Blackflame (Cradle, #3)

by Will Wight

…until they heard the scream. It started as a distant shriek, but rapidly grew closer. Yerin was on her feet with weapon in hand instantly, her silver Goldsign arched and poised. Lindon rose more roughly, favoring his wounded leg, but he had recovered enough Blackflame madra to begin cycling for the Burning Cloak. If this was a fight, maybe some unexpected beginning to the Striker Trial, he would be ready. Eithan slammed into the ground a second later, face-first, kicking up a cloud of dust. Both Lindon and Yerin took a step back, coughing and waving dust away. When the cloud cleared, the Underlord was still lying there spread-eagle, turquoise-and-gold robes settling into the dirt, his yellow hair a mess around him. He suddenly convulsed, making a choking sound as he sat bolt upright. An instant later he hacked a mouthful of mud onto the ground, grimacing at the taste. “That was more of a—ah, let's say—rapid descent than I intended,” Eithan said, rubbing dirt from his face with the heel of his hand. The top of the cliff loomed over them, scraping the sky. He had to have fallen over a hundred feet, if not more. “Underlord, are you...are you all right?” Yerin folded her arms. “Takes more than that to ruffle your feathers, doesn't it, Eithan?”