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

Hey folks, just a quick note to say thank you for reading this book! I hope you’ve enjoyed the journey so far. It would really mean a lot to me if you stopped by Amazon to leave your honest review—even if it’s just a few words. Reviews are such an important part of marketing our books to the world and without them I literally would not be able to continue writing these stories! Thank you in advance. You can find the link to the Amazon and Goodreads pages for Wrath of the Forgotten below:

Wrath of the Forgotten Amazon

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Note from the Author

Well this book had to be written in some of the strangest, scariest circumstances I’ve ever experienced. Wrath of the Forgotten was started in late March 2020, not long after Buenos Aires went into lockdown. Little did I know at the time that the city would remain in quarantine for three months (and counting), and that I would end up finishing this book while in a quarantine hotel in Auckland, New Zealand. I’m still sad about having to leave my adopted home, but glad I made the decision given how difficult that isolation was becoming. Despite being luckier than most with my job and apartment, I could feel the creativity being crushed out of me day after day. Here’s hoping a few months in winter wonderland New Zealand can bring it back!

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the story. With my newfound freedom, I’m excited to see what the characters discover in Age of Gods!

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LEGENDS OF THE GODS

If you’ve enjoyed this book, you might want to check out another of my fantasy series!

A century since the departure of the Gods, the Three Nations are now united beneath the Tsar. Magic has been outlawed, its power too dangerous to remain unchecked. All Magickers must surrender themselves to the crown, or face imprisonment and death.

Alana's mundane life has just been torn apart by the emergence of her brother's magic. Now they must leave behind everything they’ve ever known and flee – before the Tsar’s Stalkers pick up their trail. Tasked with hunting down renegade Magickers, the merciless hunters will stop at nothing to bring them before the Tsar’s judgement.

Prologue

The tent was still dark when Devon woke. He lay there for a few minutes, listening to the distant call of the trumpets, knowing he had to rise, but dreading the coming dawn. Finally, unable to delay any longer, he threw off his blanket and rolled from the camp stretcher. Reluctantly he began to dress, pulling on a fresh pair of leather leggings, followed by a woollen gambeson and his chainmail vest. He shivered as the heavy armour settled on his broad shoulders, its icy touch already seeping through to his skin.

Rubbing his hands to fend off the winter cold, Devon laced up his boots and shuffled across to the portable camp brazier. If he was quick, he might have time to reheat last night’s gruel before the morning’s…festivities began. Bending down, he added kindling to the iron stove, then struck the flint until a spark caught. Allowing himself a smile, he blew gently to stoke the flames before adding a log from his dwindling stack of firewood.

Satisfied the fire had caught, he closed the steel grate and stirred the pot sitting on the brazier. The scent of spiced beef filled the tent, mixing with the stench of smoke and sweat. It had been days since he’d last bathed—but at least that was more than most of his fellow soldiers could say. At twenty years old, his promotion to lieutenant had been hard earned, but at least it had come with a few privileges.

Still, he was quickly growing weary of the fame his promotion had brought him. Devon had once worn his reputation as a badge of pride; but now that a real badge had been pinned to his chest, he found himself weighed down by guilt, shamed by the praise men heaped on him for his exploits on the battlefield.

He shivered, thinking of the festivities planned for the day. Straken, the last Trolan stronghold, had fallen yesterday—its walls sundered, its Magickers crushed, its army shattered. The war was over. Plorsea’s supremacy had been restored over the Three Nations. The Tsar finally had his victory.

Devon had played his part, leading the vanguard as they charged through the broken gates. With his warhammer in hand, he had carved his way deep into the ranks of Trolan soldiers. Men had run screaming before the ferocity of his charge, allowing Devon’s comrades to scramble through the breach after him.

The shriek of the men dying beneath his hammer echoed through Devon’s mind, and closing his eyes, he forced the memories away.

His nose twitched as he caught the stench of burning. Cursing, he lifted the pot from the camp stove. The bottom had caught, but most of the stew remained untouched. Reaching for a spoon, he scooped a piece of meat into his mouth.

The sharp screech of the Tsar’s trumpet sounded as Devon began to chew. He glanced at the pot, his stomach still rumbling with hunger, then returned it to the stove. The rest of his breakfast would have to wait. Leaving the fire to burn down, he took up his half-helm and placed it on his head.

Then he picked up the warhammer from beside his bed. It weighed almost ten pounds, but he hefted it as though it was no heavier than a short sword. The smooth haft of elm felt at home in his meaty hand, more like an extension of himself than a weapon. A dozen runes, worn with age, were etched across its head, written in some long-forgotten language.

He knew what they said, though. Their meaning had been passed down through generations, from father to son, from a time when the heroes had strode the