be seen as favoritism and make basic training worse, Uncle Rharreth publicly claiming Fieran as family would only help his status here among the trolls.

Then Fieran’s smile dropped from his face as his voice came out flat. “Rhohen.”

“Fieran.” Rhohen didn’t even bother to unslouch as he glared back.

Uncle Rharreth didn’t do anything as obvious as sigh, but something of disappointment colored his blue eyes. He and Dacha had always hoped Fieran and Rhohen would get along.

There were times Fieran almost wished it too.

Almost. Maybe if Rhohen wasn’t so pouty about everything. Right now, he looked like he’d had a whole lemon shoved in his mouth.

All it would take would be a little poke—or a zap of Fieran’s magic—and he could turn that pout into a blaze of anger.

But Fieran didn’t. He was the more mature cousin, after all.

Chapter

Five

Fieran forced himself out of bed before dawn. Or what he guessed was the dawn, since his interior room didn’t have any windows.

At least the hard military cot was easy to leave. The mattress could hardly be termed such, formed as it was by a packed layer of scrap fabric stuffed inside a thick canvas that was similar to that used for tarpaulins and the sides of dirigibles. It made the bed in the barracks at Fort Linder feel like luxury.

Across the small room, Merrik rolled to a sitting position on his cot, grimacing. “Do you think anyone will notice if I grow a patch of straw to restuff my mattress?”

“As long as you grow enough for my mattress too, I’ll cover for you by officially authorizing it.” Fieran rubbed his lower back. “I’m going for a morning practice.”

He needed to get back in the habit of practicing his magic every morning like he used to do with his dacha and sisters. The rigid structure of Escarlish basic training hadn’t allowed wiggle room for a recruit to go off by himself for magic practice. But here, Fieran was a first lieutenant with the freedom to set his own schedule. Somewhat.

“Good. With Rhohen at Dar Goranth, you need to work out your jitters as much as possible.” Merrik stretched his arms over his head. “Rhohen is volatile enough for the two of you.”

“Very true.” Fieran rolled his head, trying to work the stiffness out of his neck. “Maybe you can practice your magic with the elven flyboys and fix our mattress situation.”

Merrik snorted and rubbed his own back. “Given the looks Lt. Rothilion and his cohorts were giving us, I do not believe I would be welcomed.”

“Aylia might not be as snooty. She doesn’t seem to get along with the others.” Fieran gripped one foot, then the other, stretching his leg muscles. He would need to get in a good practice to work out all the kinks.

“There might be a few others.” Merrik grimaced again and reached for his uniform shirt. “They likely do not dare to speak up and disagree with Lt. Rothilion. Not only is he their commanding officer, but he is from a well-connected, noble family. One with something to prove to regain their status in the king’s eyes.”

“Insulting the half-elven nephew of that king is a strange way to go about it.” Fieran just shook his head and strode for the door. He left his uniform shirt behind, opting to remain in his undershirt and fatigues. It would be chilly this morning, but he wouldn’t be cold for long.

Merrik followed as Fieran exited their room. Together, they strode down the short corridor filled with rooms on either side.

Several flyboys were already up. Some were jogging up and down the corridor or performing a basic PT routine in their rooms while joking with their bunkmates. Others had towels over their shoulders and hygiene kits in their hands as they headed for the showers at the end of the passageway.