Mandla is agitated today.
The iksomi’s feathered wings spread to at least twenty paces in width. They block out the bluish light of the twin suns as he stalks across the black sand dunes. When I take a hesitant step forward, Mandla makes a low growling noise in the back of his throat, revealing long, curved teeth.
Tallest bridge in the city, midday, alone. My gizzard grumbles. Should I have eaten? Nah, waste of food.
I approach the suspension tower’s edge and glance down, my talons gripping the rim. If I’m not careful, my wings might flare open and ruin my plans. I unclip my messenger bag and retrieve the rope.
I landed face down in the dirt. Again. I spat dirt and scowled. “Would you stop that?”
Raddick shook his silvery mane. “To ride in the Sky War, young Myron, you must learn to ride.”
I wiped blood from my palm. “But you’re trying to throw me.”
“In a barrage of blaster fire,
I dart between empty skyscrapers on empty streets. My armor squeezes my chest, suffocating me. Air rushes through the three tears in my glove, stinging the bloody wounds beneath.
Footsteps pound on the pavement somewhere behind me. My pursuer is still on the warpath.
Slipping into a narrow alley, I adjust my gloves.
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