The Twelve Plagues (The Cycle of Galand Book 7) by Edward W. Robertson

Author:Edward W. Robertson [Robertson, Edward W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sci-Fi & Fantasy
Published: 2021-05-04T22:00:00+00:00

18

"Tell me that's not what it looks like," Blays said.

Dante's mouth was already going dry. "What does it look like?"

"A big chunk of fire. That's flying around in the sky. And that's big enough for us to see it from here."

"Then that's not what it looks like."

"Oh good."

"It's not flying. It's falling."

Rippling red and orange and white, it reached across the clouds like a snake of flame, writhing slowly as it floated downward. It was hard to say how high or far away it was, which made it impossible to tell how big it was, but it moved like something large.

"There is another," Gladdic murmured. "And a third."

Dante had just made them out for himself, their light obvious against the black of the sky. Two were to the south of them while the third was almost directly overhead. Glancing behind him, Dante spotted two more coming down somewhere to the north of the Spire.

"What is it?" he said. "A new plague?"

"If it's as fiery as it looks," Blays said, "and this place is as grassy as it looks, we're not going to like what happens next." He nudged Elis. "Given that there's any of you still alive, I'm guessing this isn't normal around here?"

Elis wagged his head. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Then I suggest we hurry. And don't stop hurrying until we're out in our boat in the middle of a hell of a lot of water."

They ran south across the turf. One by one, more of the gently writhing lines brightened the sky. They soon cast enough light that Dante no longer feared tripping over an unseen rock or shrub.

The conch-like honk of an otobi pealed across the night. Dante started, his blood running cold, but the creature was well to the south. It wasn't trying to sound a warning about them. It was alarming the Astendi to the fires.

The first one they'd spotted grew larger and larger as it swam toward the ground. It touched down three hundred yards to their right, draping itself over the curve of a hill, grasses smoldering beneath it. It dimmed, fading to little more than embers—then caught hold, huffing higher and higher. A stripe of fire blazed from the hillside, reaching forward from both ends to burn whatever it could reach.

A second touched down well ahead of them. Dante lost track of it until its flames rose, breathing smoke and sparks upward in whirlwinds of heat. Five minutes later, a score of fires burned from different points around the island where the strings had landed, some expanding slowly while others raced outward from their source to swallow up the grasses and brush.

As they came to the range of nothing that lay north of the settlement, agitated voices carried to them on the winds. The first batch sounded like arguing warriors. But the second conversation was dominated by a woman. One whose voice held the strength of command.

The four of them glanced at each other, then beelined toward her voice. They scampered around a dune of mangy hardpan and almost ran right into her.

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