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

marble dominated the room. Otherwise the place was unadorned, though as Lukys took another step, he caught a shimmer from the base of the dais. He frowned, moving closer, and realised the dais was situated in the centre of a great pool of water. It seemed to be flowing slowly around the stone, though a glance at the walls did not reveal a source.

Movement drew Lukys’s eyes back to the altar, and a figure stepped forward. Rustling came from around the room as all the Tangata knelt and pressed foreheads to stone. Before he could ask what was going on, Sophia gripped him by the shoulder and pressed him down. He cried out, legs weakened from the endless march south giving way beneath her strength, forcing him to his knees.

Quiet! Sophia hissed in his mind.

There was a sense of urgency in her voice, and Lukys bit back his cry, heart suddenly racing. Turning to face the altar, he stared at the figure that had appeared there, trying to make out her features through the gloom. Swathed in long robes, she could only be the Matriarch that Adonis had spoken of. She stepped closer, and the light from above fell across her face.

The breath hissed from Lukys’s lips as he looked on the aged face. He had never seen an older Tangata before—those they fought were always young, their appearance that of humans in their twenties. This creature though, her face was more wrinkles than skin, and her hair was a pale grey, drained of its colour by the countless passage of years. Her hands were speckled with age spots, and her eyes…Lukys swallowed. They were pure white. Without the grey of the Tangata, he might have thought her human…yet there was something about her manner, about the way she stood, that left Lukys in no doubt as to what she was. And those eyes were looking directly at him.

Adonis, what have you brought me?

9

The Fugitive

Sitting on the pillowed bed, Erika stared down at the intricate lattice of metal fibres that covered her hand. It clung to her flesh, so close she could run her hand from gauntlet to her arm and hardly feel the difference. The strange metal was even warm to the touch, as though it had become a part of her, feeding off her energies.

Without thinking, she clenched her fist and felt the familiar thrum of its magic. The soft glow bathed her face, radiating a new heat now, one that promised power, promised glory. She shivered and released it once more, and the sensation faded. Disgust replaced it, clogging her throat, and she thought of all the terrible things she had done with this gauntlet.

Ibran, her assistant turned traitor, deafened, blind, abandoned in the darkness.

The Tangatan prisoner in Amina’s court, screaming its agony.

Cara, writhing beneath the gauntlet’s power, begging for her mercy.

Standing suddenly, Erika strode to the window and looked out over the rooftops of the fortress proper. It had been five days since their arrival, and she had only seen the king one other time, a brief visit in which she’d handed over the map showing the hidden locations of ruins that had once been occupied by the Gods. Little good it had proven—there was but one site inside the bounds of Gemaho, and it had apparently been discovered years ago.

The remaining stars were beyond their reach, mostly hidden deep in the south, in lands that had been claimed by the Tangata generations ago. All but for the one marked high in the Mountains of the Gods. But not even Nguyen seemed interested in that venture. The Gemaho might not be religious, but even they avoided those forbidden peaks.

Letting out a sigh, Erika turned from the window and began to pace. The inactivity was starting to grate on her, and the knowledge that Queen Amina was approaching had not helped at all. The woman was vicious, her resolve hard as iron. She would stop at nothing to get what she wanted.

And she wanted the magic that had fused with Erika’s arm—even if it meant cutting it from her corpse.

The room the king had placed her in was large and well-adorned, with furniture crafted of pinewood and lit by chandeliers of silver and brass. She had been forced to share the accommodations with Maisie, but thankfully the spy was rarely there—her bed had not even been slept in last night. Cara had been taken to separate quarters; Erika had not seen the Goddess since.

Slumping back to her bed, she found herself staring at the gauntlet once more, wondering again at its power. The king’s words about how it worked on Cara had stayed with her. It had proven an effective weapon against the Tangata, but it still seemed strange that the Gods—or the Anahera, as Cara had called them—would create a weapon that could be used so easily against them.

Did that mean it had been created by somebody else?

A cold breeze blew across Erika’s neck. She had used the magic so recklessly these last weeks, with hardly a thought to the consequences. The Tangata had been changed by the magic they had stolen, and she wondered now if the same could happen to her. But…it hadn’t harmed her, hadn’t changed her.

Had it?

No, surely not, or the king would not use its power so freely. Unless he too did not understand the power he wielded. How had he come by another of the artefacts anyway?

Erika shook her head and scrunched her eyes closed. Questions upon questions. In her mind she recalled the way the king had struck Cara down. He had acted quickly, without hesitation, without even knowing Cara’s identity. A vicious act, without mercy.

A click drew Erika’s attention to the entrance as Maisie entered. Rings circled the woman’s eyes and there was mud on her leggings, as though she had spent the night wading through the marshland beyond the walls of the fortress. Erika raised an eyebrow as the spy crossed the room and dropped