Wrath of the Forgotten: Descendants of the Fall Book II, Hodges, Aaron [top 10 non fiction books of all time txt] 📗

She figured the sight of Cara’s fully unfurled wings tended to have that effect on people. Beside her, though, the king chuckled.

“So this is what you westerners call a God?” he asked. Hands clasped behind his back, he began to circle the room, as though to appraise Cara from every angle.

“What would you call her?” Erika asked, a frown curling her lips. She’d known the Gemaho were not the religious sort, but…surely not even they could maintain their disbelief with the winged Goddess standing before them.

“You know I can hear you, right?” Cara muttered, crossing her arms. A twitch tugged at her cheek.

“My apologies, of course,” the king replied politely, as though he hadn’t just sent the Goddess crashing through a glass table. He came to a stop before Cara. “It would seem we now have a simple way of answering our greatest theological questions. So…what do you call yourselves?”

Cara hesitated, mouth parted as though to speak. She bit her lips. “We call ourselves the Anahera.”

Erika frowned, turning the word over in her mind. Of course the Gods would have their own name for themselves.

“And you are Gods?”

Cara answered the question with a shrug. “What is a God?”

The king nodded, as though her words had actually been an answer, then turned to Erika. “I suppose it is a matter of perspective,” he said, gesturing with the hand that wore the gauntlet. “Surely whoever created these artefacts were Gods, and yet, why would they grant the devices power over themselves?”

“The Tangata were born from their magic,” Erika said, quoting the legends. “Perhaps the gauntlets were crafted to fight the creatures.”

“It could have been so.” The king nodded along to Erika’s logic. “But, what of this situation we find ourselves in? Cara is now my prisoner. Are your Gods truly so feeble as to be taken hostage by their own creations?”

“Still standing here,” Cara muttered.

Looking from Cara to the king, Erika could only shake her head. “There is much I do not understand,” she replied.

Her gaze lingered on Cara. The Goddess had relaxed her wings a little, allowing the auburn feathers to stretch out on either side of her. Her eyes were fixed on a point between Erika and the King, but Erika could see the tightness in her jaw, the way she clenched and unclenched her fists. Suddenly the Goddess turned and their eyes met.

Erika shivered as she looked into Cara’s amber gaze and found herself transported back to those caverns beneath the earth. Her memory of that time was still hazy—she’d been struck in the head by one of the creatures—but one image stood out in sharp relief.

Cara covered in the blood, the unstoppable creatures dead at her feet, grey eyes piercing the darkness.

Silently Erika swallowed and looked away. Whatever the king said, she sensed that if Cara had really wanted them dead, no chains or weapon on this earth could stop her. Which begged the question: why had she allowed them to come this far?

“Regardless, it seems the good Anahera is to be my guest for a time,” the king was saying. “I have had accommodations prepared. I hope you find them suitable. Erika, we shall arrange another meeting once you’ve rested—I understand there is a map in your possession that has been the source of much interest. For now, though, I must leave you. It seems I will soon have unwelcome guests on my doorstep.”

“What’s this?” Maisie asked, her head coming up.

Nguyen offered a grim smile. “It seems Cara’s arrival and subsequent departure from Fogmore has stirred up quite the firestorm. The queen is on the march.”

Erika’s heart lurched at his words and she opened her mouth to demand more details, but already the king was striding away, vanishing through the doorway. A thundering sounded in Erika’s ears as several servants stepped into the room. She hardly heard what they said. Her gaze fell to the gauntlet she still wore on her hand, and she heard again the last words the queen had spoken to her.

Do not fail me, Archivist. One way or another, I will have that magic.

5

The Fallen

Romaine staggered up the steps of the general’s quarters, the effort less now than it had been a week ago. That knowledge offered him little comfort. Failure weighed heavily on his shoulders as he reached the door. It opened before he could grasp the handle, a guard within nodding a greeting. A second stood beyond, spear resting casually against his shoulder. These were uncertain times and the general was taking no risks with his safety.

Pain sliced Romaine’s chest as he stepped inside and his boot caught on the doorstep. He thrust out his ruined arm to catch himself, and bit back a scream as it struck the doorframe. Belatedly he used his right hand to regain his balance. Teeth clenched, he paused on the threshold, ignoring the stares of the two guards. Stars danced across his vision but he dragged in great lungfuls of air, and eventually they passed.

“Can I…ah, help you with your coat, sir?” the guard who held the door asked awkwardly.

“I’m no damned officer,” Romaine snapped, drawing himself up. “And by the Fall, I can take off my own coat.”

Just as it had for the past week, it took Romaine a good minute to drag the heavy furs from his shoulders. By the time he hung the coat on a hook, he was panting again, and he cursed this newfound weakness. He had always been a quick healer, but then, he’d never had injuries like these. The loss of his hand was not something one simply recovered from. A short sword now hung from his belt, but even that was a façade. He still wasn’t strong enough to even practice with the blade.

It dragged at him, to feel so weak. Each day he woke to the whisper of voices, telling him to surrender, to give in to his weakness.

And each day, Cara’s face flickered into his mind, and he would force himself to his feet.

He