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struck first.” She drew another arrow. Such
lightness, even in the face of an ambush.
“I wish you were my great-grandmother,”
Dorian muttered, and readied his next blow.
He’d have to be careful, with the Thirteen
looking so much like the Yellowlegs from
below.
But the Thirteen did not need his caution,
or his help.
They plowed into the lines of the
Yellowlegs, breaking them apart, scattering
them.
The Yellowlegs might have had the
advantage of surprise, but the Thirteen were
masters of war.
Crochans tumbled from the skies as they
were struck by brutal, spiked tails. Some not
even tumbling at all as they came face-to-face
with enormous maws and did not emerge
again.