Shadow War: Book 3 of the Shadows Rising Trilogy (WIP Rough Draft)

50. Aftermath

20th of Arestre, Continued

The high-pitched wail of an incoming incendiary round had me peeling my aching, winded self upright. I had smashed into the pilot side of the compartment when it hit the ground, and I half crawled, half fell out of the flyer, dropping over the rim of the compartment into a pile of loose, newly churned earth, scrabbling clumsily away from what was now a large, glowing target in the middle of a field of bomb craters.

A split-second later, the incendiary round screamed overhead, arcing from the Manufacturing sector to strike ground a few hundred feet away, sending up a flash of bright white light and a thick plume of dirt — either badly missing the flyer's position, or falling well-short of the barricade.

Several meters behind and to the left of the flyer, the long, bony framework of the left wing poked up from a shallow trench it had dug for itself, its canvas hanging in smoldering tatters.

Arramy had disappeared, thrown out of the pilot seat when the wing ripped off.

I put my hand to my head and pivoted in a circle, the tang of panic rising in my throat.

He had to be somewhere. Please... please...

The lights from the Manufacturing Sector were bright enough to cast long shadows over the divots and lumps of mud and turf.

Nothing looked like a body.

Another wail announced a round coming in from the Manufacturing Sector. Again, it thumped into the ground between the flyer and the barricade.

Irony of ironies, the Coventry was giving cover fire.

My heart took a dive when the reason came roaring in from the Illyrian side: a spate of heavy artillery rounds biting a line of holes in the mud, whomp whomp whomp whomp, straight across the nose section of the flyer.

They were shooting at us.

Terror surged hot and rancid in my stomach. The need to run boiled just beneath my skin, to bolt like a frightened rabbit and keep going, out past the trees and the mountains, until I had left all the death and pain behind...

Whomp whomp whomp.

Another cluster of pockmarks riddled the ground around the flyer; the Illyrians were widening their firing pattern.

"Arramy!" I croaked, making a dash across the little valley between craters, taking shelter behind a shoulder-high mound of dirt a few dozen feet from the flyer.

Something stirred in the thick shadows inside the crater.

The sound of a sharply indrawn breath had me scrambling up and over the mound of dirt into the pit on the other side.

Arramy was splayed spread-eagle on his back, but as I slid down the crater wall, he began pushing himself up with one arm, his movements sluggish and clumsy. My name was a ragged, rattling cough, "Brenorra."

He was broken. He had to be broken, but he was rolling over, dragging himself toward me in a lurching, awkward crawl.

I met him at the bottom of the crater.

Breathless, incredulous, I reached for him, shaky hands finding his shoulder, pulling at him even as he wrapped his arms around my waist, dragged me over the muddy ground, rose to his knees, and hauled me roughly against him, bending to bury his face in the curve of my neck.

A harsh, shattered groan tore from his chest. "Kid..."

"You're alive," I got out. That was all. Those were the only words I had. "You're alive," I whispered again, my fingers cradling the back of his head, clutching him close. His arms tightened, and I melted into him. For that single wisp of a moment we simply existed, the burning flyer, the Coventry, the hail of distant incendiary shells, the pain and the bruises, all of it receding into an angry, indistinct hum. All I felt was the strength of his arms. The rise and fall of his chest. He was alright. He had to be alright...