Chapter Text
*Borte's POV*
Borte was out of her depth though she would sooner die than admit that to anyone. The well lit and pristine halls of the Berlad Aerie were only vaguely familiar, she’d been only a few times, enough to know she hated it here. An opinion which she could never voice for risk of picking at the already tense ties between the aloof clan and her own.
Borte was lost and her Ej and hearth-mother, Houlun, had long ago vacated the room neighbouring her own, buried obscenely deep in the mountain for the Eridun hearth-mother and her heir. A little more respect was warranted, but unlikely anything they would ever receive from the Berlad Clan. At least the Karjiin had a little more common sense. That and Borte’s leg was still burning from yesterday’s challenges, her left calf tightly bandaged made roaming these eerie corridors all the more insufferable.
Perhaps if she had not lingered so long in her room that morning but the exhaustion from the past two days of the Gathering were wearing her thin. She hardly had energy for to get up and tend to Arcas each morning let alone tend to all the strained relationships of the Rukhin clans with Ej. The politics used to fascinate her, growing up learning of the other clans as Ej taught her beside the fire of Altun’s Mountain-Hall.
Perhaps if she’d not been in such a haze the past two days, following Ej numbly from place to place, following instructions and directions like a simpleminded servant. She’d not felt much of anything in six months, Arcas worried for her; she could tell in the way her ruk pestered her, almost in a doting way. Borte would grumble that the ruk should just raise a hatchling but really the comfort in Arcas’ solidarity was unmatched. But nothing could take her back, retrace the steps to the days, to the girl she was, before Sartaq returned home bearing her mother’s broken body.
The shuffling sound of her leather boots over stone echoed through the corridor as she followed it in a general upward direction, hoping it might lead her her to someone who could redirect her. Arcas would be waiting, Ej too, the final race only hours away.
Just win, then you can return to Altun. She would put on a show, ensure all the clans acknowledged Eridun as the best and leave. She owed it to Arcas and her hearth-mother.
Borte heard voices before the corridor widened into what looked like a common area, though it was nothing as grand as the great hall the clans had been meeting in during the Gathering. If Borte were to jump she likely could have skimmed her fingers across the rough hewn ceiling which was rare at her height. She wasn’t all that short but being only seventeen, Borte was insistent that she wasn’t finished growing. A fact she never failed to remind Sartaq of after he’d finally overtaken her in height years ago.
The voices had stopped the moment Borte entered the open space, he eyes snapped to the absence of sound. Two men stood across the room looking like she’d interrupted them mid heated discussion. Both watched her with cold gazes the younger man, only a couple years her senior yet clearly an adult while she was not yet. The elder one’s eyes slit, his body went rigid as he rose to his full height.
“What is an Eridun doing so deep in Tulgur?” he practically spat her clan name which had Borte straightening at the confrontation.
She opened her mouth, a retort on the tip of her tongue when the man closer to her age cut in.
“You’re Houlun’s heir” his dark eyes cut up and down her body as though to confirm.
“Yes” she ground out, tired of the poor hospitality the wretched Berlad had provided thus far. Borte wanted only to get to Arcas, a sour interaction was bottom of her desires right now. “Would one of you care to direct me to the Mountain-Hall?”
The elder scowled, and expression the young man mirrored, though Borte doubted he realised. “How long were you standing there?”
The young mans eyes dart to his mentor at the implication of his words. It is then that Borte pieced it together, the young mans flying leathers and the guarded reaction of the elder man and huffed a derisive laugh. “if you think I needed to resort to spying on my competition to win today you are sorely mistaken.”
“Run back to your hearth-mother, child” the mans voice went quiet and sinister. Borte noted the way his eyes snagged on the lump her bandages created under her leathers. She had an unexpected thought that she was glad not to be competing against this man today, not for fear of losing but for the dirty tricks she believed him capable of. His mentee however, she was yet to determine how much a threat he posed.
“I would, if one of you… kind, gentlemen would point me in the right direction” Borte loaded the word kind with the disdain that had been brewing this entire trip.
The young man was the one to finally direct her, though suspicion did not leave his face. Borte shuddered once she was well away from them down the corridor, best to keep Arcas well away from the others today. Which was fine by her as she intended to be whole lengths ahead of the other competitors.
