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

by now, drawn by the pulse of the wild magic below. They could not be allowed to find her, could not be allowed to take her brother.

With the thought, she twisted around, searching for him. Her panic eased as she found her brother lying nearby. He was still unconscious, but gathering herself, she crawled across and shook him.

“Braidon, wake up!” she hissed in his ear.

At fifteen, he was eight years her junior, but he was already closing on her own five foot and seven inches. His eyelids flickered at her touch, and she let out a breath as his blue eyes found hers. His eyebrows knotted into a frown as he looked up at her.

“Alana?” he asked, his voice groggy. “What’s going on?”

Brushing the curly black hair from his face, she helped him sit up. “Wild magic.”

“Not…mine?”

She shook her head and gestured into the stepwell, where the flames were finally starting to die away. The young Magicker had pulled himself from the water and now lay on the platform once more, his chest heaving. Alana swallowed as her eyes now found the bodies lying on the steps nearby.

“We’d better go,” she said quietly.

He nodded, and with her help, regained his feet. Together they turned and made their way up the rows of staircases, legs aching with the exertion. Struggling with her brother’s weight, Alana scanned the top of the stepwell, watching as the last survivors of the conflagration disappeared over the lip. There was still no sign of the dark-cloaked Stalkers, but they couldn’t be far off. Gritting her teeth, she picked up the pace.

They had just reached the top of the stairs when a shout carried across to them. Twisting, Alana glanced back, and watched as a group of five dark-cloaked figures started down into the pit. She held her breath, waiting for them to look up and spot the two fugitives. But their eyes were fixed on the depths of the stepwell, where the boy had just turned to watch their approach.

Fire lit the boy’s hands as he stood. The Stalkers scattered as flames rushed up to greet them. Only one stood his ground. Alana felt a tingle of recognition as the man raised his hand. Around the stepwell, wind swirled, hastening inwards, crackling as it gathered around the Stalker. The inferno roared, then went out as the gale pushed them back down into the waters of the stepwell.

Below, the boy groaned. He swayed on his feet, then his knees went out from beneath him, and he collapsed face first onto the stone platform. The Stalkers quickly regathered and, drawing their blades, descended towards the motionless figure.

“Alana!” Braidon’s voice came from behind her. He tugged urgently at the sleeve of her coat. “We have to go!”

Alana nodded, her eyes still fixed on the Stalker who had turned back to the flames. He led the way down into the stepwell, the winds still swirling around him. His black hair was streaked with blonde, and there was a coldness in his brown eyes as he approached the fallen boy. A golden star pinned to his chest marked him as lieutenant of the Stalkers—the man in charge of capturing rogue Magickers and bringing them before the Tsar’s justice. Since the civil war five years before, all magic had been forbidden except by the Tsar’s allowance.

Magic like her brother’s.

She turned away then, following her brother over the edge of the stepwell. At the last moment, a voice called her back, shrill and filled with pain.

“Please, no, don’t hurt him!”

Looking back, Alana glimpsed a woman on the opposite side of the stepwell. Soot stained her face and there were burn marks on her plain dress. She had clearly been caught up in the conflagration below, but now she started down into the pit, face set, eyes fixed on the Stalkers.

“Please,” she called again, “he’s just a child!”

Across the pit, the lieutenant looked up. His eyes took in the woman with a single glance. He said nothing, but with a gesture, one of his men advanced in her direction. Her face paled as she watched the man stride towards her, but she did not flee. She cried out as the Stalker grabbed her arm and tried to pull away. Before she could resist further, his sword hilt slammed into her head. She collapsed without a sound.

Turning away, Alana grabbed her brother’s hand. Together they rushed into the shadows of a nearby building and disappeared into the alleyways of Ardath. The capital of Plorsea was massive, and for what felt like weeks, they had sought anonymity amongst its crowds. Yet now Alana felt exposed, as though with her glimpse of the Stalkers today, she had revealed herself to them. She could feel the noose closing, the hunt drawing near.

Only when they were several blocks away did Alana finally allow them to slow. Heart hammering in her chest, she slipped from the shadows back out into the bustling street, drawing her brother onwards. They had come out in the spice market, and hand in hand, they made their way through the press of bodies.

Alana was still struggling to comprehend what had happened. The events leading up to the explosion were a blur, the memories already fading, as though she were viewing them through a narrow tube. There had been an explosion, a rush of white, then…darkness.

All she knew was they had almost been caught—that pure chance had nearly brought the full wrath of the Tsar down on them. In her mind, she imagined the Stalkers closing in, their swords seeking her flesh, while the lieutenant with his cold brown eyes dragged her brother away.

Shuddering, Alana forced the thoughts away. But she knew they could not ignore the warning. Today the illusion of safety she’d felt in Ardath had been stripped away. There was no doubt in her mind any longer—they had to get out.

If only it were so easy. Ardath stood alone on the cliffs of an island, located in the centre of the largest lake