Page 15 of Stalk the Sky

The door to the shower room stood open as a pair of the flyboys loitered in the doorway, talking. Inside, one of the flyboys threw open one of the shower curtains. He dragged out a protesting elf, who was scrambling to wrap a towel around his middle. Suds still coated the elf’s hair.

“My hair needs more time than this!” The elf clutched at the towel.

“Tough. We’re all allotted the same three-minute showers.” The flyboy pushed past the elf and yanked the shower curtain closed.

Another flyboy snapped a towel, flicking it so that the end lashed the elf’s bare chest. “Go back to your own section and stop hogging our showers.”

The elf gave a yip and jumped back, nearly dropping his towel. With a sniff, he spun on his heel and marched from the room, suds dripping from his hair and his wet feet slapping against the stone floor.

Fieran hesitated. Was this something he should deal with as the commanding officer for his Flight? Or was this something minor that would sort itself out if he left it alone?

On the one hand, the elven half of the squadron must have gotten used to taking over the showers not just on their level, but this level as well in the time they’d been at Dar Goranth. That couldn’t continue now that Fieran’s men occupied these rooms. They didn’t deserve to have their showers hogged by elves needing extra time to wash their long hair.

But on the other hand, such animosity between the two halves of the squadron wouldn’t be good for morale. They needed to be a united front to fight Mongavaria.

After another moment, Fieran shrugged and decided to let it go, for now. It was only the first morning. Everyone would settle in eventually, especially once the aeroplanes arrived and Fieran’s men could take to the skies once again.

Merrik glanced from the retreating elf to Fieran. “I will stay and keep the others out of trouble. Go practice.”

“Thanks.” If anyone could keep the others in line, it would be Merrik. His repeated failures at keeping Fieran out of trouble weren’t a true indication of his ability to watch over others.

After clapping Merrik on the back, Fieran followed the trail of suds and wet footprints from the passageway and up the winding stairs until he stepped into the aeroplane hangar. He didn’t see Pip yet, though several of the elf mechanics bustled about, getting a few of the elven aeroplanes ready for a morning patrol.

Fieran strode across the cavern, then out into the gray of the early morning. The frigid breeze cut through his clothes, and he resisted the urge to give in to shivers. Instead, he set out at a brisk pace across the airfield, over the nearest ridge, then through a gully.

Only once a bend in the gully hid him entirely from view did Fieran finally stop. This would be a good spot for morning practice, not just this morning but for every morning he was here. The rock walls surrounding him would keep his magic nicely contained, should he let a little slip.

Fieran held his hands out like he gripped his swords. He let bolts of his magic form, letting it swirl around him while also maintaining two blade-like shapes crackling from his hands.

He threw himself into the first basic sword stance. Without someone to fight, this practice wouldn’t be as satisfying as one with his dacha and sister. But he could at least take the edge off the magic crackling inside his chest.

He blasted his magic outward as he threw himself into a whirling sword strike, raising his other hand as if parrying a blow.

As he spun again, a blast of a different, icier magic slammed into his from the side. Fieran nearly stumbled under the blast, his own magic rising in him to blast outward into a shield. He whirled to face the threat.

Not a threat. His cousin Rhohen, which was kind of the same thing.

His long black hair tossing on the slight breeze, Rhohen sauntered down the gully, a sword in each hand as bolts of his white-blue magic—the color of deep lake ice—crackled around him. The magic held some similarities to Fieran’s, from the crackle to the power of it coating the air. But it also had an icy edge, a shimmer more in line with the magic Fieran had seen Uncle Rharreth wield.

Fieran crossed his arms, his magic still blasting around him. “Shouldn’t you be in your own morning practice with your dacha?”

Rhohen halted a few yards away, that pouty smirk creasing his face. “My da got called away this morning. He is busy, being king.”

A subtle dig. Not a very good one, since neither Fieran nor his dacha cared that they weren’t going to inherit a throne someday. Thrones were an awful lot of bother.

Fieran gestured, not bothering to tamp down the edge of his sarcasm. “I’d offer you a morning practice, but it seems I’m a bit under-armed, considering you have two swords and I have none.”

“That sounds like a problem for you.” Rhohen snorted and stalked a few steps closer. “A proper warrior would never let his sword out of his sight.”

“Yes, well, I’m hardly a proper warrior.” Fieran forced himself to remain relaxed instead of dropping into a fighting crouch. “Besides, I don’t need a weapon.”

Rhohen gave another derisive snort. He really should get his nasal passages checked out. He seemed to have a condition. “Arrogant as always, I see. Fine. Take this one.”

Rhohen tossed one of his two swords, and it landed on the grass at Fieran’s feet.

“And you claim to be a proper warrior. That’s hardly the proper way to treat a sword.” Fieran picked it up anyway.

This sword was all wrong in his hand. Not the familiar leather grip. Not the right length. Not the right weight.

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