***
Arcas was still agitated as they dropped onto the ledge that served as a starting line. Borte had arrived to the aerie far later than her ruk preferred, which resulted in a late breakfast when Borte finally took Arcus to hunt. To make matters worse she’d had to cut her ruk’s meal short for fear of the large goat weighing Arcas’ stomach and ruining their victory.
As such, they were currently not on good terms, a fact which Borte felt immensely guilty for, her ruk one of the few beings in her life that could draw any sense of emotion out of her these days. Arcas snapped her beak as another competing ruk landed too close for her sour mood, Borte would never tell her, but she was glad for it. The less interactions before this race the better.
Borte strapped herself to the saddle as everyone began lining up, an oddity amongst rukhin but they had no idea how ruthless she and Arcas could fly. It was a necessity, not because of Borte’s lack of skill, rather for her bounty of it. She may be the most skilled of her aerie but that did not mean she could defy gravity. Though sometimes Arcas led her to believe that just maybe she could.
The canyons and ridges of the bleak mountains ahead were familiar terrain, not this specific stretch, but mountains were something Borte would always know. Nothing would feel more natural than weaving through solid rock walls, her home and her playground for as early as she could remember.
The route was unknown to all of the competing rukhin, a well-kept secret by the hearth-mothers and captains who delegated the organisation of this final day of the Gathering. Each rider was present for the briefing only minutes ago, detailing the path they must take through the mountains, the scraps of cloth they must collect to prove their passage.
It did not bother Borte that the Berlad would be at an advantage, this stretch of the Tavan Mountains being their home territory. She would defeat them anyways.
She spied the horn bearer moving to his stand upon a tower of rocks set back from the ledge and pulled up the fur of her collar in response. Silence fell upon the mountaintop, all but for the wind singing through the peaks and the rustle of feathers and creaking leather. The cold was biting but nothing Borte was unprepared for as she crouched low over Arcas’ neck.
A beat.
The horn blared and Borte snapped her reins. Arcas’ response was immediate, launching for the ledge only to throw them off into a deep nosedive.
The wind snatched Borte’s stomach and her two braids alike. Pulling them away from her body as they descended. A shout, symptomatic to free falling, was almost torn from her mouth, the closest she would get to feeling something before she shifted in her saddle. Arcas read the cue and spread her wings.
Borte carefully measured the distances, maximising the fall speed to gain her lead from the beginning. Now began the challenge.
Hands light on the reins and seat light and low the Arcas’ back, she guided her ruk as close to jagged ridges as they could, nosediving anytime the severe rock dropped away beneath them shaving off seconds to gain distance on the host behind her. The initial rush of wind bellowing past her ears had blocked the sound of them but now, she could hear the screeching and snapping of ruks and the hollering of riders combining.
Borte had not gained as much distance as she preferred. There was a dark shape I her peripheral vision, a ruk so deeply brown it appeared black.
“Fly, Arcas” she urged, skimming lower down the cliffs as her small but mighty ruk cleaved the wind for her.
A focus fell over Borte, the competitor tailing her fading from immediate thought as she began scanning. Wind burned her eyes, stealing water from her eyes causing the tears to trail across her cheeks but she spotted it, there, down on the floor of the canyon some distance away, barely hidden by rock. A string of bright red cloth strips lodged in the rock floor.
Borte need only guide Arcas close enough to snatch one as they flew past. Anything to avoid slowing, stopping. She would have to be precise, but she’d trained for this since she watched the races of last years Gathering.
She would be a prodigy. Borte would prove it to herself, Sartaq, Ej, her mother.
Borte’s heart tightened but she simply flattened herself on Arcas’ back refusing to acknowledge the rising pain as she urged her loyal ruk into a steeper drop. Arcas kept them just this side of a nosedive, ensuring they would not crash against he mountain ridge as the descended at a bone snapping pace.
The ground was rising up to meet them, specks of red like blood blooming across the rocks, awaiting her nimble grasp.
Three.
The canyon walls rose up around them.
Two.
Borte dropped the reins, gripping with her legs, trusting the strap securing her to the saddle.
One.
