by Aaron Hodges
She sat back on her haunches, unable to believe the warrior was really gone. They had survived the creatures of the earth together, withstood the assault of the Tangata, escaped the soldiers of Flumeer. After so much, he had seemed invincible, able to overcome any obstacle.
Now he was dead.
The last warrior of Calafe, her final connection with a past she had tried for half her life to bury.
Or perhaps not. Looking down at the face of the warrior, she was reminded of all those lost refugees of Calafe camped outside the Flumeeren capital. She had looked down upon those sorry men and women, condemned them for their weakness, judged them for failing to rise above the destruction of their nation.
But the truth was, Erika was the one who had failed. The queen was a tyrant, had schemed and plotted to murder her father, to see Calafe fall, all so Flumeer could rise from the ashes of their kingdom. And Erika had served her. The thought was like bile in her mouth.
Slowly she rose and turned to look down upon the valley below. The squat building still awaited them. The secrets of the Gods, of her gauntlet. Drawing in a breath, she took a step towards the valley.
A sharp crack from overhead brought her to a halt and she swung around, thinking it must be Maisie. But the spy’s eyes were on the sky. The hairs on the back of Erika’s neck stood on end as she followed the direction of the woman’s gaze in time to glimpse a flash of green and blue. Then something solid slammed into the ground nearby, sending a shower of stones flying outwards from the figure that had landed. Two more followed as the first straightened.
The breath caught in Erika’s throat as she looked upon the Gods. Two were male with wings of emerald and sapphire feathers, stretched wide for all to see. The last female bore wings of purest white, an angel from the heavens. The sight robbed Erika of her courage and she slumped to her knees, unable to tear her gaze from their glory.
Beside her, finally Cara moved. Releasing Romaine, she rose. A tremor shook her body as she cast one last look at the fallen Calafe, then she stepped past him to face the three Gods.
“Hello, brother,” she whispered.
The first of the Gods stepped towards her, emerald wings lifting in response. Eyes the colour of flames inspected the little Goddess, before darting to the bodies of Romaine and Yasin. Upon sighting the fallen cutthroat, his jaw tightened and he returned his gaze to Cara. A look of pain crossed his face as he shook his head.
“Ah, sister,” he whispered. “What have you done?”
Epilogue
The Tangata
Adonis gasped as consciousness returned in a sudden flash of agony. He groaned, struggling to suck a breath into lungs that felt as though they were drowning. Tasting blood in his mouth, he rolled onto his side and spat it out. It didn’t help. He clenched his fists, struggling against the pain, against the call of unconsciousness.
So you live.
A shiver ran down Adonis’s spine and looking around, he found Maya standing nearby. The stony eyes pierced him as she crossed the courtyard and stopped beside him.
Where is the human? she asked, crouching.
Adonis swallowed, trying to draw back his memories. There was a warning in the Old One’s voice. She would not tolerate failure. He had to be strong. Gathering himself, he pulled himself to his knees. Agony threatened to swallow him and a trickle of hot liquid ran down his chest. Gritting his teeth, he pressed a hand to his wound to slow the bleeding.
Gone, he replied, meeting her gaze.
Maya did not offer him a hand, though her eyes remained on him, as though waiting. Clenching his fists, Adonis forced himself to his feet. Pain radiated from the wound. The spear had punctured his left lung, but thankfully missed his spine. Again he felt the drowning sensation and for a second his vision spun. He held on, clinging to consciousness until it cleared. He was of the third generation; he would not allow a mere human to strike him down.
And yet it had. How? Adonis gritted his teeth. He would be sure to ask the human when he caught it.
A smile twisted Maya’s lips at the sight of him standing and she reached out to stroke his cheek. Adonis sighed, some of the pain receding at her touch.
It will not get far, he breathed. I will hunt the human down, bring it back for you.
No, Maya replied softly.
She took his hand then and led him from the courtyard, out into the street. The sun had risen unnoticed as he slept, and now it shone brightly in a cloudless sky. In the distance, the snow-capped peaks shimmered in the morning light.
Show me again my enemy, Maya’s voice whispered into his mind.
Unbidden, Adonis found himself back on the banks of the Illmoor, watching as the Anahera fought her way through his warrior pairs. She had batted them away like mere children at first, wings and feet and fists making short work of the fifth generation Tangata. Yet after each blow, his warriors had risen and come for her again, fighting on until eventually even the Anahera’s strength had faded.
She does not kill, Maya’s voice whispered over the scene, and Adonis again found himself standing in the streets of New Nihelm. The Old One looked at him, eyes alight with bloodlust. My enemies have grown soft.
Adonis swallowed as he found himself trapped in that steely gaze. What do you wish of me, my love?
Laughter rasped from Maya’s throat as her eyes returned to the mountains.
It is time we brought war to the Gods of man.
* * *
HERE ENDS BOOK TWO OF
DESCENDANTS OF THE FALL
The story continues in:
Age of Gods
* * *
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
Wrath of the Forgotten Goodreads
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 land.
Kanker.
The hammer of heroes. That was what Devon’s father had called it, late at night as he told the story of Alan, their ancestor who had stood with the Gods atop the walls of Fort Fall and defied the dark powers of Archon.
Thinking of the legend, Devon’s shame returned, and he quickly sheathed the ancient hammer on his back. Times had been simpler back then, when men had followed the paths of the Gods, knowing they fought for the side of good.
