The great skua let out a piercing, mournful cry. Its Living Graft Armor bought it another half minute before it became a plummeting fireball. The rider on its back was swallowed by the heat as well.
[Damn it! Damn it!]
Ola swung his battleaxe, trying to drive off an Imperial Knight on his tail.
[Stuka! Do a barrel roll!]
The giant bird beneath him understood. Fighting down his fury, he spun violently through the air.
But it was pointless.
The Dragonhawk Knight behind them clung like a festering wound. No matter how Stuka rolled, climbed, or dived, the enemy held steady in the high attack position above and behind them.
The Imperial Knight was not even in a hurry to attack. As though toying with his prey, he occasionally loosed an arrow, forcing Ola into ever more violent evasive maneuvers and draining Stuka's stamina.
This was the difference between regular troops and self-taught amateurs.
It was also the gulf between different magical creatures.
The sky became a slaughterhouse.
Great skuas kept falling, trailing black smoke, pierced by lances or set ablaze. The Stuka Squadron's counterattacks were feeble by comparison-their bolts always missed, and their dives were always easily dodged.
[Boss! We can't hold out much longer!]
Cries kept coming over the channel.
That was Sada, on the formation's left flank. The lad was only nineteen, and three dragonhawks now surrounded him. The armor on his great skua's left wing had burned through, and it flew crookedly, like a kite with a broken string.
The three Dragonhawk Knights took turns attacking, peeling away Sada's defenses layer by layer like an onion.
[Sada! Get into the clouds!] Ola roared, trying to turn and help him, but the enemy behind him immediately closed in. A battle aura slash skimmed his scalp and sheared