Page 68 of Storm to Victory
More of his magic erupted from the ground in the surrounding fields where Dacha had used his magic before until the entire facility was awash in crackling blue power.
The others turned to face the facility, some of the rescued ogres and prisoners staring with hollow eyes while others had tears trickling down their cheeks.
Fieran flexed his fingers, his magic twinging in his chest at the pummeling feel of so much of his dacha’s magic unleashed. It was hard to stand by and merely watch when he longed to add his magic to the destruction of this place.
Dacha’s magic crawled up the buildings, threading through the cracks in the concrete blocks. With a clench of Dacha’s fist, his magic shattered concrete and incinerated anything else. With a roar, the laboratory collapsed into itself, a cloud of gray dust bursting outward. The officer quarters, enlisted barracks, and the factory followed with reverberating rumbles and clouds of dust.
Dacha slammed his magic into the ground, the explosive force washing over them.
Fieran blinked into the magical blowback, squinting as the breeze cleared the dust. He glanced from what remained to Dacha. “You left a few of the buildings.”
“Some need to remain as a testimony to what happened here.” Dacha stood and brushed dried grass and dust from the knee of his Mongavarian uniform trousers. “My magic will ensure that no one can destroy what is left to erase what happened.”
Fieran took in what remained—the prison barracks, the buildings that held the cages where the ogres had been held, and the barbed wire fences with the guard towers—and nodded.
Pretty Face stared at what was left a moment longer, his jaw working, his eyes both hard and haunted. Then he turned to face everyone and made a motion with his hand. “All right, everyone. Let’s load up. We have long miles to drive yet today.”
The crowd of ogres and Alliance soldiers set out across the field to the long line of trucks they’d parked on the road outside of the facility. The trucks would be packed. Between trying to transport several hundred people in far fewer trucks than were ideal and all the other supplies also packed into the trucks with the people, they would be heavily loaded.
Fieran fell into step with Pretty Face, pressing a hand against his middle as he stumbled over the uneven ground of the field. Exhaustion weighed on his shoulders again, and he resistedthe urge to hunch over. While he felt a lot better, he was still achingly tired even after his rest.
At the trucks, he and Pretty Face paused. Fieran clapped Pretty Face on the shoulder, careful not to hurt Pretty Face’s back. “The squadron is going to be happy to see you.”
“Assuming I make it across the border this time.” Pretty Face’s eyes went distant as he stared, seemingly unseeing, at the line of trucks. His shoulders sagged, as if burdened by how many lives were on the line this time.
“You will.” Fieran had to believe that. While Pretty Face and the convoy would be a large, visible target, they were well armed, and they only had to survive the two days to the border. Perhaps less, if they drove through the night.
Even as he stood there, Escarlish soldiers carrying guns sat on the back of one of the truck beds, their feet dangling over the end. Prepared to defend the convoy as it made its dash for the border.
Pretty Face shook himself and clapped Fieran on the shoulder as well. “You take care of yourself. Rescue Pip. End the war.”
“That’s the plan.” Fieran dropped his hand and forced himself to take a step away from Pretty Face.
It was time to go.
Pretty Face grinned and gave him a salute. “See you around, Major.”
Fieran saluted back. “Take care of yourself, Jim.”
With that, he turned away and headed for the last truck in line. It was the smallest of all the trucks, less for hauling cargo and more a simple work truck. The cab was open and connected to the back open cargo area, but the whole thing could be rigged with a low canvas top in case of rain. They’d already stretched it overhead as a sun shelter and to keep themselves as hidden as possible.
Aaruk waited by the truck, leaning against it with his arms crossed and a slight grin on his face. As Fieran approached, Aaruk pushed from the truck.
Fieran stuck out his hand to him. “We haven’t had a chance to properly introduce ourselves. I’m Maj. Fieran Laesornysh.”
Dacha appeared at Fieran’s side. “Prince Farrendel Laesornysh.”
“My father,” Fieran added.
Aaruk grinned and shook Fieran’s hand. “I’m Aaruk of Clan Girakuhr.”
“Good to have you along.” Fieran glanced along the row of trucks as they rumbled to life. Alliance soldiers gripping weapons clung to the backs and sides of many of the trucks while ogres were squished inside.
The column of trucks rolled forward, trundling down the road.
Dacha strode around the front of their truck. “I will drive. Fieran, get some rest.”
Fieran wasn’t going to argue with that. He crawled beneath the flap and into the back cargo area. A few supplies were tied along one side while a mattress from one of the beds had been placed on the floor.