Yet the Gods were a hundred years gone. The age of man had come, and with it, the lines between good and evil had blurred. Two years ago, he had joined the Plorsean army as it marched from Ardath, eager to defend his nation, to banish the Trolan invaders. They had done that and more, driving the foreign army back through mountain passes, all the way to the Trolan capital of Kalgan.
Only then, driven to desperation, had the Trolans sued for peace. But by then it had been too late, and the Plorsean armies had razed the city to the ground. It was during that great battle that Devon had earned his promotion to lieutenant.
Just thinking of it now made Devon’s stomach tie itself in knots.
After the city’s fall, the Tsar had ordered his armies on, marching them north along the Trolan coast. Now, six months and four fallen cities later, the war had finally come to an end. After today, Trola would never rise again.
Shaking his head, Devon cast off his melancholy and stepped through his tent flap. Outside, he squinted into the dawn’s light, his eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden brightness. His stomach twisted when he saw the scarlet glow of sunrise.
The beginning of the end.
Silently he started down the hill. Movement came from the other tents as more men stepped out into the open. They walked quickly to join the progression making its way down the hill. Soon the trickle became a flood, as ten thousand soldiers formed up for the day’s ceremony.
Straken, like every other city since the fall of Kalgan, had chosen defiance over surrender.
Now its citizens would face the consequences of their choice.
As the light grew, Devon’s eyes were drawn out across the silent plains, to where the walled city waited near the sea. So far north, the city’s walls were thick and tall, a remnant from the day’s when Archon and his hordes had walked the Northern wastelands. Though now a hundred years past, the stone walls remained, unbroken.
Until now.
It hadn’t taken long for the Tsar’s catapults and siege towers to tear the stone and mortar asunder. As the watch towers collapsed and the gates broke open, Devon had made his charge, leading his fellow soldiers into the storm of battle. Even with their defences shattered, the Trolans had fought like demons, men and women alike standing together against the coming flood.
In the end, it had availed them nothing.
With kanker in hand and the bloodlust on him, Devon had sliced through the defenders like a God amongst men. His slaughter had been indiscriminate, his victims reduced to shattered skulls and broken bodies. Only when the end came had he looked back over the carnage and felt the familiar shame.
Now, as he stared out over the broken towers and shattered spires of the temple, the shame swelled. The people of Straken had not been soldiers. The Trolan army had died with the fall of Kalgan. Those who remained here had been civilians, called up to defend their city, their nation, from the foreign army of the Tsar. They had only been trying to protect their livelihood, their families, their homeland.
Yet who was Devon to question the Tsar? After all, the man had been the first to bring peace to the Three Nations, uniting the warring states of Trola, Plorsea and Lonia into a single empire. It had been Trola who’d broken that peace, Trola who’d first marched through the Branei Pass to attack western Plorsea.
They had earned this fate.
So why did he feel so ashamed?
Devon came to a stop as another horn sounded. Standing to attention, he stared straight ahead. The head of his hammer dug uncomfortably into the small of his back, but he did not move to shift it. Around him, ten thousand men stood with him, their eyes fixed to the wooden stage at the foot of the hill.
Movement came from the city gates. Prisoners taken after the fall of the city had been kept there overnight, overseen by a host of soldiers and the Tsar’s Magickers. Now the gates were swinging open, and the Plorsean soldiers who’d kept watch were beginning their slow ascent up the hill.
Between them, blindfolded with their hands bound in chains, came the Trolan Magickers who had survived the final battle. They would be marched back to Plorsea, where the Tsar would ensure their magic never posed a danger to anyone ever again.
As the last of the soldiers left the city, the great wood and iron gates swung shut behind them. They had been hurriedly repaired during the night—along with the worst of the breaches in the wall. With the gates barred, Str
aken’s remaining citizens were trapped inside the city.
“People of Straken!” a herald boomed, his voice carrying out over the crowd of waiting soldiers.
Movement came from the men and women surrounding the platform. The royal guards came marching through the crowd, weapons held at the ready. They wore the familiar crimson cloaks of the Plorsean army, but their golden half-helms left no doubt of their identity. Sunlight glinted from their steel-plated armour as they formed two lines leading up to the stage.
“People of Straken!” the herald on the stage repeated as he stepped aside. Lifting a hand, he pointed to a figure now moving through the ranks of royal guards. “Behold, your final judgement!”
Devon shivered as his eyes settled on the Tsar. The man stood no taller than Devon’s own six-foot-five, but he carried himself with an aura of invincibility, as if the Gods themselves might bow to his powers. Jet-black hair curled down around his shoulders, while on his head sat a golden crown inset with a dozen diamonds. Thick eyebrows framed his crystal blue eyes. His pale cheeks showed no sign of his fifty years, except where a pale white lock of hair hung across his forehead.
A frown creased the Tsar’s brow as he looked down at the enemy Magickers gathered before the stage. Even from where Devon stood, he could see the anger in the man’s eyes. He swallowed, his mouth dry as he wondered what it would be like if those eyes were to turn on him.
The crystal eyes swept past the Magickers, to where the city of Straken waited with its paltry gathering of survivors. Not a murmur came from the towering walls. Somewhere within, Devon knew the people waited, praying to long-dead Gods for deliverance. It would not come, he knew. Just as it had not come for Kalgan, or Cascade, or Drata, or Palma before them.