Marked by Dragon's Blood (Return of the Dragonborn Book 1) by N.M. Howell

Author:N.M. Howell [Howell, N.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dungeon Media Corp.
Published: 2017-01-19T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

The spell has already been cast and as she stands there, high upon the mountain top with her people covering the cliffs and precipices around her, she knows there is no turning back. She and her people are standing still, stoic against the wind and the beating wings of their impending doom. She does not know how high they are; too high to see the ground and yet surely it must be somewhere below them. Grass. Land. Safety. Up here on the mountain they have no space to run, no place to hide, no safety or shelter to hope for. All they can do is wait for the purple storm of the incantation to wash over them, kill them where they stand.

They can see it in the distance—purple, as wide as the horizon and as tall as the space between earth and sky. The spell. They don’t know who cast it, or maybe they do and it just doesn’t matter because they know that there is nothing in their power they can do to stop it. On and on it rolls, closer by the second, as loud as the cries of a million dying souls. It is like fire and ice and wind and silence and roar and death and beauty and all the seasons of the year. It is stunning, in its own deadly way. They are all there, on that impossibly large mountain, staring at the thing they know is coming to kill them.

Silently, yet collectively, they wonder who could be so powerful. Who could have the might and the sheer hatred to cast such a spell? Such an irreversible and destructive spell? There are many millions of them there upon the mountain, gazing out across the vast expanse of nothing before them as the violet storm of the future rolls in to raze them. As it nears them it begins to change color and where the space between the earth and sky had once been purple, it is now a dark, ominous gray. It is a gray that must’ve come straight from the grave, straight from all the worst of failure and suffering. Nobody will say it. Nobody will even dare to think it. But they all know, they all feel it somewhere within themselves and somewhere in the spaces between them. If the spell reaches them, their entire race will be wiped out.

The people—every soul upon the mountain—begin to panic. Before, there was silence, a kind of peace about them as if they had some time in the past decided on grace in defeat. But now they are louder than the storm of the spell itself, screaming, crying, wanting to flee or even dive off the mountainside. They know they’re all going to die.

Saeryn, who is the only one to have remained quiet amidst the pandemonium, looks at the storm in full, not flinching or even blinking. She has decided. If this is her last day, her final hour, she will not spend it in tears.

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