Page 22 of Stalk the Sky
Fieran’s heart beat harder in his chest in that familiar, rising anticipation of taking to the skies once again. He hadn’t flown in an aeroplane since the Battle over Bridgetown. He’d missed it. And yet there was a little bit of something extra raw there too. This wasn’t just about the skies or the excitement anymore.
Lt. Rothilion pointed the nose of the aeroplane into the wind rising off Dar Goranth’s harbor.
Fieran gripped the camera in his lap tighter, his legs braced in the tiny compartment afforded the passenger of this two-seater. Unlike the airfield at Fort Linder, which was huge and flat and bordered by more flat fields, this airfield ended rather abruptly in a cliff. Any mistakes in takeoff would lead to the aeroplane tumbling off and crashing amongst the buildings of the port.
It didn’t seem like a great design, but there weren’t many open, flat places to build an airfield near the Dar Goranth base.
Lt. Rothilion pushed the aeroplane to full power as it shook and rattled its way down the airfield, bumping along over the grassy hillocks. The craft grew light around them, lifting off the ground, then falling back.
Fieran braced himself, flexing his fingers with the need for that control stick in his hands, the rudder bar at his feet. It took everything in him to grit his teeth and avoid yelling instructions on how to fly to Lt. Rothilion.
The elf lieutenant didn’t need a backseat pilot. He gauged the moment and pulled back, pointing the nose toward the sky just as the aeroplane lifted off the ground.
They roared into the air, rising into the sky well before the cliff’s edge. The wind buffeted Fieran’s face, frigid and biting, yet so freeing. Riding as he was with Lt. Rothilion, he suffocated his urge to whoop.
Lt. Rothilion kept the aeroplane’s nose pointed skyward as they climbed higher with agonizing slowness. As they climbed, Fieran peered over the side.
Brenzuk and Urixidor Islands were dark smudges on the horizon. Long white wakes marked the passages of the various ships—both warship and merchant ship—making their way through the various channels.
Fieran leaned over, gripping the square camera tightly as he used the dial to adjust the large lens. He snapped a few images of some of the ships. Once the pictures were developed, they would be good for training.
Once they finally reached a high enough altitude, Lt. Rothilion leveled the aeroplane off. As they cruised over the two islands, winds shook the flyer, tossing it about. Once the aeroplane steadied, Fieran took a few pictures of the islands and the layout of the icebergs scattered through the channels.
They turned to fly along the sea lane that stretched from the ports of Kostaria and Tarenhiel to the kingdoms on the far continent. A handful of cargo ships steamed together in a cluster, clouds of dark smoke billowing from their funnels as they hurried at full steam ahead to reach a safe port.
In the past few days, word had reached Dar Goranth that Mongavarian warships had already begun harassing shipping headed for the Alliance Kingdoms, especially around the elven port of Sylmare that shared the same bay at the mouth of the Hydalla River as one of the major Mongavarian ports.
A few Alliance warships had been dispatched to deal with the threat, and some minor ship-to-ship skirmishes had occurred. But no major battles yet, and it seemed that Mongavaria was still holding back the bulk of their navy.
Likely for an attack on Dar Goranth, along with a full-scale battle with the Alliance Navies. A showdown was coming where Mongavaria and the Alliance would determine who would rule the seas. Or the Danorbic Ocean, at the very least.
Fieran tried to settle more comfortably on the hard seat, snapping the occasional photograph. They passed over a warship, the lack of funnels and billows of smoke showing that it was a magically powered vessel. A Kostarian battle cruiser, based on the silhouette, though he couldn’t tell from this distance if it was the KS Vanguard.
Perhaps flying high over the ocean wasn’t the time to hash this out, but Fieran wasn’t one to just sit there in silence when he could be talking. Or shouting to be heard, as the case might be.
He leaned forward and shouted, “Look. We’re going to have to work together as the leaders of our squadron. What happened between my aunt and your uncle was a long time ago. Let’s leave it in the past and move forward.”
For a moment, Lt. Rothilion remained staring forward. Had he even heard Fieran over the roaring wind with his leather cap pulled tight over his ears?
Then he turned his head and shouted back, “It is not my family who has continued the rift. It is your uncle who refuses to return favor to my family before the court.”
Perhaps Uncle Weylind was not the most forgiving when it came to those who had hurt one of his siblings. But it wasn’t like Lt. Rothilion’s family had eased their stuffiness or stopped ostracizing Fieran’s dacha because of his illegitimacy.
“Besides,” Lt. Rothilion continued, his voice somehow laced with contempt even while yelling, “it is not your family to which I object. I find it disgraceful that the magic wielded by the storied kings of old should be sullied in the hands of a half-breed.”
Fieran sighed. That always was the sticking point with the most prejudicial of the elven court. It just stuck in their craw that the most revered magic in all elvendom would find itself first in the hands of an illegitimate prince, and now in the hands of his half-human children.
As much as Fieran wanted to give Lt. Rothilion a little taste of his magic—here in Kostaria, he probably wouldn’t even get in trouble for such a minor attack on a fellow officer—Fieran forced himself to smile, even though Lt. Rothilion couldn’t see it. But the smile could carry through in his voice.
When Fieran spoke, his tone was cheery with only a trace of the sarcasm he couldn’t fully hide. “Glad we could clear that up. It’s comforting to know that this is, indeed, quite personal. Good to know where I stand and all that.”
Lt. Rothilion didn’t bother to reply, and they spent the rest of the scouting flight in silence.
Chapter
Eight
Pip stared as crate after crate was lowered from the hovering Escarlish airship. Troll workers used wheeled carts to maneuver the crates into the underground hangar.