Arcas responded to her whistle as Borte’s call urged her to bank in the breath before the rocks could take their lives.
Borte and Arcas, as one, quick as lightning, spun into a parrel roll. Flipping Borte towards the ground, the leather strap puling taught as the world spun and she snatched her hand out. Rock flashed by as Borte wrapped her calloused fingers around the red cloth, pulling it with her as Arcas levelled out and began climbing.
An elated chuckle rose out of Borte at the blood red flag flapping in her hands. Almost disbelieving.
Risking nothing, she shoved the cloth down the neck of her tight leather jacket, ensuring it would remain secure. Her proof of the first check point.
“Good girl Arcas” Borte breathed as she recollected her reins. Her ruk did not respond, too focussed on speed. Her heart swelled, she could not have asked for a better ruk.
It was then, when there was a respite in agility during their climb that Borte chanced a look behind her. No one else could have replicated their manoeuvre she knew, the advantage of her precious ruk’s smaller size.
Rising from the canyon floor amidst the flurry of rukhin retrieving their cloth tokens was that same near-black ruk. Like a storm cloud ascending, its rider dressed equally as dark, a formidable force hot behind her.
Her tail was surprisingly resourceful if Borte only gained a few lengths on him and his large ruk. More rukhin were rising off the canyon floor, emerging from the rock walls behind them.
Borte whistled, a shrill not urging Arcas to stop he climb and level out. Her mighty ruk obeyed, her red-dun coloured feathered wings resting a moment before they began to pull the ruk and rider forward.
The next location would be more challenging to find, and if the purple hues woven through her tail’s black leathers were any indicator, they were a Berlad, would know this range better than her. So Borte simply stayed low on Arcas’ back and added a momentary light pressure to the reins that would steady her pace. Only subtly. Enough for the rider behind to believe it was their larger ruk’s ‘superior build’ that gained the distance.
She did not expect an oddly familiar voice to call across the winds to her.
“Well, Borte. It seems you were not spewing false confidence.”
She snapped up a little in the saddle, the wind buffeting her as her head turned to the rider that now rode beside her. His ruk seemed to fly with a strength and ease that Arcas could never match with her smaller body. But brute strength was not the only determining factor of this race.
Borte quickly surveyed the wind and cold pinkened face of the young man flying only a few wingspans away and cursed under her breath.
His black hair, kept shorn and pushed back from his face by the wind revealed the dark brown eyes and lean face of the cold young man from this morning. He looked different in the sky, a light of mirth brough to his eyes by the open air around them.
“I’m Yeran” he called across the sky.
Borte’s face twisted in disgust and she turned away and pretended to urge Arcas on.
“Something to remember me by when I win, little shyn.” his arrogant smile forced her teeth together, her muscles tightening at the challenge. Shyn. He believed her to be a spy.
Then Yeran and his storm ruk dove.
The lead Boran had been waiting for.
With a whistle and a tug on the reins, Arcas and Borte were freefalling again. This time in hot pursuit of the storm rider ahead of her.
Borte shot through the sky on her little ruk of fire as they dropped, wings tucked straight toward the tree encrusted mountain below. Critically, she analysed Yeran’s movements. A skilled rider, though he lacked the recklessness that gave Borte an edge.
His flying was clean and neat as the Berlad aerie. Useless. A neat flight would not serve him here, amongst the mess of rock that were the Tavan Mountains. He would make a good drill sergeant for an aerial squad, a pity for him that the rukhin would never indulge such militant rigidity.
Arcas stayed hot behind Yeran’s ruk, despite her smaller size. Borte suspected Yeran knew exactly what she was doing in allowing him to lead her to the second token but he had little choice if he wished to stay in the lead. He likely also had the confidence that he could maintain that lead.
That confidence was falsely placed.
Borte spotted exactly where Yeran was headed right before he banked his ruk, the storm bird’s wings snapping out catching them but Borte held onto Arcas, maintaining the stomach churning dive. Yeran would take the high path to the cave he located, avoiding the giant rock pillars that jut out from the ground. Towering remnants left of split cliffs that dot the valley, all kinds of flora clinging to the treacherous edges.
