Page 61 of Storm to Victory
As soon as Dacha’s magic encircled the whole facility, it burst into life, rising into a wall of magic cutting Ludin off from the rest of the world.
That was the signal.
Fieran leapt to his feet, threw himself into the radio shed, and unleashed his magic. Pain nearly sent him to his knees, his vision nearly blinded with both white and black flashes, but he swept his magic over the room anyway. Bolts of power blasted through the two men, then the radio. Equipment went up in bursts of sparks and the stench of scorched metal.
He cut off his magic, stumbled to the side, and gagged, trying hard not to vomit up the healing-magic-laced juice. His whole body shook, a chill sweeping through him.
Something was seriously wrong with him. Perhaps it would be best if he didn’t use his magic, if he could help it.
Once he got a hold of himself again, he divested the two men of their sidearms, rifles, and ammunition, stuffing what he could carry into the pockets of his purloined pants. He slung the rifles over his shoulders where they bumped against his swords.
Outside, there was shouting and shooting. The whole place was devolving into chaos.
With a deep breath and a grip on one of the rifles, Fieran darted from the shack.
As two soldiers swung their guns toward him, he fired, once, twice, and both men fell, dead.
This was his mother’s training, honed by the army. His dacha might have spent years teaching them to fight with their magic, but Mama had made sure all of them could hit what they aimed at when they had a gun in their hands. While Fieran had done most of his fighting with his elven magic, he could fight like a human when necessary.
He forced his shaking legs into a jog across the compound. A few more soldiers fired on him, but most of the soldiers were too distracted by Dacha’s display of power as he took out the surrounding bunkers and dug-in machine gun nests to notice Fieran.
He had to use his magic again at the barbed wire fence to take out the guards manning the towers. Even using his magic that much nearly sent him to his knees.
Staggering forward, he wrenched the gate open wide enough for him to slip inside. One of the rifles dangling from his shoulders caught on the gate, and he was yanked backward for a moment before he could free it.
Taking a guess at where the prisoners would be, he headed for the large factory building and shoved the door open, gun in hand.
Inside, a cavernous space was held up by pylons of concrete. Manufacturing machines ran from belt drives and gears mounted near the ceiling, all of it connected to the steam-powered boiler walled off by an iron grate at the far end. All the noise obscured the commotion from outside.
Several Mongavarian soldiers aimed rifles at a knot of thin, half-starved men wearing the ragged olive-green uniforms of the Escarlish Army. One man had his hands tied to an iron girder overhead, the back of his uniform shirt torn and dotted with fresh red blood. A Mongavarian soldier held a long cane and seemed to be in the middle of administrating some kind of cruel punishment.
Fieran shot him before he could raise the cane again.
As the other Mongavarians swung their guns toward him, Fieran had to draw on his magic again, the pain of it blurring his vision so much that he didn’t dare shoot. Instead, he lashed out with his magic.
This time he couldn’t help it. He found himself on his knees, his bones aching from hitting the concrete floor. It was all he could do to keep the contents of his stomach where they belonged, even as his head swirled and each breath felt like there was something jagged and sharp stuck inside his chest.
He was vaguely aware of the rescued Alliance soldiers diving on the dead bodies, divesting them of their weapons. One soldier cut the other one down from the girder, pulling his arm over his shoulder.
Fieran gathered himself, pushed to his feet, and staggered to them. “Is everyone all right?”
The one who had been strung up pushed off his fellow soldier, saying something in a low tone Fieran couldn’t hear.Then, strangely, the soldier grinned, stepped forward, and hugged Fieran, giving him a slap on the back for good measure. “Fieran! I knew you’d come! Didn’t I tell you, boys, that Laesornysh wouldn’t leave us here?”
That voice. It was roughened and tired, but still so familiar.
“Pretty Face?” Fieran pulled out of his hug and studied the man facing him. He was gaunt, his cheekbones stark against his hollow eyes. He was shaved completely bald, the pencil mustache gone. His ragged clothes hung on his frame while he stooped slightly as if he didn’t have the strength to stand upright.
But his grin was still wide, the look in his brown eyes still very much alive and determined. “Not so much a pretty face now, but, yes, it’s me.” His gaze swept over Fieran. “You don’t look so good either. I was expecting you to come at the head of the army or leading a bombing run. Not…”
“Not get captured and bust out from the inside?” Fieran grinned back, not protesting when Pretty Face took one of his arms over his shoulders. He probably shouldn’t be leaning on a man who was half-starved and half-beaten, but Pretty Face seemed to be leaning on him as much as he was on Pretty Face.
“Yeah, that wasn’t the plan I was expecting you to go with, but I should’ve realized you’d pick the unconventional route.” Pretty Face turned the two of them to face the rest of the captured soldiers. “All right, everyone. This is what we’ve been preparing for. Everyone got their weapons?”
The men brandished a variety of weapons, from wrenches and pieces of metal that appeared to have been sharpened into blades to guns they’d taken from the dead Mongavarians.
One of the soldiers stepped forward. “We’re with you, Jim.”
“Jim?” Fieran eyed Pretty Face.
