Page 48

As their aeroplanes rose higher into the sky, Aylia turned them toward the fighting flyers wheeling above the Alliance front lines. Merrik eased his aeroplane to follow, pressing hard on the rudder bar with his prosthetic. His stump ached, but nothing he couldn’t ignore at the moment.

When they neared the dogfight, Aylia gave a cheerful whoop into the radio. “Coming in hot!”

Merrik found himself grinning, shaking his head at the exuberant elf. She didn’t even have the excuse of human blood to explain her uncharacteristically—for an elf, anyway—boisterous personality.

He followed her into the battle. This new aeroplane responded to even the lightest touch. A new pilot might find it finicky, but he felt the vibrations from the engine, the wind on the wings, the thrumming propeller, and his mind and body translated those sensations into graceful flight.

Both his prosthetic and his aeroplane were a wooden, mechanical tool to enable him to do what he couldn’t do otherwise. With his leg, he could walk. With his aeroplane, he could fly.

Yes, there was a difference in that the leg returned an ability that his body used to have while the aeroplane gave an ability beyond what his body could do.

Some of the shattered pieces inside him shifted back into place. If he could feel whole and one with his aeroplane, then someday, maybe, he could feel whole when wearing his prosthetic.

Ahead, an aeroplane blasted through the melee, blue magic crackling all around. The early morning sunlight flashed on the art painted along the sides of the nose: red hair turning into flame with blue magic bolts woven through and an elf ear over top.

Fieran. Merrik found his grin widening, more pieces falling into place inside him.

Just behind Fieran’s aeroplane, Lt. Rothilion piloted his aeroplane in the wingman position, protecting Fieran’s tail.

The radio crackled before Fieran’s voice called, a mix of cheerful and focused, “Ready to swap wingmen?”

Even as he spoke, Fieran’s aeroplane roared overhead, bolts of his blue magic reaching down until they caught on the network of wires reinforced with Pip’s iron magic attached to the sides and wings of Merrik’s and Aylia’s aeroplanes. Fieran’s magic spread over the wires, creating a protective web that would incinerate enemy bullets.

“Yep! Here is Merrik back.” Aylia peeled away, heading to join Lt. Rothilion. “Good flying with you, Merrik.”

“You too.” Merrik was at the edge of a battle, yet something like a laugh bubbled inside him. How he’d missed his squadron.

As Lt. Rothilion and Aylia roared away, diving back into the dogfight, Merrik craned his neck, spotting Fieran as he threw his aeroplane into a loop, far tighter than anything the Mongavarian aeroplanes could do.

When he straightened out of the turn, Fieran took up the position behind Merrik rather than falling into place ahead of him, as he usually did.

Merrik flexed his fingers on the control stick. Should he slow to let Fieran pass? Surely Fieran didn’t intend to fly in the wingman spot? Fieran was never the wingman.

Yet when Fieran’s voice broke through the crackle and hubbub of other voices on the radio, all he said was, “Lead the way, Merrik.”

Lead the way. Merrik never led. He always followed. It was Fieran’s job to lead the way into whatever adventure or danger he wanted to drag the two of them. It was Merrik’s to provide the voice of reason, then follow anyway.

But this time, Fieran was going to follow Merrik.

Merrik pointed the nose of his aeroplane toward the nearest enemy aeroplane and roared into battle.

Merrik’s body ached after the battle, though the ice provided by Tiny had eased the swelling in his stump and the hot shower he’d just taken had relaxed his sore muscles. He’d forgotten how physically demanding flight was.

Still, he’d survived. He hadn’t let Fieran or the squadron down.

After dressing in fatigue pants and shirt, Merrik pushed aside the flimsy curtain that provided a semblance of privacy and wheeled himself out of the shower stall. For once, the army construction of basic concrete floor that sloped to drains for easy cleaning worked in his favor. All of the showers happened to have zero thresholds or barriers. He’d even located a small metal stool so he could sit since his left leg couldn’t hold him for a full shower yet.

At this time of late afternoon, the shower building had quieted. Most of the pilots—human and elf—had cycled through their showers first, and it was too early yet for the evening rush of mechanics and other personnel cleaning up after a long day.

Three flyboys remained at the far end, either shaving their beards or trimming them into shape.

Fieran stood directly before Merrik, shirtless as he leaned close to the mirror to inspect his face. Unlike Merrik, who had inherited the elven lack of facial hair, Fieran sprouted red fuzz on his face, too patchy and sporadic to grow a proper beard like his Uncle Julien but too much of it to ignore. He had to shave occasionally, much to his annoyance.

With Fieran shirtless and leaning close to the mirror, the light fell across his back, highlighting the patches of scars that dotted his skin, including a large splotch on his lower back.

Merrik shook his head and wheeled closer. “Those scars are new.”

“Yeah. I got peppered with shrapnel when I blew up my aeroplane. Or I landed on the debris. I’m not really sure since I was unconscious for that part.” Fieran shrugged and half-turned, showing that the scar on his back had a matching one on his stomach. “And I was impaled. At least I didn’t really feel it since everything else hurt so much.”