Arcas would have no problem weaving between them, taking the quicker route, keeping gravity on her side as the dropped amongst the stone formations. Borte was breathing heavy now, adrenaline filling her body in a rush unlike any other flight. The thrill of the race soaked through her bones, driving her harder and faster.
As Arcas cleared stack after stack of rock Borte’s sight locked onto the cave, from this angle she could see there would be no stunt that would get her and Arcas in and out without stopping or slowing. Unwittingly Borte reached her hand to her back, grasping the firm staff of her sulde in confirmation and comfort. She trusted Yeran no more than a kharankui. Not with victory on the line.
That cave would turn into a death trap the moment the other rukhin arrived to claim their tokens and while violence was expressly forbidden during the race, each rider carried their sulde. Each rider was trained from birth to fight, fly and succeed.
So fight, fly and succeed was what Borte would do.
Borte pulled Arcas up and unstrapped herself from her saddle simultaneously, the mouth of the cave swallowing them whole. The scrape of ruk claws against stone echoed about the cave twofold as Borte threw herself from the saddle. Her joints screamed in protest from being pushed into a different kind of action than riding, she could hear Yeran’s footsteps accompanying her own so she did not falter. Simply raced for where the blue rags were carelessly discarded in the centre of the cave.
She whistled for Arcas before she even reached the pile, her ruk moving into action, leaping toward her. But Borte found the floor being ripped out from underneath her as a boot collided with her injured calf. She folded, hitting the stone ground with a vicious pain that the wound in her calf doubled.
Instinct kicked in and Borte rolled to catch the momentum, lessen the damage. Fire lit her gaze as she rose through the pain and saw Yeran dodge her fall and collect his token, a wicked grin upon his face before his demonic ruk swooped in, snatching him up in its claws.
That was when Borte screamed.
Not from any of the pain points in her body, but from the rage that hit her adrenaline jacked nerves. She would have his throat.
Stumbling forward she snatched up a scrap of blue cloth, shoved it into her jacket and lunged for Arcas who was already by her side, watching her manic outburst with a wary eye.
“I don’t have time for your judgement” she hissed at her ruk. Out of breath she snapped the reins to urge Arcas forward.
Arcus hopped twice, her bounds moving her quickly across the cave as her wings spread preparing to launch them upward. They needed to climb immediately if they were to catch Yeran. There was one final token then the finish line. She would not be defeated by his underhanded tricks.
A heavy and earth shuddering force collided with Borte just as they reached daylight. Arcas screamed as the other rider and their ruk crashed into her but Borte was already falling. Scrambling.
The breath truly left her this time. She was free falling again, but her precious ruk was no longer beneath her. One moment Borte was in the saddle, the next cold air encasing her.
Panic choked her as she couldn’t draw the breath to call for her ruk. Her valiant Arcas. Its all Borte could do to pray to the gods, hoping one of the khaganate’s thirty six might hear and answer. She needed Arcas to be okay.
As if the gods heard her, talons encircled her body and she heard the snap of wings above as her decent slowed, stopped and then Borte was rising. Ragged breaths haunted her chest as she clung on, the rusty-dun feathers above her had her chest feeling like it could cave in.
Arcas was okay.
Borte needed to get in the saddle. Steadying her breathing she gave the whistle command for Arcas to throw her and drop underneath. A risky movement she’d taught Arcas to Ej’s horror and Sartaq’s awe.
Her stomach dropped as she fell through space once more but her clever ruk caught her upon her back. Borte whooped aloud, not sparing a glance back toward the cave that was now a hell zone, more riders and ruks colliding, fighting to enter the limited space. She heard the screams of the other rukhin and could only hope they would be okay, the only thought she could spare them. Her blood simmered with indignant fury at Yeran, the cold, dirty rider.
Remember his name she would. She would carve it upon the mountains when she personally buried his sulde into the mountain above his dead body.
A war drum beat in Borte’s chest, demanding Yeran’s blood. If Arcas had been injured in the collision his life truly would’ve been forfeit. For now, she settled over her ruk’s neck and urged her into highest speed, a gradual climb bringing them away from the rock stacks and flora that zipped past and threatened to slow them.
An electricity raced through her veins, she’d never felt so alive than she did in this moment of adrenaline and fury. She could hear the screeches of ruk’s taking flight behind her as the cold wind burned her face.
