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Nesryn nocked an arrow and picked her
target. Again.
The Valg commander had evaded her shot
the last time. But he would not now.
Salkhi swept low, taking arrow after arrow
against his breastplate, in his thick feathers
and skin. Nesryn had almost vomited the first
time an arrow had found its mark days ago. A
lifetime ago. She now also spent hours
picking them from his body each night—as if
they were thorns from a prickly plant.
Sartaq had spent that time going from fire
to fire, comforting those whose mounts were
not so fortunate. Or soothing the ruks whose
riders hadn’t lasted the day. Already, a wagon
had been piled high with their sulde—
awaiting the final journey home to be planted
on Arundin’s barren slopes.
When Salkhi came close enough to rip
several Valg off their horses and shred them