Page 2 of Storm to Victory
Ahead, magical bursts flared all along the near horizon, brightening into red starbursts that lingered on the ground and in the air within one of the lines of men and artillery pieces that stretched across the churned-up ground of what had once been farm fields.
Over the past two weeks since Mongavaria had deployed those magic-grabbing machines, the Alliance had developed these magical test flares. Since a human magician’s magic, once set into its final shape, wasn’t tied to the magician directly, it was safe to use anything pre-prepared in the presence of the machines.
If the bomb exploded in a starburst, the magic going in all directions, then there weren’t any of those machines in the area. But if the magic from the bomb was sucked in a particular direction, then not only would they know a machine was in the area, but they’d also know its location.
Even better, the magical flares also marked the enemy’s location for air strikes.
Fieran studied the red flares of magic. None of it seemed to be wavering in any particular direction.
He released his magic from the tight hold within his chest, but he didn’t unleash it yet. This test wasn’t foolproof. The Mongavarians could have a machine but had it turned off, waiting for Fieran to release his magic before they switched it on.
But so far that hadn’t been the case. With trolls, elves, and dwarves using their magic to push the invasion forward, the Mongavarians had plenty of other magic to combat and reasons besides Fieran to deploy any machines they had.
Overhead, the dogfight continued, although the Mongavarian resistance seemed to be failing. Between the Aerial Knights Squadron’s dogged tenacity and the aeroplanes from theHalf-Breed Squadron taking up a guarding overwatch, they were safe from that direction.
“Half-Breed, time to begin our run.” Fieran let his magic burst from his fingers and curl around the protecting wires on his aeroplane. With another shove, he sent his magic outward until his squadron was protected by a network of his magic.
Then Lt. Rothilion and the elven pilots of Flight A rolled their aeroplanes into as steep of dives as they could manage without shredding their wings.
After a moment, Fieran and the pilots of Flight B put their aeroplane into dives as well. The wind whipped past Fieran’s face, tugging at his silk scarf and snatching at his breath as it set up a whining noise through the various wing struts and supports.
Near the ground, Lt. Rothilion swerved toward the north to parallel the Mongavarian line. Fieran turned south to take that section. Below, a few Mongavarian artillerymen struggled to crank their guns’ elevation high enough to point at the aeroplanes. It wouldn’t do them any good if they managed it, however, thanks to Fieran’s magic.
Fieran pressed the trigger for his machine guns, strafing the exposed soldiers even as he blasted his magic downward. His magic devoured metal, exploded ordnance, and ripped through men and artillery guns alike.
For good measure, he reached to one side and pulled on the levers beside him, releasing the two small bombs under his right wings. He quickly switched hands and released the bombs under his left wings as well, balancing the weight once again.
Behind him, Merrik’s machine gun chattered before even more bombs exploded.
Cheers filled the radio.
“Yes!”
“Got ’em!”
“That will teach them to attack the Alliance!”
Across the farm fields, a line of tanks rumbled forward on their tracks. Dwarves hunched behind the armored vehicles, likely stomping and humming in rhythm since a protective shield stretched between the tanks, using the large chunks of metal as anchoring points. Behind them, ranks of elves, trolls, and humans crouched low as they hurried forward in a controlled charge.
Even as he turned his aeroplane toward the sky, wheeling it back toward the Alliance troops, Fieran shoved another wave of his magic outward. It danced over the dwarven magic, adding another layer of protection. It didn’t merge quite as happily with the shield as it did with Pip’s magic, but Pip’s magic was rather special like that.
Fieran glanced over his shoulder, checking that the last of his Flight had finished their run and were lifting back into the sky once again.
Down below, the Alliance forces smashed into the Mongavarian line.
Fieran grinned as he toggled the radio back to channel 4. “Foe Hammer, come in. Over.”
“Well done, Half-Breed!” The radioman sounded as if he might have been cheering a moment before. The vague sound of cheers and shouts could be barely heard in the background. The radioman must be with the rearguard command position rather than in the front lines currently engaged with the enemy.
“Do you need us to make another run? Over.” With the armies so locked together, Fieran wasn’t sure he and his squadron could make another strafing run. But they could join the overwatch and wait for an hour or two to see if another run was needed.
Fieran scanned the skies as his aeroplane climbed higher. The dogfight was over, and he couldn’t spot a single Mongavarian aeroplane left.
There was a pause before a new voice came over the radio. “Half-Breed, this is Col. Fletcher. My commendations on a job well done. We’ve got it from here. Over.”
“Yes, sir. Half-Breed out.” Fieran switched back to channel 1. “Well done, Half-Breed. We can head back to Engleston Aerodrome.”
Fieran perchedon a log near one of the campfires, stretching out his bare feet toward the flames to warm them up after the flight. His socks lay on stones as close to the fire as he dared. Hopefully the dry heat would somewhat cut the smell while it dried them.