The last flag was on the highest peak of this section of the Tavan Mountains. Not an easy thing to distinguish from amid the ridges, all the peaks towered above the pair of them, many obscured by scattered clouds.
Borte scanned the skies, looking for that ruk and rider pair that looked like they’d ascended from Hellas’ realm.
There. Two peaks left of Tulgur. Borte used her reins to guide Arcas toward them as they continued to climb. Jagged ridges began to fall away beneath them, the smallest peaks easily conquered but still they were not at their highest.
The air was thinning as Borte saw Yeran and his ruk disappear into the cloud cover above.
Borte and Arcas broke through the clouds moments later, vapour scattering under Arcas' wing beats. Yeran was nowhere to be seen. What Borte could see however, was that she was very far from what she could now see was the highest peak.
“That fool” she hissed. He’d taken a risk leading her astray like this, trusting they were so far ahead that the other rukhin wouldn’t catch up before he got the final token. They were likely amidst the clouds right now, flying unseen.
Borte had no clue how much distance her and Arcas needed to make up. She whipped Arcas around, banking sharply to the left and redirected their flight path to the highest peak.
Breathing was getting harder up here, though her ruk would be fine, their lungs built to draw more oxygen then needed specifically to withstand these heights. Borte however was getting lightheaded. She reached for the leather strap to secure her to the saddle, it would not do to pass out up here. Another ruk-less freefall would not end so well this time.
The winds were at their backs, a blessing from the gods as they narrowed the distance between them and the peak.
Borte feared she was losing her vision when a dark shadow crept up from below, only to realise it was Yeran and his ruk, emerging from the clouds just before them. He cut in Arcas’ path not even glancing behind him.
A wicked grin split Borte’s face “we’ve got him now.” Her words never echoed aloud, the wind snatching them from all hearing but it did not matter.
Honing in on the not so distant peak Borte finally saw the pricks of colour amongst the snow capped stone. Green, easily visible amongst the blinding white light that radiated from the snow. Evidently it had not snowed since placing the tokens on the peak, which worked to their advantage.
Mentally Borte aligned their current position with where she knew the finish line to be. They would swing around the peak straight into a nosedive for the best advantage. Headed straight for the saddle between Tulgur and its neighbour, the flat stretch that would be awaiting her victory.
Yeran glanced back then, a brief flicker of surprise crossing his face when he realised Borte and Arcas were right behind him. She gave him a demonic grin in return. He would regret even competing in the Gathering this year when she was done.
Keeping tight to Arcas she urged her to angle, rotate, bank sideways exposing Borte to the peak. In her peripheral vision she saw Yeran as a dark mirror to her, swooping around the peak in the opposite direction.
She reached for a token, her heart stuttering when she missed the first one. Borte snatched desperately at the mountainside, straining against her safety strap. Her fist closed. With a breath of relief she saw a green cloth in her hand.
With no time to spare she clamped onto the token with her teeth, the fibrous taste mixing with he chill of snow as Arcas dropped. Headfirst they fell, Yeran and his storm ruk matching her neck and neck.
Wingless they plummeted like an anchor. Once more the rocks gained on them, the mountain urging them to commit to the fall.
Wind whistled and Borte kept her teeth clamped on the last token as she gripped onto Arcas with all her strength. Her muscles were burning after such an extended period of high intensity flying, but this was nothing. Borte and Arcas had trained through the strain many a time.
Yeran was drawing closer, almost within arm’s reach, his ruk encroaching in their space. Doubt flickered through Borte, he was up to something. All they had left was a quick flight over the valley to their right, the saddle on the other side. The crosswinds would be stronger through the valley, posing a challenge.
It was a game of chicken as the mountain surface raced to meet them. Neither rider willing to sacrifice milliseconds of an advantage for safety.
Yeran matched her recklessness, pulling up only when Borte did. She grinned to herself as the snap of unfurling wings cut through the wind, Yeran was a fool, his ruk much heavier than her Arcas. They could not recover the same.
Where Borte and Arcas snapped away from the mountain, headed for the stretch of open air, Yeran and his ruk scraped along the rocks, just skimming it. They were fortunate it had not been worse.
