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Soaring over the army hurling arrows and
spears at them, Nesryn banked left, the ruks
behind her following suit.
Across the battlefield, Borte and Yeran,
leading another faction of rukhin, banked
right, the two groups of rukhin a mirror image
swooping toward each other, then back to
plow through the rear lines.
Just as Sartaq, leading a third group,
slammed from the other direction.
They’d taken out two commanders, but
three more remained. Not princes, thank the
gods here and the thirty-six in the khaganate,
but Valg all the same. Black blood coated
Salkhi’s armored feathers, coated every ruk in
the skies.
She’d spent hours cleaning it off Salkhi
last night. All the rukhin had, not willing to
risk the old blood interfering with how their
feathers caught the wind.