Kingdom of Ash

The arrow struck true, and the ilken’s shriek
reached even Nesryn’s ears. The Darghan
rider stabbed deep with his sulde, and the
ilken’s screeching was cut off. A lucky, brave
blow.
Nesryn was reaching for another arrow and
supplies when the Darghan rider fell.
Not dead—the ilken was not dead, but
feigning it. The beautiful horse’s scream of
pain rent the night as talons ripped open its
chest. Another slash and the rider’s sternum
was shredded.
Nesryn fumbled for the flint to light the
oil-soaked cloth around the arrowhead.
Up and down the battlefield, ilken attacked.
Riders, both equine and rukhin, fell.
And looming at the back of the battlefield,
as if waiting for their grand entrance, waiting
to pick off what was left of them, a new sort
of darkness squatted.