Page 62 of Storm to Victory
“My name is James, you know.” Pretty Face gave a shrug, then winced as if the movement hurt. “Jim seemed to fit better here than Pretty Face.”
Right. Fieran had gotten so used to calling Pretty Face by his nickname that he’d all but forgotten that he had a real name. As the seventh son of a wastrel lord, Pretty Face had spent his time in the army distancing himself from his father and avoiding connections with him, including his name.
Pretty Face’s grin dropped as he started toward the door. “But enough catching up. We have to rescue the others.”
The other Alliance soldiers surged past Fieran and Pretty Face, brandishing their weapons and racing for the door. Fieran staggered along with Pretty Face, the two of them stepping back into the sunlight as the rest of the men pounced on the few remaining Mongavarian soldiers.
Pretty Face—Jim—tugged him toward the farthest and largest concrete building. A large padlock threaded through the bolt holding the steel door shut, and Fieran gritted his teeth as he used another thread of his magic to break it.
Pretty Face hauled the door open, releasing a gust of fetid air reeking of excrement and other rank odors.
Dropping Fieran’s arm, Pretty Face hurried inside without so much as a heartbeat’s hesitation.
Fieran followed more slowly, his eyes adjusting to the near pitch-black inside the building. He could just make out what appeared to be an aisle down the center. On either side, barred doors blocked off rooms. No, not rooms. That was too generous a word. These were more like cages or animal stalls.
Fieran tottered a few steps farther into the building. People were packed into each of the cages as if they were animals. Men and women with the rounded ears and mottled green skin of the ogres. They stared back at Fieran with wide eyes, none of them speaking.
Pretty Face had halted by one of the cages, and he reached through the bars, holding the hand of a young ogre woman standing near the cage door. “We’ll have you out of here in just a moment. You’ll be free.”
Fieran opened his mouth, only to close it again as bile rose in his throat.
He turned on his heel, dashed back the way he’d come, and stumbled outside into the fresh air and blue sky. This time, he couldn’t swallow it down. He fell to his hands and knees and vomited onto the dirt.
Fieran sprawledwith his back to the wall and his legs stretched out across the hallway, too exhausted and sick to move, even as people continued bustling back and forth in front of him, stepping over his legs. He probably should move more out of the way, but he couldn’t find the energy.
With the facility secure, Fieran and Pretty Face—mostly Pretty Face—had organized the rescued soldiers and ogres. Those in better shape had been sent to the mess to prepare food. Others were tending those in worse shape, settling them into beds here in the barracks for the Mongavarian soldiers where there were actual beds and clean clothes. Still others were rotating through the showers, washing off the weeks and months of captivity.
Fieran had helped where he could until he finally collapsed here in one of the hallways of the officers’ quarters.
But the worst part—even worse than the gnawing pain in his chest and continued dizziness—was the incontrovertible fact. Pip wasn’t there. Neither she nor Uncle Edmund were anywhere in this facility.
A murmur came from somewhere down the hall a moment before Dacha strode into view. He still wore the baggy trousers and gray-blue uniform shirt, but they were now spattered with blood. He must have had to take a few Mongavarian soldiers down at close quarters.
After seeing the conditions the ogres had been held in, Fieran didn’t feel any remorse at wiping out the entire complement of enemy soldiers here.
When Dacha’s gaze landed on Fieran, his forehead scrunched, and he broke into a jog. He fell to his knees next to Fieran, his eyes darting over him. “You do not look well, sason.”
“Don’t feel so great.” There was no point in lying, now that they’d liberated Ludin.
Dacha nudged Fieran’s shirt up, then tugged back the bandage. “Your wound does not appear infected.”
“Didn’t think so.” Nothing was going to survive getting blasted by Dacha’s magic, not even the things that would cause his wound to become infected. Fieran squeezed his eyes shut, resting his head against the wall behind him.
Footsteps came closer, then someone else knelt at Fieran’s other side. “You were hooked up to the machine, weren’t you?”
Fieran tilted his head and opened his eyes, finding Pretty Face next to him. It was still a shock, seeing Pretty Face so unrecognizably gaunt and bald.
Behind Pretty Face, two ogre women, one about Pretty Face’s age and one elderly, stood with near identical impassive expressions. They both were as bald as Pretty Face, but the green skin of their heads was inked with designs. The older one even had inked designs stretching down both of her arms as well.
Fieran gave a short nod. “Yes. We both were, but only mine was turned on.”
The elderly ogre moved to stand in front of Fieran as Dacha shifted out of her way. She knelt, her dark brown eyes lockedwith his. She spoke in a creaky voice in her language, but the other younger ogre woman translated the words. “We of the O’gresha have the ability to interact with magic itself. For some, that manifests in the ability to deflect magic. But for others, we can reach into a person and touch the very heart of their magic.”
“That’s the magic in those machines, isn’t it?” Fieran broke eye contact with the elderly ogre woman to glance up at Pretty Face. “You had already crashed by then, but the Mongavarians used a bunch of these magic-stealing machines to take down the Wall.”
“We heard about the Wall coming down.” Pretty Face’s jaw worked. “The Mongavarians were rather jubilant their invention had worked, and they doubled down on their efforts here.”
The younger ogre woman spoke in a low tone, likely translating the conversation. As she finished, the elderly woman’s eyes flashed, her posture stiffening. When she spoke again, her voice held an extra snap to it, one that the younger ogre woman matched as she translated into Escarlish. “Yes, that is our magic, but it was stolen and twisted. Several years ago, the empire of Mongavaria began probing our borders and capturing some of our people. They soon realized the ways our magic could be exploited, and they set out to do just that.”