She was now at the advantage, with Yeran having to gain several meters of height in the final stretch.
Then it struck Borte.
The updrafts, in this valley. A quick scan of the rock surfaces, the cut and windworn shape told her there was one just before them, where the winds tore down the mountain just as they had and ricocheted off of the valley below.
Borte knew then, exactly what Yeran had planned. He was an idiot if he thought it would work. That and a danger to all rukhin. The fool was going to ram Arcas from underneath, the moment the updraft caught him. He was willing to risk his own ruk to gain a lead on her, though Borte was far more concerned about the sulde strapped to his back that could injure Arcas if it were to slip past her armoured feathers.
Berlad bastard.
Borte would be ready, she could see Yeran gaining below her, like a shadow skimming over the valley.
The finish line was only moments away, they were neck and neck. It could be anyone’s race, but Borte would ensure it was hers. The other rukhin were out of sight and out of mind as Arcas closed in on the saddle. She could see the other clans gathered there, a space left for the racing ruks to land.
As the mountain edge began to rise up from the valley, so too did the wind rise. Without even glancing to Yeran beneath her she dipped her body to the left, Arcas reading the movement and banking just as Yeran’s black ruk shot past, close enough that their ruks wings clipped.
Arcas jolted beneath her, twisting to right herself in a flurried movement that had Borte jolting on her back, her heart stuttering at the sudden loss of balance. The tether between her and the saddle strained momentarily as she fought to recover her seat.
Her blood boiled at the gall Yeran had to follow through with such a stupid idea, but she would deal with that once they’d landed. Their momentum barely faltering, Borte urge Arcas to cut a direct path to the saddle, she was close enough to read faces now, though her tunnel vision rendered them inconsequential.
With a scrape of talons over rock, their landing shuddered through Arcas into Borte’s body. She snapped herself free from the saddle, the adrenaline still pouring through her veins as the launched herself toward where Yeran’s near black ruk was landing.
He dropped to the ground and Borte was determined to make his sour expression one of pain.
“Yeran” Borte’s snarl was his only warning as she threw herself at him.
The attack caught him off guard and his back slammed on the ground, Borte immediately atop him, pounding her fist into his face. Yeran grunted at the impact and tried to roll, or dislodge her.
She was having none of it. The reckless fool. He could suffer for his idiocy.
Rage fuelled her as she slammed her fist into him time and again, the adrenaline and emotion making her nerves jittery.
“Cheat” she hissed at him through ragged breathing. Yeran caught her right fist so she threw her left as his face instead, cracking across his nose she felt the cartilage shift under the impact.
Yeran grunted and finally grabbed a proper hold of her. Wrangling both her fists into just one of his large hands so he could shove her off with the other. Dislodged, Borte went for one final blow, smashing her forehead down upon his.
The pain shot through her face but Borte reeled backward, clambering to her feet before he could take a shot at her dignity.
Yeran sat dazed for a moment, blood dripping from his nose, his lip and where she’d split his cheekbone. Satisfaction coiled within Borte like a snake sunning itself on rocks, basking in his misery. She spat as his feet when he stood and snapped “I should have your head for your stunts.”
Murder was etched in every line of Yeran’s face as he reached a tentative hand to his split lip. “You’re a sore winner” he ground out.
“And you’re a pitiful loser” Borte turned, perfunctorily and marched toward Arcas.
Only then did the crowd of clans people register. Few were tending to a couple of the riders that had landed since the fight had ensued, most were standing rooted to the spot, shocked and thoroughly entertained. Sartaq grinning like a hell creature at her.
Ej however, looked disappointed.
“Go present your tokens to the race master” was all she said to Borte. Her tone was all Borte needed to understand she was in trouble.
Humbled, Borte returned to Arcas, retrieving the green token that had fallen to the ground in her rush to attack Yeran.
Upon showing the race master her three coloured tokens, proof she’d reached each check point before being the first to land on the saddle, she was declared the victor. But with the adrenaline gone, Borte couldn’t bring herself to care. She’d won, now she and Arcas could return home. Far across the Tavan Mountains from the horrid Berlad and their aerie. Borte wished never to see them again, particularly that cheating and spiteful Yeran.